I’m sure you’ll all be happy to know that the vast majority of the junk that my parents left in their wake during their visit over Thanksgiving has been taken care of.
Not in a scary, ominous, Tony Soprano way, of course. It was a very orderly, law-abiding process. I did donate a couple of boxes of the most useful flotsam and jetsam to Goodwill, like I said I was going to do. I took one big box of random books to McKay’s, a local used bookstore, and I have another box in the trunk of my car that I’ll drop off this weekend. I moved all the boxes of old files to my home office. The boxes (yes, plural) of dolls and doll clothes are mostly in the garage, except for the big box of Madame Alexander dolls, which are in the guest room closet. I donated some toys to a project at my church that was collecting items for children in a local housing project.
And over their very loud protests, I sent some stuff back home with my parents. I invoked the “you’re under my roof” rule. You know, “you’re living under my roof, so you’re living under my rules.” Usually this rule applies to teenagers who think a midnight curfew is a fate worse than death but want to live to graduate from high school. However, in certain circumstances, it can also be made to apply to grandparents who wish to see their grandson again. “You wanna see him again? Then take that box of X-Files posters, Precious Moments figurines, and oven mitts right back home with you.”
However, there is still one matter of unfinished business. The chocolate fountain. I’ve offered it to countless people, and everyone laughs, like I’m kidding or somoething. So it’s perched on a shelf in my garage where I can see it every time I pull my car in or out. It mocks me with pictures of its gilded self. Can I anonymously donate it to someone without them finding out who I am and returning it to me?