book club...kind of like the moon landing with cheesecake

Yesterday Sherman and I were preparing for book club. We were reading the last few pages of The Lovely Bones, and by that, I mean that we were quickly Wikipedia-ing The Lovely Bones so we could hold our own in the dog-eat-bear world that is our book club.

Oh, and by we I mean I. As usual, Sherman had not only read the book, but compiled a dosier on the author. PS-Sherman is the black bear that I have been bording with ever since I graduated from college and into the unemployment line of life.

"Did you know Stanley Tucci was in the movie?" I ask Sherman, as I frantically scroll down the useless recap. "I love him!"

"The feeling isn't mutual," Sherman reassures me. I don't know that that is true and assume Sherman is just being co-dependent. He doesn't need to be. Like I have any other options. Plus, he is really good with my cat, which impresses me, since he is a bear."Besides, so was Mark Wahlberg."

Sherman knows I can't stand Mark Wahlberg. He was tolerable in his 'Marky Mark' days, but only because he would talk about his third nipple, and really, how much of that can you take? Now he is just useless.

The fact that I have issues with a character actor I will never meet is what some people would describe as a weakness. It's  problematic when the people you love know your weaknesses. Especially when you have as many as I do.

"Whatever," I say, brushing him off in frustration. Besides, I know Sherman's weakness too. Like I said, he is co-dependent.

The thing with co-dependence is that I am a fan of it. If Sherman thinks he needs to try really hard to keep me around, I'm not going to be the one to point out that he could do way better than me. I mean, even that skunk across the way is more capable than I am. At least it has defenses. I can't even get through a fucking book, let alone defend myself against a predator in the forest.

"We should have watched the movie," I continue. "Then we'd at least know what the others are talking about."

"I'll know. I read the book," Sherman replies before heading down to the brook to get our breakfast. He is obviously more well-read than I am, but, then, that isn't saying much. Being the brightest person in my family is like being the smartest person at a GOP convention. It doesn't mean you deserve a fucking medal is what I'm getting at. It's more of a best in show accolade where everybody knows the show should have been canceled.

"Well, that was nice of you to throw me under the bus like that," I whine when he gets back.

"I didn't throw you under the bus," Sherman replies. "It's not my fault you procrastinate. Here. Eat this. We're going to be late."

Sherman tosses me a honey comb. The thing is, Sherman is allergic to honey. The fact that he goes out of his way every day to find me some while I am sitting here getting my bitch on because he is a proactive member of the boreal community just underscores what a better person he is than me. And, he is a fucking bear.

I should really complement him. But, screw it. I'm not going to let him know he is slumming it with me.

"Right, like the squirrel has better things to be doing today," I complain.

When we get to our meeting place--a hot spring about a mile down the brook--things go from bad to worse for me. The critters of the forest are annoyed by me. I don't blame them. I don't read the books, I eat more than my fair share of the refreshments, and I scowl whenever somebody makes a valid point. In other words, I am the bitch of the forest. However, they all put up with me because everybody loves Sherman.

"Oh Sherman, tell us what you think the book is really saying--you are so insightful," chirps the bluejay.

"Oh Sherman, you make us feel so safe and protected," twitches the rabbit.

"Oh Sherman, you are so much smarter than that icky human," rattles the snake.

Valid points all, but still, I don't have to like it. Plus this isn't The Oprah Network. I don't have to win anybody over. And I didn't come here looking for new friends...I came looking for the cheesecake. Since I'd polished that off about 2.2 seconds after arriving here, I was good to go.

Besides, I had already won the affections of the one they all want. So, I did what any red-blooded human would do after eating a full cheesecake. I took a nap.

I don't know what it was. Maybe the cream-chesse had turned in the sun, but I had quite the nightmare. I dreamt I was stuck living in the forest and Sherman bailed on me.

I woke up in a sweaty panic of my own fear.

A million thoughts ran through my head. What if Sherman didn't love me? What if I was alone in this crap-tastic forest and had to survive all on my own? What if I had to find my own honeycomb? What if no one made me cheesecake?

Surely I would last no more than a couple of days in such a cold alternative universe. 

I looked around like a lunatic to make sure the bear had not abandoned me. But, noticing that book club was still going on, I went back to sleep. Sherman is right. If nothing else, I am a procrastinator. Even when it comes to nightmares.

This time I dreamt a dream of angels. No fucking book club. No fucking squirrels or bunnies or bluejays trying to steal Sherman away from me. Just me and the bear and my cat. Okay, the skunk can stay, but only because it is quiet--I'm not a complete ass.

