Winna!

My younger brother has always picked on me and usually still gets the best of me. Even as we age, he doesn't stop. If he isn't quizzing me on movie lines, he's poking me in the side. He is very competitive and loves nothing more than besting me in games, whether it's cards or board games or driving.

This holiday I got the upper hand.

It started first with me whining about my sore feet. No one stepped up to offer comfort, so I pouted. Rusty wanted me to play cards. I declined. I told him I couldn't concentrate on anything but my aching feet.

Rusty: "If you can beat me two out of three hands, I'll rub your feet."

We played Gin Rummy, and I won the first two games. Gin! I laid down my gin hand and had my shoes off before we could even clear the table we were using. I have never enjoyed a foot massage more than I did that one.

But the best was yet to come...

During our annual dinner to a favorite local restaurant, my brother and I sat next to one another. The vegetable for that evening was slices of cooked tomatoes with parmesan and bread crumbs. Neither one of us eats plants. While I wasn't looking, Rusty put his three tomatoes on my plate.

Me: "Ha, ha, you're so funny. The waiter will not be fooled."

Rusty: "I'll give you $50 if you eat those six tomatoes."

Me: "Show me the money."

He pulled out a fifty-dollar bill and laid it on the table. I stared at the tomatoes. Ugh.

Me: "I'll eat three of them for $50."

Rusty: "The bet is six for $50."

Me: "Then I decline. I'm not eating six tomatoes. I hate tomatoes. I could probably gag down three, but I can't do six."

Rusty: "I'll tell you what. I'll double it. Six tomatoes for $100."

He pulled out another fifty-dollar bill and laid it on top of the previous bill. The table began to buzz. My competitive juices, the ones that long to show the little shit up, kicked into gear. I channeled my inner Survivor. I took the bet.

I cut the first tomato and put half into my mouth. Ugh. I chewed it. I ate the second half. Rusty began talking shit.

Rusty: "Feel the acid? If not, you will later tonight. And look at the squishy one on your plate. That's rotten for sure. Make sure you savor that rotten tomato. Let it slide down the old gullet burning your throat with the acid."

I kept eating. The table was on my side. My husband was impressed; I had even put a half into my mouth. My competitive side kept on chugging. I pictured Rusty rubbing my feet. He began sweating after I ate the first three slices.

Rusty: "The bet was three for $50, right?"

I ignored him and kept on eating. The waiter got into the bet and kept popping back to our table to check my progress. The end was in sight. I kept eating.

When I finished the last bite, I had to open my mouth to prove I'd swallowed it. The table erupted in applause. The waiter got me a celebratory margarita to wash away the taste of tomatoes, and I pocketed the $100 in my bra.

Best Family Christmas Ever!