Inside Screaming

It's been a while since I've been frustrated enough to want to scream obscenities at the sky and stamp my feet like a three-year-old. I mean, it's been a good thirteen, fourteen years since I've wanted to do that, but dear God in heaven was I ready to carry on like someone had taken away every holiday that had ever existed this afternoon.

Working with kids is a test of patience. Granted, I have more than my fair share especially when dealing with other people's children, but I'm no saint. My buttons can be pressed just as regularly and as easily as everyone else's. Which was why when I got back to the flat this afternoon for my lunch hour, I was already kind of tired and more than a little frustrated at trying to get particularly unmotivated children to do what they were supposed to be doing. Especially the ones that have their own agenda and would rather you piss off so they can continue doing as they were doing.

That I can deal with, and I was really glad that I was going back to the relative quietness that was my flat on a weekday. Even that stench that accompanies a wet wool coat didn't really bug me yet, and generally it makes me think I stink.

I decided I was going to have pancakes for lunch. Odd, I know, but this is me we're talking about. That and I really didn't want to eat the plain rice from last night because it was the only thing that I really had available. That and maybe a bowl of oatmeal, Tesco brand frosted flakes, and whatever else I could rustle up that didn't involve either bread or tortilla wraps. Or the minced beef in the fridge that accidentally got left out the other night when I made dirty rice. Eating that just might kill me and I haven't been brave enough to bring it out of the freezer yet and do something with it.

Anyhoo, here I am in the kitchen mowing my way through one pancake while the other one - slightly massive because I'm using the rest of the batter so I don't waste food - and we're just generally having kitchen conversation. So, I take my frying pan off the heat, go to get myself a glass of milk, and hear one of my flat mate's saying, "You're not leaving that there, eh?"

Slightly confused, I look to where he's pointing - my batter bowl. Now, I had every intention of at least rinsing it. I nearly always do when it's not my day to do the dishes because I figure that helps the people who's day it is. And I'm just staring at him, like, RUFKM? And he's completely serious as he tells me to wash it because otherwise it's going to be a mess.

Hold the phone. Today is not my day to do the dishes. Today is actually his day.

And believe me, the amount of shit that I have washed out of various pots and pans in that kitchen has been incredible. Including his dirty dishes, which, he will just leave there.

But no. I'm told to that before I can leave - unless I want to wear the rest of that batter on the inside of that bowl - it needs to be washed. Not by him, who's day it is, but by me.

Very rarely have I wanted to lay into someone so badly for something so trivial. Yes, I recognize that it's just dishes. Though I will say this; this is the same guy that was foolin' around in the kitchen, sliced his toe open on something by stepping on the bin bag, and then refused to clean up his own blood smears on the kitchen floor because it wasn't his day. Two guesses as to who's day it was to clean the kitchen.

Mine.

That kitchen effin' sparkled when I was done, mostly because I was incredibly pissed off, homesick, and generally needed to calm the hell down. So I cleaned.

So I go back to school, try to leave everything at the door, and every one of my kids seems determined to step either on my last nerve or push every button I possess like a fancy elevator.

I'm pretty damn near the edge and ready to snap. And it's going to be anything but pretty when it happens.