I love Thanksgiving. I love turkey. I love green bean casserole. I also love to drive my family crazy.

One year for Thanksgiving I dyed my hair green to compliment my Granny's cranberry salad. And yet another year I decided I was vegetarian and insisted that all meat items be placed across the kitchen to not contaminate the veggies. I was never difficult, just different.

My crowning glory was coming out to my family over turkey and dressing at the Renaissance Hotel’s Thanksgiving buffet.

My family would rotate dining there and my grandmother's house for the holidays. I love the buffet. One year they had ice sculpture swans. The food is excellent, especially the pecan pie, which my Granny loves.

We arrived in full force and took a large round table in the middle of the banquet hall. We always dress up for family occasions, kind of like how people wear their best to church, as if Jesus cares that you wore your Lagerfeld ball gown to Sunday mass. I looked tight. I had on black pants, a black shirt, and a thin red tie. I was very David Bowie on a purposeful note. I slicked my hair back and trimmed my goatee to perfection. To star in my own drama, I had to look like red carpet business. I couldn't wait for dessert.

I sat at the table so I could survey the room. The waiter filled my glass with iced water and laid my maroon napkin in my lap. The food smelled delicious and my family began to feast on our Thanksgiving dinner.

I waited for everyone to get a nice bite of turkey and I exclaimed, "Could anyone pass me the gravy, oh and by the way...I'm gay!"

My sister spit out her dressing, my nephew knocked his water glass over, and my aunt fell out of her chair. She remained on the floor until the paramedics came. I was pissed. How could she steal my thunder like that?

The next morning the phone started ringing like Grand Central Station. Every relative that I never knew was calling to confirm the front-page story in the Citizen-Times. "He's Gay!"

The shock wore off and things went back to normal. Well, sort of. Every second year when I call to make our Thanksgiving reservations at the Renaissance Hotel they ask me if I am the gay one. I say yes, but to say I am THE gay is a little ridiculous. Elton John is THE gay. Liberace was THE gay. I'm just A gay. This town is full of them.

My family is back to normal also. It took some time for things to go back to the way they were pre-confession. After coloring my sister's hair a few times and her having to wear that wig for 6 months, she doesn't ask me to be the hairdresser all gay men aspire to be. My dad no longer asks me to redecorate his office, the velvet Jesus and gold tassels draped from the hot pink credenza did not conform to his business direction. I do go shopping with my aunt occasionally so I can benefit her with my gay stylist gene, although she looks more Britney than the attorney for land acquisitions at Biltmore.

All and all coming out was a simple, easy procedure. I chose Thanksgiving because it was a holiday that everyone lapses into a food coma shortly there after and I assumed the shock would wear off in a satiated state of sleep. Some people spend their whole lives finding the right moment to tell mom and dad that having a glimpse up your soccer coach's shorts was enough to make you get weak in the knees. It’s much easier to do it younger than older. Trust me, if you are a 45 year-old male who has a manicure and no wife, they know you are a knob polisher.

Door knobs people. Get your mind out of the gutter. That means you Step Mom.

The smell of pumpkin pie reminds me of my day of recognition. The day I stood up and told everyone at the Thanksgiving Buffet I was gay! I'm here, I'm queer and isn't this Waldorf salad to die for? My family loves me unconditionally. I love them between Top Model Marathons. Oh by the way, I love pumpkin pie. Actually, I love anything pumpkin.

If you need help coming out, please give me a call. We can rehearse it. You know role-play. No, not naughty policeman and the Madison County Breathalizer, real role playing; you practice telling me you are gay and I practice getting verklempt. I'll tell you you’re a mashugana and you should be smuck for breaking your poor Muter's heart! It will be like therapy, but maybe not so Jewish. Oy Vey!

So this year when your family gathers and sits down while Uncle Larry, fresh from his AA meeting, wants to carve the turkey remember this, to one's self be true, and telling your family your gay over ham and cranberry relish is much easier than you think.