Family visits should be joyful occasions – until your mother-in-law volunteers your bedroom without asking. “They’re tired from traveling,” she explained, as if this justified banishing me to sleep beside the dishwasher. “You’re young, you’ll manage.”
For one humiliating night, I did. Lying on a makeshift pallet of kitchen towels, I plotted my counterattack. The next day, I transformed my bedroom into a noxious zone no sane person would voluntarily enter. A few strategic drops of industrial-strength peppermint oil on the pillows created an atmosphere somewhere between a cough drop factory and a menthol explosion.
The guests lasted approximately four minutes before fleeing red-eyed and gasping. My mother-in-law tried to tough it out, but even she couldn’t argue with chemical warfare. “There’s something wrong with that room!” she finally admitted, rubbing her watering eyes.
“Must be the damp,” I said innocently, already carrying my pajamas back to their rightful place. That night, I slept like a baby in my reclaimed territory, the window open just enough to air out the evidence. These days, visitors suddenly find our pull-out couch “perfectly cozy” – and my bedroom door stays firmly closed.
