Sure, go into our bedroom, take our dirty clothes and wash them... so helpful and not at all invasive.

This is really just BEC but it still makes me mad to this day. This was a few years ago, when DH and I had a tiny one-bedroom apartment. Buffamonteezi slept on our couch when she visited because she was "too poor" to stay anywhere else... right... And how much do those designer clothes and your weekly mani/pedi and monthly hair dye/style cost?

Anyways... We had this grown-ass woman crashing on our couch like some 19-year-old (although 13 better describes her maturity). We had to leave her alone in the apartment for the day because she didn't check dates with us before booking her trip and gasp we had to work. I hated leaving this woman alone in our space and will never do it again. (Our backbones were even fewer and farther between back then.) We kept our bedroom door closed because that's our private marital space. But clearly she's allowed in there, right? Clearly closed doors don't apply to her?

I came home from work to find my UNDERWEAR stacked and folded on our kitchen table. She said, "I helped you guys out by doing a little laundry today! I know you guys are so busy so I thought I'd give you a hand!" Guys... the laundry basket consisted of a few t-shirts, a pair of jeans, two pairs of DH boxers, and then like a dozen pairs of my underwear. And guys. Most of it was period underwear. Stained, granny, never-meant-to-see-the-light-of-day underwear. And my mother-in-law fished them out, washed them, dried them, and folded them, which involved taking each pair in her fake-tanned manicured hands one by one. Whatever there was to see, she saw. On one hand, it's lucky that I didn't have nicer undergarments in there, as they would have been ruined by the dryer. On the other hand... so much rage.