Every family has that one relative who treats your house like a resort and never brings so much as a napkin. Mine just happens to bring her entire clan and forgets the part where guests contribute. When they arrived empty-handed again on the 4th of July, I decided to serve something…
different. Hi, I’m Annie, and I’ve discovered that hosting family barbecues is like running a five-star restaurant where the customers never pay or tip, and somehow always leave thinking YOU owe THEM something. I’ve been married to Bryan for seven years.
We’ve got two adorable kids, and until recently, our life was peaceful enough to land a feature in Country Living magazine. That is, until my mother-in-law, Juliette, started showing up with her traveling circus of entitlement. Picture Agnes Skinner from “The Simpsons” but with less charm and more opinions about my potato salad and cleaning.
Juliette rolls up to our countryside haven with her two daughters and their shrieking offspring like she’s Napoleon returning from exile, ready to conquer my perfectly organized spice rack. “Annie, darling, we’re coming for Memorial Day!” she announced a few weeks ago, as if bestowing a royal favor. “The kids just adore your ribs!”
Of course they do!
Because I buy them, season them, cook them, and serve them while she critiques my grilling technique from the comfort of my own patio chair. Memorial Day had been the usual disaster. Juliette swept in and immediately began rearranging my living room furniture like she was directing a Broadway production.
“This couch would look soooo much better facing the window,” she declared, shoving my sectional across the hardwood floor with the determination of a woman possessed. “Actually, I like it where it is.”
“Trust me, dear. I have an eye for these things.” She stood back, admiring her handiwork while I watched helplessly as my coffee table now blocked the hallway.
“Oh, and you really should prune those roses. They’re looking rather… wild.”
Wild?
Oh, yeah! My prize-winning roses that I’d spent three years nurturing were apparently… wild.
Meanwhile, her daughters, Sarah and Kate, had already claimed my kitchen island as their personal command center, spreading their kids’ snacks across my clean counters like they were marking territory. Six grandchildren under the age of 10 descended upon my house like a plague of locusts, leaving juice box carnage in their wake. “Where’s the bathroom?” eight-year-old Tyler demanded, dripping popsicle onto my white carpet.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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