Bragging Rights

You might be surprised to learn that my parents are not jumping off the rooftop singing my praises these days. I don’t know why. I have a loving partner. I am ‘with child’. I own my own home. Life looks pretty good on paper.

Oh, wait. That loving partner is a big black bear named Sherman. That child is a female cat named Richard Hatch (because she bitches and doesn’t pay taxes). And that home—it’s a big cavern that sits on a mountain-top in the middle of the forest my car broke-down in front of. It still feels pretty damn good, but it looks a little better on papers, is all I’m saying.

“Your parents should be proud,” fawns Sherman, my domestic partner. Although, I don’t know how accurate the term domestic is, considering we live in the bush. However, unlike Miss Richard, when I file my taxes, it is as a couple. “What’s not to love about you?”

Sherman really is sweet. That nun that keeps calling him the spawn of Satan has really missed the mark. If anyone deserves that title, it is my grandmother, and even her deal with the devil has recently timed out. So, it would really be nice for Sister Sylvia to stop throwing rotten eggs into the entrance of our cave.

“I know you love me, Sherman,” I sigh, taking his head in my hands and kissing him gently on the nose. “But, my parents think I am something of a hot mess.”

I feel bad complaining about my parents considering we just got back from visiting Sherman’s parents. The problem wasn’t that they live far, or even their tempestuous nature, but the fact that they are in prison. Well, bear prison. This would be the zoo.

To be honest, I was kind of excited to go and see them because I can’t recall ever having been to a zoo before. My parents were lazy and so we tended to vacation at The Holiday Inn—swimming pool, sauna and pay-per-view, what what!—so even though I knew this was supposed to be a difficult venture, I admit that I was looking forward to it.

“Now, just let me do the talking,” Sherman had counselled me, as though I were going up to testify in his defense in some court hearing and was bound to fuck things up. “I haven’t told my parents about us yet.” This probably should have bothered me more than it did, but Sherman had purchased me a chai latte and it is my weakness. Well, that and big black bears that take care of me, so really, how was I going to get mad at someone currently shooting two-for-two.

“Whatever,” I said. “I’m going to go look at the giraffes. Take your time.” I think he grimaced at the casual nature I was taking with this whole scenario, but I knew he was stressed about it, and I really didn’t want to add to that. And by add to it, I mean deal with it. Sherman is the one with his head on his shoulders in this relationship. I, on the other hand, am not good in tense situations. “Call me when you think it’s a good time.”

I walked off to ‘see the giraffes’ which was code for ‘find the cotton candy’, which is all I really wanted to do. I mean, I live in the forest and am surrounded by wildlife, why would I want to come and see all of the same stuff locked up in cages. It would be like owning a private pool and paying to go and swim in a public one that people can urinate in. Obviously this is just stupid. And gross.

By the time I heard Sherman’s laborious roar—the same one he uses when I’ve been watching Hell’s Kitchen for too long—I had almost chowed down on a full stick of the sugary-goodness. I probably would have gotten rid of all of the evidence, but I had stumbled upon the nacho stand first. I idled over to his parents’ cell in a veritable sugar-coma.

“Hi Mom!” I squealed. Ever since I had gotten drunk at a karaoke bar and woken up next to a biker with a mullet the size of my husband’s bear-paw I had sworn off both alcohol and sugar. Clearly my tolerance had deteriorated and the cotton candy was taking its toll on me. ‘Mom’ was pissed.

“Roarrrrrrrrrrr!” Gina growled. I can’t blame her. I would be pretty pissed if I was stuck in a zoo and my son was dating someone super-cool like me too.

“Wow Gina!” I said, doubling back. “Watch it with that breathe. Floss much?”

Clearly this was not the right introduction. In retrospect, a cautious hello would have probably been better. But, then again, I have never been one for small talk.

“Mom, I’d like to introduce you to my live-in-lover,” Sherman said, wrapping his arms around my shoulders in a full-embrace. “This is Scott.”

I could see why Gina wouldn’t necessarily be full-on impressed with me, but there was no reason for her to do what she did next. She tried to climb over the fence and attack me. When this failed, she started cleaning herself.

“Oh, how disgusting,” I said, before realizing that I am really no one to judge this sort of behaviour. So, to make Gina feel a little more at home, I began grooming myself as well. This seemed to make her relax—at least enough to relieve herself in front of me. Then she seemed to get bored and froliced off toward the man with the fish.

“That’s mom,” smiled Sherman. “She is kind of a hobgoblin, but I love her.”

“So do I!” I over-embellished. “The bitch has spunk! She kind of reminds me of Tonya Harding. You know, in all the good ways.”

Then Sherman’s father, Teddy, wandered up to us.

“Hi dad,” Sherman smiled, pushing his head up against the cage and allowing his father to give him a big lick up side the face. “Daddy!”

“Oh, get a room would you!” I gushed, trying to make them feel like they were a big deal.  They both smiled. It’s pretty safe to say that Sherman has gotten all of his maternal instincts from his father, and not from the mean lady that is now biting the poor zoo-keeper who is trying to feed her.

Then I stuck my head up to the side of the cage and let Teddy lick it too. “Oh, get a room would you!” Sherman hollered, all the while smiling.

So, like I was saying, I feel bad complaining about my own parents when Sherman’s are in lock-down, but at least his are the co-presidents of Sherman’s Biggest Fans Club. “Well, your drag-queen father is a pretty big supporter of yours,” Sherman smiles, meekly.

“Yeah, right,” I say, rolling my eyes. It’s not that my drag-queen father isn’t a supporter, but he is off being a Cher-impersonator most of the time. The fact that I never joined him as Lady Gaga or Britney Spears really gets his chops. “He likes anyone who brings him glitter.”

“Just because you dropped out of law school doesn’t mean your parents aren’t proud of you,” Sherman says, trying to console me. “You’ve done a lot of other really neat things I’m sure they’re impressed by.”

“Like what?” I pout. “Getting my piece-of-shit Hyundai stuck in the middle of the forest?”

“No, like the year you spent teaching art in Nunavut.”

“Right,” I say, rolling my eyes again. “All of my students were better than me.”

‘Well, isn’t that the mark of a good teacher?”

“I guess,” I deliberate. “What else do you got?”

“What about the summer you spent in Ethiopia working with trauma victims.”

