It's Called Irony

About 8 years ago, my parents gave me an old tent that they no longer needed. I dutifully carried the tent with me on moves from San Diego to Berkeley to Burlingame, never once using it. Before our latest epic move down the stairs, Walt and I made a real effort to donate, throw away or, in extreme cases, burn anything we didn't use. There's only so much stuff I'm willing to carry around with me.

On the basis that we hadn't used it ever, we returned the tent to my parents. My father was very insistent that I should keep it on the basis that a tent was useful and we might want to go camping sometime. I was firm that we hadn't used it for 8 years and it wasn't going through one more move with us. I left the tent with my parents.

Two days later, my sister-in-law sent out an email asking if we'd all like to go camping to celebrate my brother-in-law's birthday

I checked; the tent had already gone. My parents don't like stuff hanging around their home either.