Homo For the Holidays

My fellow staff members have been required by our boss to put together a "Holiday Celebrations Around the World" program. It focuses on all the customs and traditions of many countries and populations around the world, hence the name. It got me to thinking, "How do my people celebrate the Holidays?" And by my people, I am not talking about the farming, coal mining, educators of the central Midwest that lay claim to me biologically. I am referring to my "Family," i.e. the Gays.
I have to admit that we are largely responsible for what some people claim to be the bane of the holiday existence: Materialism. Frankly, we do a copious amount of shopping the entire year round, but we really tend to out do ourselves in December. Between the parties we throw (and attend), the retail stores we patronize, run, and frequently find ourselves employed in, and the total number of presents that we buy (actual presents that the recipients are actually HAPPY to receive), we are spending mucho dinero. We love it (until January when the MasterCard bill comes).
Also, you have to consider the costumes. We wouldn't be caught dead in your average holiday sweater and you know what I'm talking about - adorned with kelly green Christmas trees, wreaths, kittens in Santa hats, and bells. Frankly that is the sort of crap that makes me shudder! And forget about wearing anything we wore last year. Never mind that it's already a year old and considered goodwill fodder at best, you know those other bitches we call our friends would talk about it behind our last year's turtlenecked backs. It's customary to subscribe to the old "buy on for you, buy two for me" school of thought, and if I find a fabulous blouse that I know you will love and look exquisite wearing, you better believe that I will be getting two for myself and wearing mine before you even unwrap yours! This is, in fact, where the phrase, "Don We Now Our Gay Apparel" comes from. Fa la la, la la la, la - la - Laaaaa!
As far as traditional foods go, we literally have cookbooks full of fancy holiday drink recipes (nobody actually consumes FOOD @ these parties), phonebooks full of hunky shirtless caterers, and every copy of Martha Stewart's Simple Living (that's an oxymoron if I've ever heard one) ever published. In short, our cocktailed asses are more than covered as far as the holiday hostess role is concerned.
And last but not least, there are our actual "family celebrations" to consider. We have long ago grown accustomed to being the life of the party, and when the only competition for the spotlight comes from seeing which of your uncles can fart the loudest after dinner (and consuming too many beers), it's no wonder we run from our Mother's front doors and into the open arms of our favorite bartenders. I happen to know that my favorite watering hole doubles its booze order for the evening of 12/25.
So, Happy Holidays! Enjoy your traditions and your celebrations and remember, if your gifts are impeccably wrapped, your tree looks like it should be in the front window display at Macy's, and your cocktail is garnished with a fancy little miniature red and white swirled swizzle stick, then you most likely have one of my FAMILY members to thank for it.

Family Tragedy

I love my mother very much. As much as I don't like to admit it sometimes, I am more like her everyday. She has many wonderful attributes that I can proudly say I have inherited, and then there are the things I look at and see from her example that I would rather not emulate. One of these little flaws is the "Family Crisis."
You see, every time something slightly out of the ordinary occurs, my Mother makes it into rather a large production. Recently my uncle went in for a minor, out patient surgery. I found out that it was no big deal only AFTER my mother had called to tell me he was practically at death's door. She was rushing to the hospital to be with him and I should be on stand by to fly home at a moments notice. It was only after talking to her less dramatic middle sister that I got the real scoop - an abscess being drained, no big whoop, don't even worry about it-I can't believe she called you, etc.
But you see, I found myself buying into the drama of it all. . . not a good sign. Before you know it my hangnails will all require a week off work and all my loved ones gathered at my bedside and my mother calling in the priest to give me my last rights.