Fanning the Flames

While at Scott's for the weekend, I reconsider the shelves. I still don't want them, still would sooner burn down the house than hang them in it, still seethe at the very concept of them having been gifted under duress, but I may not need to send them back.

Scott suggests (for the second time) that I burn them in the fireplace. He has a neat-o ventless thing for this purpose that miraculously heats his whole house, and looks beautiful doing so. (I told you he has cool toys. J. couldn't even get electric and gas service without a countersignature from a guarantor, much less get inventive with an aesthetic solution).

We get moving on a day full of activities - new jet ski to buy, an iPad to purchase from a stranger on Craig's List who will meet us at a nearby Dunkin Donuts, banking to do, a visit to the grocery store to complete dinner menus that require shopping. And all the while, the shelves sit quietly in the back of the SUV sending hateful vibes to me. I fight the overpowering urge to simply chuck them in the Bay from the speeding car while crossing the bridge.

Scott thinks I should think a little more about sending them back. He will go along with whatever I decide, natch, but wonders if I am stirring a boiling pot with this insolent gesture. I kind of want to stir the pot. I want to send a message (Luca Brazzi sleeps with the fishes and so do your stinking shelves!) and maybe even a note. I want to say that I know what transpired, and all that was discussed as these shelves made their way to me. And I want them to know they are busted. Caught making disparaging comments about me.

Scott thinks that if I send them, I should skip the note. Sending them back will make the point all on its own. A note will inflame. The five year old in me wants to inflame.

From my ethical fork in the road, I text Charlotte, my moral compass. I ask her "Should I poke the bear and send back the shelves, or should I just pitch them?"

She replies that sending them back will probably eliminate any hope of ever reasoning with Mom, however slim and flimsy that hope is.

I call her and talk through a decision. I won't keep the GD shelves, but for now, I won't mail them.

Even now the shelves remain in Scott's car. Unless he's taken matters into his own capable hands and used them to heat his home.