“I guess that was one of my finer moments,” I agree. “But, I can’t help thinking my parents think I’m a failure. Partly because I’m a law school drop-out and partly because I can’t impersonate Lady Gaga, but also because they don’t approve of our love the way Gina and Teddy do. It’s not their fault. It’s the world they were raised in. It isn’t as accepting as the forest.”

“Well, that’s tough,” smiles Sherman. “But, it could be a lot worse.”

“It could. You’re right,” I smile. “I could be that skanky little skunk that keeps trying to seduce you. At least I have the one I love, and, for whatever reason, you seem to love me too. Why is that again?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” Sherman sighs in resignation. “Just do.”

“And don’t get me wrong. I am so grateful that I found you, because I never thought I would. I just hate that they think I’m a failure.”

“Why do you think they wanted you to be a lawyer…or Lady Gaga?” Sherman asks.

“I don’t know,” I say, scratching my head. “So they can brag to their friends?”

“Right, but…”

“But they don’t have any friends…?”

“No,” Sherman screams in exasperation. “They just need to know there are other things to brag about when it comes to you.”

“Like what?” I ask, unbelievingly.

“Like that you follow your heart, even when it takes you down paths that the world you grew up in told you you weren’t allowed to venture down. Like that you found the love of your life and, in spite of a world that told you to hate yourself, you knew enough to not only love yourself but to love me too.”

I smile at this. It is totally true.

“Like how you make me smile and laugh every day. Like how the world of the person you love the most is made complete because of you. Like how you, in spite of all your flaws, are perfect in my eyes and unconditional in your love for those around you.”

I have to say, I am touched. I’m bound to get another chai latte out of this too.

“If your parents can’t be proud of that, then we’ll just have to spend all of our holidays at the zoo.”

“Well, they do make a mean cotton candy,” I smile. "And it's way better than The Holiday Inn."

“True that,” says Sherman. “Besides, if you hadn’t failed at all that other stuff, you never would have had the chance to succeed at making me happy, and you are the only one who’s ever been able to do that.”

That’s touching. Not enough for me to hug his beastly, iron-wielding, mother the next time we go to the zoo, but certainly enough for me to brag about him the next time I go to cheer-on my drag-queen father during his Cher-impersonation-tour.

I’m beginning to think that this life is definitely something worth bragging about.

My Date with the Fourth Face of God

After getting back from my ten year reunion, which doubled as my coming out party—after I decided to bring Sherman, the big black bear I have been boarding with in the forest ever since my car broke down and I was too cheap to fix it—I was pretty wiped out. Unfortunately, the problem with dating a big black bear that lives in the forest is, he is probably going to hibernate in the near future.

“You can sleep with me,” Sherman smiles, as he hands me the chai tea latte he has whipped me up from scratch. He does this every morning. I think he really does love me, which makes the thought of losing him all the harder.

“Thanks Martha,” I smile. I am beginning to suspect that he knows me better than I know myself. “I wish I could just snuggle into you and camp out for the winter. Unfortunately, I like to think of myself as an award-winning journalist. I really should be working.”

“I like to think of myself as She-Rah, Princess of Power, but it doesn’t make it true,” Sherman replies. “Besides, I don’t think employee-of-the-month at Staples would qualify you for that title.”

 To be fair, my journalistic career has been in a bit of a slump lately, and by that I mean I haven’t been published in over a year. Even that was writing for a trashy tabloid magazine…on the internet.

“That might be true. And I mean might. But, someone still needs to feed Ms. Richard Hatch while you are in your multiple-REM-season,” is the best that I can come up with. Ms. Richard Hatch is our female cat. She was named after the first winner of the legitimate award winning show, Survivor, because, like her name-sake, she likes to bitch at people from trees and refuses to wear clothing. “But, you are right. I am kind of a failure.”

Sherman looks at me quizzically. We usually rip on each other. It is one of the things that make me think this might actually be a stable relationship with legs. But, there is something about losing him for four months that makes me sad and vulnerable. He is obviously confused that I am taking it personally. He comes over to me, picks me up and sits me on his lap—nose-to-nose.

“You listen here…” he starts into me with more authority than he usually boasts. Maybe this is She-Rah talking.

“Oh, Sherman, your breath!” I moan. He ignores this.

“You are not a failure. Sure, so you didn’t quite make it through law school and you don’t exactly have a job at the moment, but big deal.”

“Big deal?”

“Yes. Big. Fucking. Deal,” Sherman continues. He is so hot when he gets riled up and protective of me. Like when his sister lumbers into our cave and tries to eat me. She is a real-time cougar. “The only thing worth finding on this planet is love. If you are happy and healthy and can bring those things to another human being, then you are a success story. One of the few true winners.”

“Like Charlie Sheen?” I tease.

“No,” Sherman says, hugging me. “It makes you a real winner.”

“Oh, so more like Lisa Lampanelli.”

“Who?”

“Never mind.” But seriously, Sherman should know who Lisa Lampanelli is. I’ll have to put it on his play list for hibernation season.

“Anyway,” Sherman continues, trying to pull the moment back to something real. “You make me happier than anyone ever has.” I find this statement to be suspect. Sherman is obviously a catch and I am sure he has had hordes of traulups trolling through this pimped-out cave.

“You probably say that to all the blokes who come through here,” I chuckle. I don’t do well with commitment.

“I love you and hope you never leave me.”

“So, what does that mean?” I ask. “Do you want me to deactivate my account on Match.com?”

Sherman just stares at me.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” I say, pulling out my BlackBerry. Not like I ever used it anyway. For all the pretty people they have on those piece-of-shit commercials promising true love, the only match I ever had on there was a 58 year old lesbian who asked how I felt about leather—I am all for it, but not on either of us. “Okay, it’s done.”

“I want more than a deleted account on Match.com,” laments She-Rah. “I want the fairy tale.”

“You’re right, this is the fairy tale Julia Roberts,” I groan. “Man meets bear. Man falls in love with bear. Bear leaves man to sleep for four months. I am shocked that Paramount hasn’t optioned it yet.”

“This is my fairy tale,” smiles Sherman. “You are obnoxious and annoying and I am completely in love with you for some reason.

“Do you have the plague?”

“No, I checked,” he laughs. “I think this is for real-z. I mean, I have met your friends and everyone from your hometown. You’ve met my sister.”

