As anybody who’s known me for more than forty seconds could attest, I love my husband. Extravagantly so. Yes, I know, spouses love their spouses, but I seriously adore and respect him. I’d help him hide a body if he needed me to, and if anyone hurts him, I will totally RUIN THEIR SHIT. More importantly, I just like him.

So can someone, anyone, tell me why it’s a fucking federal case that I requested that he tell his dad not to dip snuff in our living room? We’ve been together for seven years, and this is the first time I’ve ever said anything about it, because as a woman I’ve been socialized to be accommodating and pleasant and all that shit, but goddamn. It’s my house, it disgusts me, and I don’t want to be grossed out in my own home during the holidays.

My in-laws are seriously the worst guests on earth. They’re messy, my MIL is into EVERYTHING, and my FIL won’t do anything but watch Steven Seagal movies at top volume and spit tobacco juice into a Coke bottle. They also both get up at the asscrack of dawn and make shitloads of noise, and neither of them apparently ever learned how to flush a toilet. I’m sorry, I know I can be a bitch sometimes, but I think I’ve earned the privilege not to be confronted with some other adult’s turds in my own bathroom. Nic is their only child, so any place of his they see as an extension of their own house, and for me, who’s super territorial about my home and prone to anxiety, it’s hell.

Boundaries. My husband’s family does not have them. Anybody wanna hit the liquor store with me? I think I’m going to need it.