The holidays have ended. And whatever your religion, we are all now safely into the next year, wondering how we will remain sane enough to make it to our next set of day’s off from work, while trying to figure out how to loose the weight we have added to our backsides.

Gone, like the leaves of the trees and Britney Spear’s 36-hour marriage, are the sale signs and the plethora of commercials shilling product after product. But we oft overlook the true meaning and practice of the holidays — being jammed together with family, extended and otherwise, for far too long in spaces far too small acting like you are joining in merry cheer as a result of your shared genes from two people whom likely started this branch of the mangled family tree in a drunken revelry.

I am constantly reminding myself the advice my wife presented before we left the house that morning: “Don’t let them get under your skin, and please don’t egg them on.” She knows my threshold level and humor all too well.

As we enter, the conversations have already begun. Conversations in these settings always fall into two categories. The first are those that are trying to impress the greater group in some way, and the second are those that clearly don’t care about impressing anyone or are oblivious to what words are coming from their mouths.

It begins almost immediately. After jettisoning my jacket, I noticed the very well prepared table, which looks like all of Gryffindor could feed, with elbowroom to spare.

“Nice wine choice,” I say to those nearby, which draws a brief stare from a cousin. I tap my index finger on the bottle as an added crescendo to my words.

“Oh, you prefer table wine…” she says, almost like a question but not quite. The words leapt in the air like an admission on her behalf that I am not fit to be in the same caste.

“Well, you know,” I have to retort in my own way, “no matter what you pay for it, in the end it’s all toilet pee.” I make sure to utilize her same emphasis.

The half smile and headshake from my wife tells the story; it’s only been 10 seconds and I’m already at it. The game has started earlier than usual. Why pull up now, since I have gotten such a good, running start? Time for the TV room.

As I enter the chamber of surround sound goodness, stuffed with men and lite beer, I realize quite quickly I have walked in on a somewhat heated debate over reality television and its impact on society. Or more accurately, the during-the-commercial-display-of-narrow-mindedness.

“How would you like that, Mark?” another relative puts me on the spot, “how would you like it if a buncha queers came to your house and told you how to dress and cook a fancy-schmancy meal for your wife?”

My liberalism roars into action. I let it run let it run free and fast like bourbon at a Bush fundraiser.

“Actually,” I begin, “that sounds great.” I hesitated jamming my pointed finger up in the air like Tony the Tiger extolling his cereal.

“Why shouldn’t a man,” I keep going, “from time-to-time, increase his wardrobe above the Tim Couch jersey’s you like to wear, and learn how to cook more than just homophobia in order to impress his lady?”

He glares at me, not quite sure if I made a point or insulted him. Before he realizes I did both at the same time, I add in the guy catchall phase, “…because it might lead to great sex.” At which point he nods with guy-style understanding.

Therein lies the mastery. Insulting someone and turning the phase before they can comprehend what you did, then getting them to agree with you. Class was in session and that day I was a Ph.D.

Feeling satisfied I exit the room for a break. Time to brave the blustery Ohio winter winds for a smoke.

Evidently my non-table wine drinking cousin had the same idea. She followed me outside wearing her leather and fur coat. She made a particular point to pull out her gold cigarette carrying case complete with engraved initials and tapping the filtered end on the cover like it was a Lego-sized jackhammer. I can’t resist. It’s chum in the water and this shark is hungry.

“Oh, you smoke Camels…” making it clear that my caste prefers other, more pompous types of tobacco. I take a long draw from my Thompson Cameroon Lonsdale cigar, with a boyish satisfaction that I have felled stark class-ism with a shot of my own, as hallow as it may be.

“Odd,” I add, “that you would take the time to put those in a gold carrying case.”

“What does it matter?” she snips with a lip curl. “In the end it will probably give us both cancer.”

Interesting tactic she has employed. As my toilet pee to her wine remark, she has used the same deployment to turn my comment against me. I measure up the battlefield and mobilize my next weapon. And just when she thought she had the upper hand.

“Not so,” I answer, “Cigar smokers don’t inhale. There is a difference between enjoyment and succumbing to a corporate driven addiction sold and marketed to the masses via cartoon characters.”

She drops her hand away from her face, either in disgust or from muscle fatigue from holding up all that jewelry.

I tilt my head back and watch the smoke waif into the sky. Maybe I do like family holiday gatherings after all.