“She tried to eat me!” I scream.

“Yeah, but I saved you,” he says, oh-so-sweetly. Maybe this is the Pretty Woman script coming to life. “All that’s left is for us to meet each other’s parents.”

He is serious if he wants to meet my parents. They aren’t exactly the dream that I am. “If you want to meet a couple of back-home lesbians I am not going to stop you, but it’s not going to be a party.”

I imagine Sherman’s parents are both brilliant, enchanting beacons of encouragement. Look what they got to work with as a minion. That’s right, if he sleeps with me, he’s got a little minion in him. But, he probably never gave them any trouble. Sherman’s parents never had to deal with his parole officer—who is invited to more family functions than I am I might add. And Sherman’s parents never had to deal with their son telling them he’s a vegetarian that doesn’t believe in their god. No, Sherman’s parents had it easy and they are probably perfect.

“My parents are in jail, so we’ll have to go up on a weekend,” he sighs.

“No wonder your sister is such a mess,” I say, before kissing him. Secretly I love that his family is fucked-up too though. It’s sad, but it’s true. I also love that his sister thinks she is a Power Ranger. I mean, how 1990s. Now, that’s sad.

As I begin to think about the ramifications of meeting Sherman’s parents more, I wonder about their thoughts on god. I also realize I don’t really know Sherman’s. He did compare himself to She-Rah, so it’s probably not a man, but I should really know this about the man who I am going to go to jail for—even if it is just to visit his parents, who, as it turns out, are serving time for not paying taxes on their honey. Not cool. Not cool at all.

“What do you think about God?” I blurt out.

Sherman thinks for a minute. “I think God is probably four people, really. They would have to be famous—God doesn’t seem to like anonymity.”

 “Yeah, the whole love no one else before me rule is kind of a give-away. I mean, seriously, open the freezer and chill the fuck out dude. No one likes a god-complex.” Sherman just raises an eyebrow to this.

“So, we’ll go with Oprah, Brad Pitt, Will Smith and Mon’ique,” he continues. “But, mostly Mon’ique. I wouldn’t have thought actors either, but if all the world’s a stage, then being an actor would be a clever disguise.”

“God would be smart…but not too smart,” I conceded. “She did invent Republicans and slavery, so she is definitely not a genius.”

“I think Martha Stewart could be the devil. She’d make a good one,” Sherman says. “Like in Paradise Lost, she is sympathetic even though she is villainous. Kind of a happy-go-lucky Lucifer.” Ironically, our cat, Richard Hatch, chooses this moment to claw her way up the side of the bed and hop onto Sherman’s belly. She then gives a war-like cry.  “I believe it is feeding time,” Sherman chuckles as he rolls out of bed and fetches her a ripe apple.

She might not be subtle, but Richard Hatch is pretty crafty. She always has been. I wasn’t really looking to pick up a cat to trapes around the forest with me but when I saw her I simply couldn’t resist. I was driving up the highway when she darted out into the street with three staff members from the local pet shelter chasing after her with a butterfly net and a can of tuna.

She was obviously trying to commit suicide I thought, but her belly disproportionately dragged on the ground and I cannot live without that sight in my life. So, I skidded Elvira (my dilapidated Hyundai) to a halt, opened my passage door and watched Ms. Richard Hatch leap into my life.

“Kind of sounds like the rabid bunny from the Holy Grails movies,” Sherman had laughed the first time I told him the story.

“I kind of think they stole that from us,” I said, staring down at my little doppelganger.  It was only after calling the shelter to get Richard’s inoculation records that I realized she had opened her own cage before hopping down, scurrying to the front door and convincing a renegade huskie to help her escape to freedom.

“Do you think Richard Hatch might be one of the gods?” I ask Sherman, hopefully.  I know Sherman doesn’t know these things any more than I do, but there is something reassuring in his statements. It might not be that the things are right or proof of anything more than that his support comes from love. Maybe that’s the only real truth we can ever touch—that the people we need love us so unconditionally that they are willing to protect us. That they are willing to move mountains to make this world an okay place to be.

“Well, of course Ms. Richard Hatch is one of the faces of god,” smiles Sherman in that sweetness that I far-to-often confuse with innocence. “She brought us together.”

“How so?”

“You stopped to pick her up on the side of the road.”

“Yes, but not here.”

“No,” affirms Sherman, “but if you hadn’t stopped to rescue Richard from the animal shelter, you would have driven by this forest long before your car broke down.”

I wonder what my life would have looked like if I had made it to the next forest before me and Richard had gotten stuck. Would there have been a lovely animal to help take care of us there too? Or, would something have eaten us whole? Maybe I would have gotten bored meandering through the wilderness or my IPOD would have died and I would have gone back to law school. “You just never know.”

“Roar…” Richard trails off, leaping from Sherman to me.

“Okay, okay,” I laugh, as Richard licks my face with her old-lady-cat tongue. “You knew all along. I get it! Maybe you are one of the faces of god…or the face of Mumra.”

The truth is, I’ve been lucky enough to see several faces of god in this lifetime. One of them probably is Ms. Richard Hatch. That wouldn’t be so bad. But, another one is definitely Sherman. I mean, if you are really set on praying to anyone, why wouldn’t it be the one person who protects you when you are at your lowest? How could it be anyone other than the one who believes in you when the rest of the world has given up? The one whose gentle presence and grizzly voice put your heart into a flutter and your mind at peace simultaneously.

“I don’t think it’s Mon’ique after all,” I say, curling up into Sherman’s lap. It’s so fucking cozy.

“Elvira, Mistress of the Dark?” Sherman asks.

“Nah,” I smile, rubbing his hairy belly. “Too much of a fame-whore.”

“Obama?”

“Nope.” But, of course, he’ll never get it. He’ll never know it’s him. The one I don’t pray to out of fear or come back to out of pity. The one whose life redefines my own every day. The one I feel so comfortable with I can fart in front of. Now, that is love.

“It’s you, my big black bear.” And that is when I let one rip.

“That’s so gross,” screams Sherman.

You know what? It is. But, I know he won’t love me any less for the reality behind the glossy illusion I never bothered to put up for him. That is more than love. That is the fourth face of god and it’s why I’ll probably introduce Sherman to my lesbian mothers next weekend.

