Yep! You read that right! It was really half-empty.
The commentary that came with it: “The scent’s too strong for me—you don’t mind that sort of thing.”
Last spring, I thought I’d reached my limit when she gave me a half-burnt scented candle and wrinkled her nose. “Smells too bad for my place… like you,” she said. I looked at Luke, whose default response had become, “She means well.”
No, she didn’t.
She meant exactly what she said. Patricia wasn’t giving me gifts—she was offloading her trash. Her house stayed pristine while mine filled with every strange, unwanted object she could sneak in under the guise of generosity.
I kept most of it in the basement. A growing shrine of passive aggression and hand-me-down hostility. Then came my birthday.
Patricia pulled into our driveway in her white Lexus, stepped out in designer heels, and handed me a glossy gift bag like it contained gold or she was presenting a Nobel Prize. “I got you something personal,” she said, practically glowing. I opened it.
Inside was a toilet brush! It was used, and the handle had a chip in it! I held it up slowly, praying it was a prank.
“Barely used,” she said brightly. “I just thought you’d appreciate something practical.”
I didn’t speak or blink. My MIL smiled wider, smug and satisfied.
That was the moment I made a decision. If she wanted to treat me like garbage, then I’d show the world what her taste really looked like. I just needed the perfect opportunity.
Two weeks later, it dropped right in my lap. Patricia called me in a frenzy of excitement. “Guess who’s being featured in New England Homes!” she squealed.
“They’re doing a spread on me! MY HOUSE!”
Apparently, one of her golf-club friends had pitched her to the magazine as an “example of modern colonial elegance.” She was beyond thrilled and, of course, she couldn’t help but gloat too little ol’ me. “They want to photograph every room.
The shoot is in two weeks,” she said. “I’m hiring a designer, of course. Everything has to be perfect.”
I smiled into the phone.
“Actually, Patricia, don’t waste the money. My friend Sarah is an interior designer. She’d love to help.”
Patricia paused.
“Oh, wonderful! She understands luxury, right?”
“Oh, she’s all about authentic style,” I replied. What I didn’t tell her?
I was the one who called the magazine. I pitched her myself, pretending to be her friend with admiration dripping from my voice. “You should really see her home,” I said.
“She’s an icon of old New England charm. It’s time someone spotlighted her taste.”
They bought it. Now, it was time for the setup.
Sarah, who actually stages homes for real estate listings, nearly dropped her coffee when I told her the plan. “You want me to decorate her house with all the crap she’s given you?”
“Exactly,” I said. “Every single piece.
From the broom to the brush.”
Two days before the shoot, Sarah and I spent hours hauling boxes up from my basement. Inside were every horrifying gift Patricia had ever given me: the broom, the dish rack, the SIT HAPPENS mat, the chip-handled toilet brush, an old cardigan that smelled faintly of mothballs, even a pair of chipped ceramic cats she once described as “charmingly kitschy.”
It was a parade of pettiness. We labeled the boxes “Design Props,” and on the day of the shoot, we drove them to Patricia’s mansion.
Patricia greeted us in pearls and stilettos. “Ladies! I’m trusting you to make this elegant and classic.”
“Absolutely,” I said.
“You’re going to love it.”
She left for a haircut and manicure, giddy about her upcoming magazine debut. She told us she’d be gone a few hours and let us in. As soon as she drove off, Sarah rubbed her hands together.
“Let’s turn this palace into a landfill!”
“Let’s ruin perfection,” I added.
