Today started out awesome.
At 11am, I took my 2002 Ford Focus ZX5, which I am no longer able to drive because of the manual transmission and the bucket seats, to a dealer here in town.
I traded, flat-out, for a 1993 Mercedes 300E sedan, and it’s getting brand new tires put on it Friday.
The salesmen tried to corner me to tell me I was nuts to think I was going to get the trade I wanted.
They talked to me like I was stupid.
I showed them they were wrong.
I left happy.
I got home, fell asleep for several hours, and decided I wanted a nip of alcohol with my supper, so I went to the liquor cabinet. There was nothing there. I asked JB where it was. He didn’t know, so he called his mom.
It turns out that, a few weeks ago, while I was having my NOM NOM NOM PILLS nights because I couldn’t sleep, she was under the impression that I was going to go through the liquor cabinet and turn into an alcoholic. This is the girl who only drinks once every month, maybe. An alcoholic? Really? Ooooookay, MiL.
She’d hidden the drinks in her closet. I made one up, but I was still so pissed off at her that I couldn’t drink it any more. If that’s not proof of my NOT being an alcoholic, then I don’t know what is. The drinks are all in my sewing table now. I have a feeling that’s where I’m going to be when I get the urge for alcohol, considering how poorly-suited for sewing I seem to be.
JB’s going to talk to her about over-stepping her boundaries. I have some issues where that sort of thing is concerned, and I’m afraid if I tried to calmly explain to her why I don’t appreciate her hiding my things “for my own good,” I will devolve into a mess of yelling. This is the sort of thing that forced my hand at leaving my dad’s house. Except that this sort of things went on from when I was a small child onward. I’m NOT a child. I’m married, and JB and I are doing just fine. We can leave if we need to, right now, but MiL says NOOOOO DON’T LEEEEEEAVE. So we stay. Then she wants to be in control of everything.
I’ll admit, having my laundry done is pretty nice. Awkward, but nice. But don’t come in my room and expect me to make it to your specifications, and sure as fuck don’t expect me to allow you to hide my things because you’re trying to “protect” me. If nothing else, TALK TO ME. I’m an adult. Not a child. Kthx.
(Disclaimer: I adore my MiL, for the most part. She’s fun, she knows what she knows, but when it comes to JB, she’s overly-controlling, because it’s luck that she was able to give birth to him at all. I knew this going in. I am, however, going to extricate myself from our relationship for a little while, to prevent a hateful situation from happening. I’ve got enough other crap going on. I don’t want my home life to be emotionally awkward, too.)