This time when I woke up I had a plan. I knew I needed to make Sherman know he should stay with me and not run off with that skanky little bluejay.

Since I am lazy and stupid, I thought the best way to convey my value to Sherman was by buying him something. A person's bank account always conveys their worth. That's what Donald Trump told me. After he declared bankruptcy. For the second time.

Since I am unemployed and don't have any assets, I tried to sell a few things on e-Bay. I had a couple of old X-Men comic books and when I sold them I made the mistake of wrapping them in the birch-bark paper that is so plentiful in the forest instead of bubble wrap, which I saved for Sherman, since I know he likes to pop it.

The transaction was a success. Or, so I thought, until i received the following feedback from the buyer on my e-Bay account: "This seller is an amateur. DO NOT BUY FROM THIS SELLER!!!"

Geeze, and I thought the bluejay was pissed with me.

So I responded: "What do you mean AMATEUR?"

But, to be fair, he was right. I am not exactly the Serena Williams of selling shit on e-Bay. I'm not even the Serena Ryder of my own book club and I am the only one who speaks English--the language in which all of our books are written.

After returning the buyer's money, I gave Sherman the bubble-wrap since I thought he could at least enjoy that. I figure that if I can't trick him into thinking I am rich and thoughtful, I will just have to be honest and tell him he matters.

"Here is some bubble-wrap. I know you love it," I smile between my tears of defeat. "I love you."

My mother taught me one thing about love. It only works if both individuals think the other person is out of their league. "Then you'll spend your whole life trying to keep them instead of becoming complacent," she would say. "Unless you are in an open relationship...then it doesn't really matter."

I guess Sherman would agree with that, as he walked over and gave me a big bear-hug.

Since I, unlike my mother, am not a Mormon, I am glad I know that this big bear is way out of my league. I curl up beside him in the den and start to read our next book out loud. It's somethign Sherman likes to do and I am going to try and like it. Even if it's only for the cheesecake.

"What's up with this?" asks a puzzled Sherman.

"Don't question it," I smile. "It's kind of like the moon landing. You just have to go with it or it won't make any sense at all."

the day after--the aftermath of the GOP debate

Last week was the GOP presidential debate from New Hampshire. Since I live with a big ass bear in the forest and have neglected to pay taxes since 1988 I was obviously tuned into this. Or, I would have been, if the bear subscribed to cable.

I think 'informed' individuals watch this sort of thing wondering which candidate has the soundest theory on how to stimulate the economy or which one has a consistent voting history regarding the war effort or taxes. Being neither 'informed' nor 'motivated' unless I am in the middle of a pie-eating contest--in which case I am all-state--I watch with wide doe-eyes wondering which one of these fuckers is going to get to pull the trigger on me and my hibernating-husband.

"We aren't exactly their people," laments the bear, who response to me when I call him Sherman the way I respond to him when he calls me Roar. By running the other fucking way.

"You aren't even a person," I say. "At least I stand a fucking chance." I look into Sherman's eyes. There is a tear. It's funny. You think you know someone and how much of your bull shit they can take, only to realize you don't know anything at all.

"I'm sorry Sherman. People are just stupid and slow to come around. Their problem. Not ours," I say as I hug him. What I am really trying to do is hide from the dear fly hovering over us, but don't tell Sherman this. Of course, it is our problem. Just like that delightful little monster in the Frankenstein fable, the community with pitch-forks doesn't go after themselves. They come after us. And they're not exactly on their way to a Mensa meeting either.

Fortunately, the bear is not psychic, which makes him both different than that lunatic Sylvia Brown and an easy mark for my affections. It also means he only hears the 'I'm sorry' part of my diatribe. Like I said, people are stupid and slow. I don't exclude myself from that label. I just choose to keep Sherman in the dark about the fact that I am utterly nuts.

"The fact that we agree on that is what makes us so compatible," the bear says, smiling. He rustles off down toward the brook that runs by my dilapidated Hyundai. The one that I often confuse for a Saturn because it is such a piece of shit. When he returns he has a fish for himself and one for my cat.

"Thanks for taking such good care of mini-Roar," I say with genuine affection. My cat's name used to be Richard Hatch because she is fat, lazy and likes to bitch people out while not paying her taxes or wearing clothes, but since Sherman can only say roar, mini-Roar it is. Plus, since this cat started responding exclusively to the call of Richard Hatch upon her eighth birthday, you can agree that her mental state is as fucked as mine is.

"I take care of Richard Hatch because I love you," Sherman says. "That's what you do for the people you love."