Ten Years in Training

It is hard to believe that I graduated high school at all. It is almost unfathomable that I did so ten years ago. “What the fuck have we done with our lives?” my friend Bernadette, shrieks into the phone after receiving her 10 years and counting invitation in the mail. It is for situations like these that I am thankful for the vibrate and ignore features on my walkie-talkie, but the clever Bernadette called from an unregistered number. Hoping it was David Salmone calling to interview me and Sherman, the black bear I live in the woods with, I had answered.

Obviously I hadn’t done a ton. Unless sweeping pinecones out of the cave I have trained the local skunk to stop peeing in has been up-graded to PhD research. “I don’t know about you Bernadette, but I have no interest in going to our high school reunion.”

“Oh, boo-hoo for you,” Bernadette cries over the phone. “Poor Scott. Found the bear of his dreams and lives the life of Riley in the forest like a better-looking David Suzuki.”

Ever since I met up with some of my old friends at my friend, Darlene’s, wedding; these old acquaintances have decided to take a greater interest in my life. They think it is exotic the way most people think mud-huts built with feces in southern Kenya are exotic. Just because something is different doesn’t necessarily mean it is romantic though. It just means you are boring.

“Plus, you promised to introduce everyone to Sherman,” Bernadette prods. “Everyone will want to meet him.”

“No, Bernadette. Everyone will not want to meet him. Everyone will want to point-out to Sherman all the ways that he is too good for me,” I respond.

“Is he too good for you?”

“Yes!” I scream. “Very much so and I have worked really hard to trick him into loving me in spite of that fact. I don’t want all that work to go to waste.”

“Well, that’s what families do,” Bernadette says. “Plus, it will be fun.”

Fun things never need to be prefaced with the promise of their being fun. Sherman has never once had to say let’s go to bed…it will be fun or let’s skip book club…it will be fun. Liars lie about boring things by promising stupid people that they will be fun. I know—I pull this all the time with my drag-queen father.

“Besides, you like people from high school.”

“No, Bernadette. You like people from high school. I was nice to people in high school. There’s a big difference.”

But then I look over at my Sherman. He had been bothered that I hadn’t brought him to my family reunion and although he hadn’t cared about coming to a wedding overlooking the Niagara Falls, I realized it was an incredibly lonely experience without him. If this relationship was really going to be more than a summer fling, it was time for me to make an investment. Throwing Sherman to the vultures of my past seems like the easiest way for me to do that in a short period of time. If nothing else, I am lazy. “Fine, Bernadette. You win. Sherman and I will pick you up on the way. Pack honey.”

On the long drive to Hillbilly-Ville, Bernadette thought it would be a good idea to regale me with tidbits of information. “You know, so we’ll have something to talk about at the party.” I suspect Bernadette has much higher expectations of this event than I do. Considering I am looking forward to December 22, 2012 more, that isn’t saying much though.

“I don’t know about you, Bernadette, but I live in the bush with a black bear who is smarter than me and who I am also introducing to people tonight. I think that’s a pretty good conversation-starter.”

“Just ignore him, Bernadette,” Sherman says, in his subdued, smoky voice. “I am all ears.”

“Suck up,” I mumble.

“What was that?” scowls Sherman.

“Nothing.”

“It says here that of the 496 criminals placed in the top ten on the Most Wanted list since its inception in March, 1950, 450 have been caught. That’s a 96 per cent rate,” Bernadette says. Bernadette, like Sherman, is obviously into higher-education. That makes them both the type of people that shine at high school reunions. People that drop life-bombs about dating man-bears don’t tend to fair quite as well.

“I wonder what the rate of capture is for those who are number eleven on the list?” asks Sherman. Like I said, they are both Mensa-smart. The only Mensa I was ever associated with was my drag-queen father’s dog. And her nick-name is Ironic.

“Probably eight per cent,” I say, trying to act involved. “He probably sits there at the weekly poker game and heckles the top ten. PS-Bernadette, I love the Enquirer. I am a huge fan of the investigative series documenting the Bat Boy.”

That is a true story too. My grandfather used to collect Enquirer back-issues and bring them down to me. Six months’ worth of the Bat Boy in one sitting: it’s a little thing called heaven.
Both Bernadette and Sherman glare at me. “I only have this subscription because I won it in a charity raffle at an event I was being honoured at for my work with blind and underprivileged youth,” says Bernadette.

“That sounds like nepotism,” I suggest.

“That is not the correct use of that word,” laughs Bernadette as she gives Sherman a knowing wink because they both have a handle on what is my first language and their second. A similar instance once happened to me while I was trying to give directions to an elderly Algerian woman in the grocery store. She asked me if English was my second language and when I told her it was my only language she shook her head in exasperation and walked away. “Really, Scott. I thought you were a journalist.”

“Whatever,” I say. “I didn’t even want to come to this shit-show. Richard Hatch will be lonely without cuddle-time.”

“Our cat will be fine,” smiles Sherman. “Your drag-queen father will take good care of her.”

“No he won’t,” I whine. “Richard is scared of their pet turkey, Daphney. She will hide under the fire-place the whole time.”

Sherman motions to his eyes as though a tear is falling and Bernadette starts playing an imaginary air fiddle. “Really?” I ask. “And I am the one here without graduate credentials.”

Just then I speed up to pass someone I assume is geriatric but turns out to be my good friend Giselle. I don’t know why she is going to this event since she is an over-sized lady of the night who was 32 when I was seven, but she will be a distraction from me and my bear so I honk in salutation. She flips me off and reverse-passes me: just barely missing an on-coming eighteen-wheeler.

“Why the fuck would she do that?” I ask. “She didn’t know that truck was there.”

“That’s what makes it a game,” says Bernadette. “It’s like that Russian game with the revolver.”

“You mean Russian Roulette?” I ask.

“I know what it is called,” she says. “I was throwing you a bone.”

When we get to Shit-Show High, it is even worse than I remember it. That isn’t a shocker though. I was nineteen before I graduated and rarely showed up sober to my last semester of class. This was probably a premonition of the less than stellar decisions I would go on to make over the next decade, but that’s just hindsight and tequila talking.

“Holy shit balls!” screams Jake. “It’s Scott and Bernadette. What the fuck is going on?”

“Apparently more than you, considering you are on your third rum and coke and it is only 7:30,” I bitch.

