Wear a thong under your fur

I know, there are just not enough hours in a day. There are Christmas presents to buy. There are Hanukkah candles to light. There are Kwanzaa pies to make. This time of year even the ‘mos feel the pinch. Calgon, take me away.

‘Tis the season to be crabby, falalalala la la la… [angry car horn].

But just today through the crowd of not-so-happy shoppers in the mall, with the visions of sourplums dancing in their heads, I saw a gay guy with a fabulous scarf and a cheerful smile going up an escalator. Happy as can be. Gay even. I wanted to chase him down and find out what his secret is. I could only surmise the obvious. No, not sex in the mall bathroom. Although that was surely a possi-probability.

As I looked at his happy-go-lucky smile and cheerful visage I knew I had the answer. He must be a Wiccan. Must be. Not even Judaism can save you from Christmas stress anymore. More than a few Whateversteins and Somethingbergs I know have expressed a mid-December need for a stiff drink and maybe a dip into the Elizabeth Taylor medicine cabinet. And yet why, and for what?

Let’s get off the merry-go-round, people! Let’s put on our glitter bathing suits with a fur coat on top and meet up and drink a toast to being actually happy at the most wonderful time of the year. Let’s be the Auntie Mames of the world. Find the fabulous. Be the sun in your own seasonal affective disorder.

I say we return to a simpler time, when Christmas was about family. When what really mattered was that little baby Jesus was born on that day. When a little red wagon made the best present ever. When women earned half as much as their male counterparts… oh, wait, one too many. When gay men and lesbians could go to their bars and then feel free to kiss or hold hands in public on the street… as they made their way from the club to the paddywagon with their indecency arrest. Awww, ‘member?

Okay, so maybe not so much with the past. Onward we go.

I am here with some suggestions to ease your holiday stress and help in whatever way I can. See, I know us. I know that we can find the fun in any season. We live in Canada, for firk’s sake. Only here have I seen the big coat walking down the street, the giant parka that gets removed at the club to reveal the outfit underneath — a sparkly thong. That’s us. High hopes. Big coats and sparkly thongs. The weather outside may be frightful, but our sparkly thongs are so delightful.

Gay men and lesbians in the hot climes have no idea what we go through to be fabulous.

LA? Oh, please. Miami? [Insert raspberry noise here.] Nuts to you. It’s easy to be hot stuff where it’s hot. That’s nothing. When you can manage to be a fox or foxette in the winter, that makes you extra hot.

When you can make after-bar sultry small talk on the sidewalk with a new special someone with your hand frozen into a claw and a Rudolph-red runny nose, that is true hotness.

Anyone can be attractive when the temp is high. It’s the people who can still look pickupable at the 2am coat check who get my vote. When your Eddie Bauer lady parka comes out while you’re giving someone the googly eyes — that is courage.

When reaching into your coat to get a pen to write down your number for a hottie and instead you pull out a Chapstick and a scary looking Kleenex, and still you manage to get some action, that is hotness. Bravo.

You’re officially hot stuff. My hat’s off to you. Although, not really because my ears would get too cold. So I’ll wear a hat on top of my hat and take that one off to you.

Our arrivals for winter evenings out aren’t much better. Such as when you get out of the taxi with your makeup on, and as you encounter the winter wind down Church St you can feel the mascara-shmear begin as your eyes water. “Hello,” you say to the doorperson, with your face a tear-streaked mess, “I’m here for the raccoon convention.”

And still you score with a bi-curious girl who works at the Mac counter. Well done, you.

We are the true hotness up here. There is no winter hotness like the Toronto hotness. Oh, okay. There’s Montreal. Right. Those people — their winter hotness is superhuman. It’s not right.

Happy Holidays, my friends. And happy wintering. Let me know how it goes. I’ll be in South Beach till April.