“What’s that for?” I asked, staring at the solid, yellowish object he took out of the plastic grocery bag and set on the counter.
“What are you talking about? You had parmesan cheese on the list, so I got parmesan cheese.”
“Yes…it was on the list...,” I said slowly, trying oh-so-hard to be patient, “but why would you get theblock of parmesan cheese? I always buy the plastic jar one. You know that. You have used it many times. I mean, you used it last night. I seriously watched you use it last night.”
“I know you always buy that one, but it tastes better when you shred it yourself. Plus, after watching that documentary on Netflix I was telling you about, we really need to avoid plastic containers unless they are BPA-free.”
Ugh, he was right—it totally does taste better, and we really did need to become more aware of what we were putting into our bodies—, but there was no way “teacher me” would have ever admitted it.
“Ugh! You’ve got to be kidding me right now!” I wailed, completely having lost the ability to think rationally and instead only able to focus on the fact that he actually had the decency to think that I, with everything currently going on in my life, had time to shred cheese. “I could’ve grocery shopped myself in the time it’ll take me to shred this! And who the hell has time to watch TV? Let alone a documentary! On plastic! You told me you’d help me this week! News flash: this isn’t help!”
I chucked the broccoli I was holding into the vegetable drawer, kicked the drawer in, and slammed the refrigerator door closed but was too embarrassed to turn around, so I just stared at the stainless steel streaks in front of me, which just made things worse.
“You don’t get it!” I yelled, still facing the fridge. “You just don’t understand the stress I’m under right now. I barely have time to think of making dinner, let alone shred cheese." I paused but couldn’t stand feeling judged in silence. “And we seriously need to find a damn cleaner that will actually get these streaks out! Why the hell did you have to buy this kind of refrigerator anyway?”
I didn't even have to glance over at him to know that his head was shaking from side to side, eyes opening wide, and hands tilting up, creating the infamous "You’re batshit crazy”-look I was getting more of that school year than ever.
"You seriously need to get psychological help," he said while walking out of the kitchen and up the stairs. "I just did you a favor, and I am pretty sure you were aware of—and possibly even slightly appreciative of—that favor less than a minute ago!”
After spending a few minutes at my pity party, I took a deep breath, walked over to my work bag, and pulled out one of the six stacks of essays I had to grade that weekend. But before I could sit down to get to work, I grabbed the rag that was neatly folded next to the sink and made yet another attempt at those streaks.