I'll Be Thankful When It's Over.

  Thanksgiving is one of the most stressful holidays. It seems that somewhere down the line it was decided that; in order to accurately celebrate Thanksgiving, a maximum number of relatives must be gathered. It doesn't matter that each of these relatives has a different opinion on how to cook the turkey, mash the mashed potatoes, and distribute the seating. Long story short (or as it goes in our family; long story even longer), Thanksgiving is marked in my calendar as an appointment for an atomic family feud.

  My mom and her sisters compare recipes and force feed innocents to determine whose stuffing is stuffier, whose is saltier, and whose is prettier. My Uncle Patrick stoically mashes the potatoes, a task he has quietly overtaken as the years go by. My grandfather introduces me to his kitchen assistants for the 50 millionth time and I feel guilty as I keep returning to them with new plates of half eaten appetizer food. I try desperately to find a quiet spot to sit and read, like moses searching for an oasis in the Egyptian desert, but I am accosted by aunts. I am forced to hear my family's opinion on everything. EVERYTHING.

  And stuffing! Don't even get me started on the stuffing. Stuffing makes me sick! So do a lot of things. My stomach is about as strong as a 2 year old child.  I don't know, it has just always been that way. Unfortunately, my family seems to suffer a collective gap in linguistic knowledge. "No thanks" is an abstract concept, missing from their vocabulary and comprehension.

What??
You.... don't want another serving?
Is the food not GOOD?
Is it ME?
Are you trying to lose weight?
Amy, has she been eating properly?
You need your protein you know!
Do you have something against the Saldanas?
WHY?

  Meanwhile my father -in all respects a foreigner- sits nervously, tensely eyeballing my elbows to make sure they never touch the table. As an English man, Thanksgiving means nothing to him. He focuses instead of the sanctity of the family meal, and the stringent etiquette which he assumes is required.
"Treat every meal as if you were dining with the Queen." he would say. Ugh.

  Simultaneously, my Grandfather is testing the general football knowledge of the table. My father seems to shrink in his seat, like a turtle returning to its shell. My cousin Noah is being interrogated about his most recent romantic attachment. The ginger Puerto Rican Jew reclines, allowing his sister to answer for him, as she so frequently and readily volunteers her opinions.

  "Another one of those mindless Asian girls..." my cousin Julia interjects, issuing a trademark 11 decibel scoff and an earth shaking eye roll. And you thought I was condescending... ha ha ha.

  "Hey, you know what they say about Jewish guys and Asian girls..." I say, wiggling my eyebrows at Noah.
...No one seems to think it's funny.

  My Grandpa is a dear and laughs to fill the awkward and frankly judgemental silence, but I'm 100% sure he heard 0% of what I said. I'm also pretty sure he thinks I'm 21, because he keeps pouring me wine. "Red or white?" he asks- his Brooklyn accent faded but present.

"Green." I respond.

No one seems to think its funny.