Lesser of the evils

Every year at this time I deal with folks interacting, or not interacting and missing, their families - all too often, with varying degrees of rejection/denial/dysfunction over the notion that *gasp* one of their own might be gay. Not surprisingly, it's usually the gay one I get to hear bitching/moaning/cursing at the effects of it all (I expect somewhere out there, someone else is dealing with the befuddled hetero half of the equation).

For any hetero readers - no, it's not a choice (are you MAD? Who is going to VOLUNTEER for all the BS that comes with this one?); it's not a sickness (any more than drawing the low hand in a poker game), it doesn't *need* to be fixed (and any efforts in that direction usually just lead to more dramatic and less socially acceptable outlets...).

That said, I'm reminded of a friend some years ago who combined really enthusiastic introversion, a desire to come out and be done with it (after awhile, living a lie gets tiresome), and deep-seated white-hot fury at most of his clan. Something about the way the family treated his father when that gentleman came out at around the time my friend was 12...

His theory was that the best way to deal with all this was a blood'n'thunder confrontation over Christmas dinner, followed by his marching off into the night, never to deal with them again. Umm. That didn't sound really good.

Most families, soon or late, if the collective IQ hovers somewhere over two digits, come to accept and cherish their gay loved one - sometimes it takes milliseconds, sometimes it takes years, but eventually everyone gets over themselves in most instances and recalls that aside from the "gay thing" the party concerned is still the same person who's a talented doctor, makes a killer gingerbread, and spoils the rugrats rotten. Big dramatic confrontations don't really help this process.

Thought for a moment, and realized while friend needed some sort of release, that the power of comedy might be a better venue than "evil drama queen harpy swooping in from the wings, bringing devastation and horror, naming names and peccadillo's in excruciating detail during the overflight." Purchases ensued. Diversion seemed appropriate.

Shortly old-fashioned wooden crates were being built, a brad gun purchased, custom rubber-stamps were ordered, and the plan swung into action. Cards were purchased.

Assembly day rolled around and cellophane wrapped fudge was laid into styro peanut cradles in wooden boxes, cards attached, and the whole shooting match boxed up for shipping. That year puzzled folks (and a few giggling ones) received these intricate assemblies....

On opening the shipping container, they found a nailed-shut wooden crate prominently stamped "well-packed" and a teeny-tiny crowbar strapped across it (HomoDepot has the most amazing selection...never saw a 4" crowbar before); after much effort, the cellophane-encased fudge became apparent, and finally the card beneath it...depicting a Jolly Santa with a message within..."Merry Christmas from your favorite fudge-packer, Sven"

Sven got an evil giggle, and in a passive-aggressive kind of way, his confrontation. The family missed out on Sven in evil pissed-off harpy mode. In the years since, they've come to a sort of detente. All in all, a good days work, if I do say so myself. :)