One man's trash...

is often another man's trash.

 

Last night we went to my MIL's house because Hubs' Aunt M is in town to see his dad.  Aunt M is no-nonsense, and one of her goals while in town from DC was to help my MIL de-clutter her house.  An admirable sentiment, since my MIL is, by her own admission, a major pack rat.  But she's also sentimental and often can't bear to throw things away that have memories attached to them (and she could attach a memory to just about anything).  So Aunt M had her work cut out for her.  Aunt M is also efficient to the point of ruthlessness, so my MIL had her work cut out for her too.

 

The invitation had been for dinner.  No sooner had we walked through the front door than Aunt M turned us around, loaded us down with boxes, and frog marched us back out to the car.  "This stuff is all marked as Hubs', so it goes with you," she informed us, and we felt chastised even though we weren't sure exactly who had done exactly what wrong.  No 'hello!'  No 'good to see you - it's been ages!'  No 'how was your day at work?' 

 

The things marked as Hubs' were indeed things that had once belonged to him... but some of it belonged to him when he was an infant.  They weren't necessarily his belongings, so much as belongings of my MIL's that had been used by Hubs before he could walk or talk.  Like a 30+ year old binkie.  Because we're going to hand that down to our precious newborn. 

 

Now, being pretty no-nonsense myself, the last thing I wanted was a bunch of crap in our basement or garage.  We're behind on house projects and are trying to de-clutter ourselves, since we have a nursery to create.  Plus, in general, the last thing I want when I show up tired, cold, and hungry for dinner on a worknight (when I haven't been home all week and am desperate to be in bed with a cup of chicken noodle soup) is to be on the receiving end of an order.

 

Aunt M wouldn't even let us (or my MIL for that matter) look through the boxes before shoving them into our trunk.  My MIL looked like someone had shot her cat.  I wouldn't put it past Aunt M, if the cat were taking up too much space or gathering dust.

 

Usually I try to hide my feelings, since they tend to appear on my face instantly and can usually be deciphered pretty easily.  Last night I didn't even bother.

 

Aunt M left this morning. She's actually a cool lady, in other respects.  But she hit my hot button, and I'm still seething a little bit today.