Jake ignores me. He always did. “Who the fuck is this?” his says, hugging Sherman.

“This is Sherman,” I smile. “He is my lover.”

I enjoy how the words sound coming out of my mouth.

“Nice fucking catch, Scott,” hollers Jake. He is clearly inebriated, but it is a way better reaction than I have ever garnered on my own and it brings a smile to Sherman’s face. Plus, people discussing the foxy-nature of my burly lover means less time they will commit to discussing my lack of career or upper-body strength. Especially when they get a whiff of my friend, Franklin’s, combination bald spot and pregnancy bump. “How did you bitches meet?”

“I’ve been looking for Scott my whole life,” smiles Sherman. “Then he just stumbled into my world and changed it forever.” It sounds so romantic coming from Sherman’s lips. So prodigious…I think.

“So, he was unemployed and squatting in your cave when you kindly took pity on him?” Jake surmises.

“Something like that,” Sherman laughs. I go to hit him, but then I see his face. It is beaming with pride. It’s the kind of thing that would make me want to throw-up if I saw a stranger doing it, but since it is about me, it couldn’t make me happier.

“And what about you Jake?” I ask. “You still selling your blood for lunch money?”

“No. I married this cougar a few weeks ago and now I don’t know what to do with all my money.” Just then I look across the room and see a glow on Giselle’s face similar to that of Sherman’s. “Couldn’t be happier.”

“Hmm,” I smile. “Sometimes shit just works out. Although, maybe not.”

“What do you mean?” asks Jake.

“Giselle has the Gonge.”

“That actually explains a lot man,” Jake smiles, awkwardly.

The rest of the night was fairly blaze. There was an hour-long award ceremony, but I didn’t win anything. Then there was the traditional meet-and-greet, but I let Sherman do most of the talking because he is better with that sort of thing. He is turning out to be something of a people-person. Then we hit the dance-floor.

“Finally!” I shout. “Can I get a what-what?!”

Everyone stares at me like I have just torn my Velcro-pants off and pissed on somebody’s leg. That was a potential at the beginning of the night, but it’s more of a finishing move and the night is still young. This was the reaction I was afraid of though. I always thought it would come at the expense of my love for Sherman, but the fact that it has come at my unique dancing skills is surprisingly no-less sad. It is lonely being singled-out in embarrassment. Even for a self-confident trail-blazer like myself.

But then my hero comes to my rescue.

“What-what!” hollers Sherman, as he takes my hand and we start to move to the music of the night.

 In the short time of two hours, Sherman has built himself a legion of fans from the inbreeding capital of the world. The “what-what’s” fill the room as the hill-billies of my past take their lead from the motions of me and my prince charming.

The changes I have seen in the short-course of a decade are impressive.

 It is something I never could have imagined ten years ago.

You Fart Too, Bitch!

I am now secure in the realization that Sherman is not going anywhere. Nowhere except for further into our cave to hibernate anyway, since he is a big black bear. Before you go thinking this is not some sort of epic romance, remember that Sherman becomes a real-life ninja when his sister tries to eat me. It has taken a while for me to get there psychologically, but now that I am confident that Sherman is the one, I know I can take another venture out into civilization—human civilization.

It’s pretty good timing too, as one of my childhood friends is getting married this weekend.

“A human friend?” Sherman asks.

“Yes,” I snicker. Sherman isn’t exactly seeing me in my prime. I used to be fairly social. I had plenty of friends—I just didn’t like most of them. Then I found that website, Plenty of Fish, and it changed my world. There really are plenty of fish in the sea. You have ass-hole fish; angel fish with no personality; self-deluded fish and contagious fish. There are so many kinds of fish out there I just became overwhelmed with all my options and ran to the forest, where I found my Romeo, who is neither fish nor fowl, but bear.  “I didn’t swear-off humans until I went to law school.”

“You know what they say,” Sherman says, as he toasts me some birch bark to lather my fresh honey on.

“What do they say?” I ask, hesitantly. I assume he is referring to that often misquoted statement, ‘kill all the lawyers’ which was meant because lawyers were the protectors of truth in William Shakespeare’s day. Now they have a tendency to be seen as the border-patrol into the land of ass-hole-dom, but like fish, lawyers come in many different kinds. I thought Sherman would know all that though, as he is very well read.

“I don’t know,” Sherman says, handing me the honey-coated bark. “I don’t speak human.”

“Lucky you.” Sherman really is the apple of my eye. Or, he would be, if I put  apples in my eye. In mid thought the phone rings. It is the friend from my past. I don’t think weddings usually bring out the best colour in people. This is certainly true with Darlene.

“Why do you have to go all the way to Niagara Falls for this wedding?” I ask. I had read this information on my Facebook e-vite to the wedding and I did not like it. “And why do I have to pay $400 fucking dollars to come and watch you sell yourself to the Italians?”

“Fuck it,” she said.

I figure that had been a fair reaction. This was her big day after-all, and I had known her since we were three weeks old. But, that made my point valid too. I mean, I had spent the better part of two decades watching her sell herself on and off to a lot of shady “gentlemen” and I had never had to front $400 bucks to do it.

“I heard they closed the Pond,” I said despondently. The Pond Motel would have been the obvious first choice for a wedding, just as it had been the place we usually sold ourselves for as little as a happy-meal and a box of wine in those lonely years growing up left of suburbia. You take a right and you end up in hell but take a left and you find yourself at the Pond. It had been accurately named in the sense that ponds tend to be stagnant and so was this motel. Well, unless you are meeting your friend Chlamydia for brunch.

“It’s not at the fucking Pond!” she screamed.

“No. We have established that The Pond is no more. So clearly you went the other way on this one,” I said. “The Pond never saw four hundred dollars.”

“That’s for fucking sure,” she agreed. “Unless it was testing for herpes.” Darlene is a little obnoxious the way Tiger Woods kind-of-sort-of likes to have sex with people that aren’t his wife. This is the only reason I still talk to her. The only reason I am going to this wedding is that while Darlene is a little obnoxious, her family is over-the-moon-ridiculous. They’re the kind of people that speed past you for the sole purpose of mooning you only to realize that you are not their cousin Bob, but both a stranger and an undercover cop who is itching to issue a ticket. This is why I love them.

