My housemates are frequently both the blessing and bane of my existence. Often at the same time. For example, Horchata. As in the yummy yummy homemade rice milk with cinnamon and sugar that I hold in my hands right now. Seriously goodness in a cup and all that is comforting in a drink that is not hot. Example two, coming home tonight after, literally, nine hours on my feet-dealing-with-customers-and-inventory-all-day shift, to find that there was hardly any dinner left. Tuesdays are my looong days and I never feel like cooking. Which makes it all to the better that we have organized dinners where in we take turns cooking. (Well, I actually clean the first floor this time around instead of cooking.)
Except that dinner is always at seven, and I don't get home until just after 7:30. And I have twenty-five housemates. Which means that unless the cook really really really plans well, there's never very much left when I get home. Even when I make my self a really good lunch and snack all day, this seems to leave me at turns wanting to break something or cry. Sometimes both.
Somehow today I managed to get there in time for the last of the taco meat, and found more tortillas and cheese, which meant I didn't have to do too much. But it was enough to set me on edge and make me want to cry. Arrrrggg! I get sooooo frustrated just by feeling so frustrated! And I totally wanted to punch three people in the face by the time I finished cleaning up my dinner dishes.
But I didn't. [Insert secret smile here.]
I tried very hard to calmly explain that I was feeling stressed and very much not okay, and that little things were making me feel upset that normally wouldn't. And some expressed concern. Which was very nice. It's nice to know that people want you to have a better day tomorrow, and so on.
It's also nice to have a BIIIG cup of Horchata.