My tantrum over turkey hash

As always, it was my husband's fault. There we were, having fought our packed cart to the final aisle in the busy grocery store when Brad sighed resignedly and said, "Might as well get some eggs to make some turkey hash. I don't think we're going to have a chance to put together turkey soup." Thoughtless monster. There ensued a ridiculous wrestling match where Brad dragged me and our equally-resistent cart over to the dairy section. I pleaded for him not to do this terrible thing but his heart was hardened and he carefully balanced the eggs near the top of our heaping cart. Naturally, I dissolved into tears right there in the middle of frozen foods. Fearing that the tears would affix to my face, Brad hurried me out of the store and into our van. Worried, confused (and publicly humiliated), my husband asked me what was wrong. Jerk. Couldn't he tell what was wrong? Apparently NOT.

So in between gulping sobs and unattractive hiccuping, I pointed out how I was trying to be everything to everybody and failing miserably in the process. I cried harder when he didn't disagree; instead deciding to take the route that it was an impossible-to-achieve aspiration.  After a year of being served breakfast cereal for supper, Brad is thrilled about Thanksgiving. And the thought of Thanksgiving leftovers makes him positively giddy. All he could talk about was turkey potpie and turkey with wild rice soup. "You didn't even like the potpie I made," I howled in the van. "Well..." he paused, trying not to look disgusted as I used my mitten as a tissue. "Savannah didn't talk to me for days because I put cheese in the mashed potatoes," I wailed, searching for the other mitten while Brad discreetly stuffed his own gloves deep into his pocket. "You can't please everyone," he said consolingly. "That's my point," I screamed.

We drove in silence for a bit (if you don't count that awful "augh-augh-augh" sound that I kept making). I didn't want to hear about how fortunate I was and how there are countless others out there struggling much much more than me. I was ashamed because I know how blessed I am but all I wanted at that moment was for someone to validate my feelings. Brad pulled into a gas station and I watched him walk into the building.  Brad Mosiman, whose only crime was giving up his hope of turkey soup and was then willing to make his own turkey hash, emerged moments later with a 20 ounce Pepsi. Without a word, he handed it to me and we silently continued our journey together (if you don't count the blissful "gulp, gulp gulp" sound that I was making).