“Will your aunt Giselle be there?” I ask, hopeful. A lot is riding on Giselle’s presence. She is what Anderson Copper would call “controversial”. I met Giselle when I was in the second grade and Darlene’s cousin, Sophie, used to babysit us. Giselle had just come home from what she only ever referred to as the “night shift”, threw down a stack of twenties and farted.

I couldn’t help but stare. I might have only been six, but I knew this was life-style was something to strive fo in the futurer.

“You fart too, Bitch!” she screamed at me. That’s when I knew I would love drag-queens.

“Yes, she’ll be there,” Darlene coughs through a cigarette. I hung-up the phone on Darlene. There was no time to lose. I needed to see what had happened to Giselle twenty years later.

“Sherman, can you watch Richard Hatched?” I ask with the panicked efficiency of shark-trainer at Marine Land. Richard Hatch is our fat cat. She is super lazy and refuses to wear clothes. She also hogs the remote when Survivor is on television.

“Yes,” Sherman sighs. “Such is the burden of loving you.”

“Oh, I always bring you honey-ed ham home from these things,” I reply, giving him a peck on the nose. “You love it.”

On the drive up to Niagara fucking Falls for a wedding I have little-to-no interest in (mostly because I am a Brazilian soccer fan and the Italians often get in their way) I wonder about what my life might have looked like if I had stayed on that tried-and-true path that Darlene has chosen to walk. She went to college, got a couple of dogs, is getting married and will have kids all y the time she is thirty. Comparatively, I’m a fucking mess who lives in the bush with a bear and a cat named after a quasi-reality-tv-star.

Just when I am beginning to think I took a wrong turn in life, I arrive at the hotel. I check into my room and then go to say hi to Darlene and see what Giselle has been up to all my life.

As I walk into their hotel room—not plural rooms, mind you, they are “bunking down” together—I see Darlene railroading Giselle on a chair. I always suspected they were inbreeding-lesbians, which is obviously the only reason I have kept them in my ever-dwindling circle-of-trust.

Darlene’s brother, Steve, is providing the commentary.

“Why don’t you try and fling me into the falls?!” shrieks Giselle. Who, I am happy to see, has grown to the size of a small bus.

“You break it…you bought it,” hollers Steve.

“I think I’ll fucking pass then,” laughs Darlene, as she grabs another run-and-coke and a cigarette. “Scott, you communist bastard! Do you want a smoke?” she asks, grabbing me in the kind of embrace I usually only accept from Sherman these days.

“No thanks,” I smile. “Do you have any birch bark?”

“What the fuck?” she asks, swivelling on Giselle’s groin. Giselle is now massaging her. I suspect I will cash in on one of these free massages until I catch that twinkle in Giselle’s eye that says “I only do men, asshole!” So I grab a cheese roll and flop-down on the couch beside Steve.

 I suspect I have some explaining to do. This is the trouble with negotiating different worlds. We all see things from our own vantage point, and while the view of the Falls is enjoyable from up here on the 22^nd floor, I have always found my greatest experiences at the end of the hall of floor eight in life. I spent a long time deliberating whether to tell them about my special friend Sherman. But, at the end of the day, he is the one I trust to watch over me and Richard Hatch, so like Darlene and Giselle seem to have, I am going to adopt the fuck-it philosophy of life and bare my soul to them.

“I don’t smoke or eat meat Darlene,” I begin, starting out small. “And I sleep in the forest with big black bear named Sherman. Who I love very much. Can you dig it?”

Giselle knees Darlene off of her lap and strides over to me with an impressive gate. “Good for you, Jerk-Off.” Then she gives me a massage. As Giselle needs deeply into the tightly-wound aggression I apparently have stored in my back the way Sherman stores acorns, Darlene ways in.

“You always were a nomad. Thankfully, that’s what we love about you.”

“That and you have pretty decent pours for someone living in the fucking woods,” chuckles Giselle, between belches. Darlene picks up a large knife to cut herself a piece of wedding cake. “Steve, what the fuck happened to this knife?! It’s all crusty.”

Steve smiles knowingly. “I cut the cheese.”

“Oh, okay,” says Darlene, as she cuts into the cake. Then, a few seconds later her nose turns up in the air, not unlike a well-trained drug dog.

“No, really,” Steve laughs. “I fucking cut the cheese. And I don’t know what was up with that knife.”

“I fucking hate this family!” howls Darlene.

“You aren’t too big for me to slap you old girl,” Giselle shouts to Darlene, as she sparks-up a cigar. “Scott, you really have to bring your bear home for dinner some time. We want to meet him. You know, make sure he’s good enough for you.”

“Thanks G-bird,” I smile, as she hands me the cigar and I take that ceremonial toke that suits such rights-of-passage and acceptance.

That’s the thing about family. The important people in your life each hold a piece of your heart. A different piece to be sure, but, without Darlene or Giselle, I wouldn’t be the same version of me that I am today. They carry my past the way Sherman holds my present in his weathered paws.

As I traipse back out of the wilderness of my youth and into the forest of my young adulthood, I can’t help but smile. I mean fuck it, right? As a brave lesbian prostitute once told me, everybody else farts too, so you may as well own the life you’re living. That’s when I stop to get the honey-ed ham for the big black bear that I love. The one I will force to endure my next public engagement.

Five Drink Minimum

After getting back from the Lukewarm family reunion I was beginning to suspect that I need a hobby. Not one of those mundane hobbies that boring people have, like knitting or playing cards or cow-tipping (a family favourite). No. I live with a bear; I sleep with mullet-wearing roadsters; my father is a real, live, drag-queen. What I’m getting at is that I need to set my sights high.

“I wouldn’t go getting ahead of yourself,” chuckles Sherman, the black bear who has been covering my room and board while I have been on sabbatical—from my non-tenured position at Dunkin’ Donuts. “You aren’t exactly skilled.”

“Thanks, mange,” I spit back. I wasn’t really angry with Sherman though. He is right. I am not what critics would call ‘skilled’ or ‘bright’ for that matter. I am bothered because I know that Sherman is about to leave me. Not forever; but, for the winter. He is a bear and that’s what bears do. This means I am going to have to develop what recruiters define as a ‘skill-set’ at something I can tolerate doing until my by big hairy Sherman unthaws on the other side of the shittiest season ever made. Or, what my grandmother calls “God’s fuck you to Canadians”.

