That bloated feeling...

I endured another family holiday. Don't get me wrong, I love the family...what's left of it. But being forced to eat food I wouldn't normally eat and being forced to carry on polite conversation was almost more than I could take yesterday. Hallelujah. It's over. And no leftovers for me, please.

Still, it wasn't as strange and horrible as one particular Thanksgiving at Aunt Olive's when I was in high school. We were all sitting around the table while Aunt Olive brought the food in from the kitchen (no one could help--she had to do it herself), and while the majority of the food smelled and looked delicious, there was a glaring exception. My mom, dad, grandparents, Aunt Olive's friend Mrs. Jones, and myself were all treated to pickled eggs. Yep, red pickled eggs. And it was rude to refuse food at Aunt Olive's house. I'm still slightly in trouble for some broccoli and cheese I didn't eat when I was six. But Dad held out. And that made me feel brave. So I held out, too. Defiance, in the face of family. And it felt good.

I later realized that Dad had seen Cool Hand Luke enough times to know that it could all end badly. (Dragline: Why you got to go and say fifty eggs for? Why not thirty-five or thirty-nine? Luke: I thought it was a nice round number.) Man, I miss my Dad.

I'm looking forward to a weekend with Annie. No family allowed.