It's Official, We're at War

It would take something like what happened last night to catapult me out of my 4-month blog oblivion in order to bring me back to my beloved keyboard. And I'm not talking about last night's official Democratic debate kickoff. Of course we are at war on the global front, but now I just enlisted for service on my very own hometurf. Last night I marched straight up to the front line and opened fire in the battle of Russell v. Russell, subservience v. independence, 1950's v. modern day, a whole tribe of aristocratic family lineage v. a solitary empowered female descendent, father v. daughter. So let me recount the battle scene....

Was over at my parents' house last night listening to my mother vent about upcoming immediate healthcare decisions she is going to have to make in order to take care of my grandmother, trying to offer support and ask questions when appropriate. We talked in the kitchen for a while and then sat down for a late meal with my father. My grandmother's care was, not surprisingly, the topic of dinner table conversation as well. It is a very stressful decision for anyone, but especially for my mother as my grandmother is the most stubbornly independent woman I know, which is quite admirable and strong, but can also be incredibly frustrating. My father and I responded to certain points throughout the meal to show we were following the conversation. But suddenly my father got bored and reached over and patted my stomach. What the ?! That sure as hell wasn't a love pat, because he doesn't know how to give those.

Me. Um, why did you do that?
Dad. I just wanted to see if that was you or your blouse.
Mom. He always does this to people outside the family.
Me. Well, it's inappropriate.
Dad. Yes, it's inappropriate. (in a mocking tone)

It should be noted that at this point in time there was a marked increase in the temperature around the dinner table.

Mom. John, you shouldn't do that. It's not polite, and what does it matter?!
Dad. Repeats my mother's comment in a mocking tone.
Me. Who the fuck cares if my stomach is poking out over my waist band?!

I quickly decide I need to get out of this situation ASAP as I have felt the internal volcano explode. I get up from the table and realize I need to go to the bathroom right away before my departure. When I return moments later, my mother informs me that my father just blew up at her because I left the table without asking to be excused. He then enters the kitchen and the volcano officially erupts....

Me. If you have a problem with me, then you deal with me and DON'T take it out on her!
Dad. Okay, fine, it was very rude of you to leave the dinner table without asking to be excused!
Me. Dad, I'm an adult and you can start treating me like one!
Dad. You're still my daughter and it's plain rude!
Me. Where do you get off? It was extremely rude of you to pat my stomach at the dinner table!
Dad. How was that rude?
Me. It's insinuating that I have gained weight and you don't know that I already have enough body image issues without your fucking love pats. Who who, (my grandmother), has created you into a monster!!!!
Dad. That's it. Get out! Get out! And don't come back!
Me. Gladly!!!!

It surprised me when I got in my car after such a heated exchange, that I felt very calm, energized with a slight spell of the chills, but overall very calm.