“Maybe I’ll grow a moustache.” I think about this for a minute. I stroke the cool skin under my nose and imagine all of the options. There is the pencil moustache, which would speak to my Machiavellian side, or the unkempt moustache, which would comment on my life in a bush living with a bear.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” suggests Sherman.

“Why not?” I question, insecurely. Will my giant bear-friend with cuddling benefits disown me if I grow a moustache? Maybe he doesn’t like change. Maybe I am one of those hideous people that not even a mother can love. Especially after last week’s Skype-interchange:

Mother: "So, Scott, I read your blog..."

 Scott: "It's mostly fiction..."

Mother: "It must be...I thought you liked my cooking."

Scott: ...awkward silence..."I think I'm losing the connection."

Or, perhaps my Sherman has just lost interest in me altogether. It wouldn’t be the first time. I am a bit of a unique character and it must take a lot of stamina to deal with me on a day-in, day-out basis. Maybe he is two-timing me with that hussy skunk that flirts with him every time we go to book club. Screw this, the possibilities are endless and I’m too lazy to contemplate any other scenarios.

“Okay Sherman, out with it,” I say, tears welling in my eyes. Am I really this emotionally attached? He has kept me warm; consoled me when I have been down and supported my every action and ridiculous dream. He even gets me honey in the morning. Could this be love? Am I realizing it in the same instant I may be losing it?

“Out with what?” he asks.

“If you are done with me,” I huff. “All you have to do is say so. I’ll go. You can have your forest back the way it was last spring.”

Sherman looks over at me bewildered. It has become his usual expression. The same one he donned the first time I tried to make him a meal (I am not his mother). The very one he wore when he tried to introduce me to his sister and I ran screaming like a fourth grader (she was unhinging her jaw to eat me whole…I swear). The one he uses to conceal his desire for me to be just the tiniest bit closer to his intellectual capabilities.

“Scott, I love you,” Sherman says, as he comes to my side. He hugs me. Not tightly—the way his wildebeest sister would have so she could have chewed my left leg like it was a Wendy’s happy-meal—but with that warm affection that tells you this could really be the one. It’s the way someone hugs you when they know the shape of your silhouette better than you do. “I only meant that since you have allergies, a moustache is a really bad idea. It traps dust.”

Oh, so maybe that look of bewilderment has really been one of mysticism this whole time. A sort of trance I put over Sherman.

Then I look down at my sleeve. There is honey all over it. No, the look is probably one of bemused bewilderment. Sherman is probably shocked at how he could love someone as daft as I am. But, then, maybe that is how life works sometimes. We’re never sure what it is that will make us happy until we find it. Sometimes we are too scared to take a chance when we find that thing that will bring us joy and it looks different than we were once trained to believe. In the rare instances that we do, it holds all the possibility of this world though.

Well, unless you are Sherman, and then you are just stuck with a beast like me. It’s what my grandmother calls “a tough break, Sherman”.

“You’re right,” I lament. “No moustache. Maybe I’ll start doing stand-up.”

Just then, Sherman’s sister, Roseanne, lumbers into the entrance of the cave. “I wouldn’t,” she says. “They’d need a five drink minimum to tolerate your bull.”

She has a point. Plus, she really has me schooled when it comes to the moustache.

“Now get in my belly!” she roars.

And that’s when Sherman does it. He steps in front of me. He has my back even in the face of a lumberjack he calls ‘sister’. Ah. Life is good.  This is love. Even if it took a five drink minimum to get us here.

Why I Thank the Drag Queen Gods

As the alarm goes off in my bedroom I cock my head and say what I usually say. “What the fuck Sherman!” I never remember that I am living in the middle of a forest with a big black bear that may or may not even understand English—either way, he gets it better than I do. “Why do those birds need to start at the crack of dawn?!”

“They’re birds Scott. That’s  kind of what they do,” Sherman responds. Sherman is quite possibly the nicest person on the planet. When I found myself unemployable at the beginning of the summer he offered me honey and a place to stay in his cave with a mountain-top view and a wrap-around terrace. Despite my unrelenting bitching, he continues to provide me with food and shelter. Like I said, he is the best. How I lucked into him I will never have a clue.

“You’re right,” I smile.

“Don’t apologize,” Sherman says. “Just try not to be crazy.”

That’s good life advice. Sherman should probably be a judge. I would actually love to see that.

Sherman starts the fire and begins to brew some coffee. “You better get a move-on,” he chuckles. “It’s your family reunion today.”

“Shit!” I stammer. “I forgot about that. That’s the last thing I want to do today.”

“What is the first?” Sherman asks. I get it. I have been in a bit of a rut lately. Who knows, maybe some time with my relations will be the kick-in-the-ass I need to pull my life together. Well, that and the fact that Sherman will be hibernating in a few weeks. Since I am an insomniac, I need to figure out a plan B.

“Bathing would be a change of pace,” Sherman suggests. I should probably take this as an insult, seeing as how it is coming from a bear. But, one of my finer qualities is that I have no shame, so I don’t.

“Nah,” I snicker. “Maybe go for a jog, but that’s about it."

“You make me so proud,” Sherman says, brimming with sarcasm.

“Why thank you Sherman,” I gloat. If he had wanted to prove a point, he really should have said “You make me so un-proud.” Not that I would have cared, but at least he would have said his piece and been done with it. I used to be a family counsellor and am well aware of the fact that suppressed emotions are the down-fall of most relationships. Well, most relationships not involving Angelina Jolie. “Okay, I’m out!”

“See you tonight,” Sherman says. I must say, he looks a little crest-fallen that I will not be spending the day with him.

“You know, the offer still stands,” I say. “You can come with.” I point at myself as though I am a sixteen year old rapper, because I like to think I am cool like that. I ain’t.

“Thanks, but I don’t think your family is prepared to meet me,” Sherman says.

“Oh Eyore.” I walk over and rub his big bear belly. “I’m sorry the world hasn’t caught up to us yet. But, you are far more personable than I am, so at the very least I could definitely see them disowning me and keeping you. And my drag-queen of a father is a big fan of yours.”

“Really?” he questions; his eyes widening.

“Oh yeah,” I smile, curling up into his lap. “My dad is always looking for someone to divert attention from his bald-spot.”