This, of course, makes me want to puke a little bit, but since making sacrifices is apparently what one does for the people you love, I keep my dry-heaving to myself. "Let's do that thing that always cheers you up," I suggest.

I had meant go and find some fucking honey in the forest like Winnie the Pooh would have. Since I don't eat fish I am still starving my ass off. But Sherman thinks I mean that other thing he loves to do--pretend that he is James Lipton and he is interviewing people from inside the Actor's Studio.

Usually we cover some idiot celebrity like Mel Gibson because let's be honest, even the stupid and slow people like myself knew that The Beaver was really called Fuck You World, Sincerely Mel Gibson and Jodie Foster. Today, however, Sherman wants to get out some of his agressions toward the GOP candidates.

"Okay," I agree. "I suppose the honey can wait."

"Good," Sherman smiles, before getting his glasses and striking a pose that makes him look somewhat like James Lipton, only, more debonaire, and surprisingly, not as hairy. 

"So, Rick Santorum, isn't it true that you went through the entire debate ignoring the questions posed and sticking to your own agenda...not unlike Sarah Palin during the 2008 VP debates?" Sherman begins.

Shit, I barely know who Rick Santorum is, how does Sherman know so fucking much about all of this political mumbo-jumbo? Whatever. I'll play along. Of course, such devil-may-care attitude led to my first illegal wedding being video-recorded at the tender age of eight.

"I wouldn't say I am as crazy as Sarah Palin," I reply [as Rick Santorum-if I was replying as myself I would not have said this]. "I do know what magazines I read."

"Yes, but I didn't ask that," responds Sherman. "Did you know that Tim Pawlenty not only grew up in a meat-packing town and understands manufacturing but is also not for 'being stupid' or 'being a chump'?"

Having not paid attention during the debate I stare blankly. Much like I remember Ron Paul doing when he wasn't getting passionate about drug reform.

"That's what I thought," roars Sherman. "Next question. This one is for you Mr. Romney. Since you are the only legitimate candidate coming out of last week's debate, please tell me, where do you stand on same-sex marriage?"

"I like where you are going with that," I say, clearly speaking as Romney. The only one I would want to run is Donald Trump. And even that would only be so he wouldn't have time to film that piece-of-shit show, The Apprentice, anymore. "Santorum ate it. I mean, he said he would watch Leno over Conan O'Brien--what a douche!"

"True that," replies Sherman. "But, at least he was decisive. Buchmann couldn't decide whether she would pick Elvis or Johnny Cash. How will she ever make a decision when it comes to something serious...like what to wear to the White House Corespondents' Dinner?"

"I know, right!" I holler, completely forgetting my character. I am not very good at this. "And what's with Newt Gingrich? He's such a poser. All that nonesense about the Space program, and to cap it all off, he would choose American Idol over Dancing with the Stars? Not since Paula Abdul, Snooty Newty. Not since Paula."

The bear just stares at me. I think he is beginning to realize just how wittless I am.
"Now, getting back to my question," he says, shaking his head.

"Oh, right," I stumble, trying to remember which tea-bagger, I mean, tea-partier, I was pretending to be. "Let's just run them up to Canada--they can be happy there and we won't have to deal with them."

"Right. I feel sorry for you," the bear says, shaking his head. "And the final question is for you Mr. Herman Cain, when you said you would not be comfortable with a Muslim in your administration because you have peaceful Muslims and militant Muslims, do you think there are not militant Christians, or, even, militant bears?"

Trying to recall what this candidate said, I reply, "No, you are restating something that I did not say."

"That doesn't make any sense," says Sherman. It didn't when Cain said it and it doesn't now.

I role my eyes. "Sherman, this is so stupid. Nothing any of these douche-bags said made any sense."

"You're right," he says, squeezing my hand in his paw. "None of them is Sigmund Freud."

"Sigmund Freud?"

"Sigmund Freud said 'love and work are the cornerstones of our human-ness,'" Sherman reminds me. I go to remind him that he is not human, but instead, I curl up into his arms. I love him. Even if he is something that that grade-A bitch Michele Bachmann would drive a pitch-form through or Sarah Palin would try and shoot from the sky-Gotcha style.

I notice a newt crawling across the blanket of our sleeping bag until Richard Hatch charges it. Ending it's reign of terror. Richard, like myself, had confused the newt for Newt Gingrich.

"Good job Richard Hatch. Your cheque is in the mail. And good night Sherman."

"Good night."

PS-I might have gone to bed without the fucking honey, but I am with Cain on the deep-dish pizza. Thin crust is for suckers.