“Well, I think I’ll stay here. I promised Richard Hatch we would go for a walk,” he smiles. Richard Hatch is my female cat. She doesn’t have a million dollars, but she has been to jail. It is one of my favourite characteristics in any cat. “But thanks Scott.”

“No probs. I’ll bring you a treat when I come back.” Sherman loves treats. Who doesn’t, and he certainly didn’t get one shacking up with me.

As I pull my car out of the forest I start thinking about the direction my life has taken. Actually, first I flip-off a family of blue jays for waking me up every morning, but then I start thinking about my life. I might live in a fucking forest with no assets and have my predominant interactions with a black bear who may have lice, but I am really glad I don’t still live in the Ozarks that my family is from.

Growing up, I always thought my father was super cool because he always dressed better than the women in our village. He also had less facial hair. I actually still think of him as pretty rad, but mostly for what he puts up with on a daily basis now. He is considered a hippie solely on the basis of having long-hair. My first job, at the local ice-cream shoppe was spent warding off orders for marijuana.

 “Janet, my drag-queen father doesn’t even smoke pot. I doubt he has some for you.” I would say. When that didn’t work, I shaved some oregano and charged his ‘clients’ market value. I like to consider this my humanitarian period and am still waiting for Nobel to issue my award. But, in the meantime, my father has mellowed considerably.

He is actually a full-fledged lesbian now. After he started balding on top he settled down with a cattle-rancher named Sheba. They recently purchased a couple of Oxen, but forgot to close the gate, so now just own a rather large, and empty, farm. She seems to make him happy though.

As I pull-up to the bush area that my family has rented for their ‘family retreat’ I notice my father. He is easy to pin-point, as he is the only one wearing formal evening wear.

“Holy shit!” I holler, as he hugs me. He seems deceptively taller than me, but that is only because he is wearing platform sneakers.

“It hasn’t been that long, has it?” he asks, as he kisses me on the cheek.

“No. I just never realized how much you look like Serena Williams,” I say, very seriously. Maybe he would have made a good professional tennis player. Not a great one, mind you, but probably a very good one. The kind that would have shaved a set off of Billie Jean King before losing in the third round of Wimbledon. “You wouldn’t have won a set off Martina Navratilova.”

“No doubt,” he agrees. “That bitch was fierce.” My drag-queen father then snaps his fingers. He has adopted this as his signature move ever since I taught him how to do it—last year. Next year we plan on mastering ‘the wink’.

He grabs his keys, heels and handbag and moves gingerly toward the door while humming It’s Raining Men. The Geri Halliwell version—not RuPaul’s. If you asked him, he would tell you that he is not a fan of classics.

He is also wearing yellow. This is a problem.

“I know I didn’t exactly get dressed up this morning,” I say, as I look down at the same worn-sweater I’ve slept in for the last three years: four months of which have been spent snuggling in a cave with Sherman the black bear. “But you need to rethink your wardrobe if you are planning on going out in public.”

He changes into his red evening gown. It’s a bit of a cliché, but it works for him. He has the figure of a coat-hanger. Well, one that has been warped to break into someone’s car. I know what this looks like because I recently paid a man with three thumbs to break into my car after I locked the keys inside. “Let’s go son. It’s party time.”

He accessorizes this statement with jazz-hands.

“Oh, so that’s what my vomit tastes like,” I say, choking down this image. “I wouldn’t exactly call dinner with our in-bred relatives, party time.”

“Well then, let’s go son. It’s time for whatever you’d call it.”

At the end of the evening I say goodbye to all of the extras from Deliverance and kiss my drag-queen father goodnight. Not on the lips mind you. He’s taking his act on a thirty-city tour and I won’t see him until Yom Kippur. “I’ll miss you Old Girl,” I smile, brushing a tear from my cheek. He hands me a ‘kerchief. It’s glitter streams across my face.

“Own it love,” he laughs. Then he snaps those drag-queen fingers once more. As I drive off he seems to disappear like that sugar plum fairy from The Wizard of OZ. Our genetics might not be ideal, but they're ours.

As I idle back into the forest that I seem to call home I see the black bear sitting by a fire. “I made some herbal tea,” he smiles. “I thought you might need it. How was the day?”

“It was alright. I have to say, I am really jealous of that bitch, Tori Spelling, though,” I say, as I unwrap the ham I brought back for him and Richard Hatch to share.

“It went that well, did it? By the way, I didn’t know Tori Spelling would be at your family reunion.”

“She’s never accomplished anything, but her father was some successful producer, so she gets all the breaks. Un-fucking-believable,” I growl, ignoring his point.

“The only thing Tori Spelling ever did was have a producer for a father,” I continue. “She’s so fucking lucky.”

“What are you bitching about,” Sherman responds. “Your father’s a drag-queen with a moderately-successful stage show. That’s way better than having a dad that produced 90210. You lucked out.”

I think about this for a minute. Sherman might be a big black bear that has fish breathe and unintentional dreadlocks, but he also has a point. I am my father’s son. That father just happens to have a propensity for red pleather and fish-net stockings. But heck, neither of us are going to pose for GQ, so what’evs.

“You’re right, Sherman. In the battle between me and Tori Spelling, I definitely came out ahead,” I agree. To put this in context, it’s not like coming in second to Michael Phelps at the Olympics. More like winning a foot-race with John Goodman. Sorry to hear about your luck Ms. Spelling. Plus, I’ve seen Dean act. You didn’t luck out their either sister.

“You should be thankful,” smiles the bear, as he ambles off to find some more honey. As he wobbles into the sunset he mumbles something to himself. “Plus, Tori Spelling looks like a crack-whore. You only look like a regular whore—no crack needed.”

I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but no doubt it was something deeply-philosophical. The kind of thing you’d find in Life of Pie, even if you were drunk. It’s that fucking obvious. This is the man/bear that knows and loves me best, after all. Despite what that dude Leviticus supposedly said, he’s the best thing that ever happened to me. Well, besides that herpes medication my doctor prescribed.

“I thank the drag-queen gods every day,” I say to myself, before realizing that I am talking to myself, again. “Every fucking day.” Then I notice Richard Hatch is sitting there. No, I am not talking to myself. And no, I am not Tori Spelling. Those are both things to be thankful for.

That’s not to say that I don’t thank the drag-queen gods on non-fucking days, but it’s more of a non-traditional, spiritual, sort of thing on days not considered to be over-the-hump.