Ursa major hottie
Good news, readers. I’ve developed a crush on someone.
Bad news bears, readers. By someone I meant something.
It’s doubtful that Alexandria, by sending me a link to The New York Times article titled “Death Bear Will See You Now,” meant to trigger my most recent episode of unrequited pining. Her intention likely was to kindly inform me of my post-breakup options. Little does she know that I’m woefully incapable of snaring someone long enough to have our connection inevitably unravel like a toilet paper roll-turned-cat toy; it’s been nine months since I successfully hoodwinked a fellow human into committing to a second date with me. The only second dates I have these days are with bags of freeze-dried fruit. I just got home from seeing a performance of “The Lion King” at the Opera House. And yes, I went alone. And yes, thank you very much, it is a musical about … big cats. What’s your point?
But now I’ve seen the error of my ways. The problem is that I’ve been too picky, too selective, too limited in my search. In broadening my horizons and taking jungle fever to a literal level, I’m pleased to announce I’ve come face-to-face, or maybe face-to-creepy-Vaderesque-synthetic-snout is more accurate, with the ursine of my affection: Death Bear. When summoned via text message, Death Bear comes free of charge to the dwellings of Brooklyn’s brokenhearted to rid them of painful reminders of their past, hauling away love letters and mementos in a dark duffel bag to his cave.
I’ve always had a thing for folks in uniform. And D.B., as I’ve taken to affectionately calling him, is no exception. The all-black garb a la Johnny Cash and clunky bear mask only make him more attractive to me. And if he’s anything like Yogi and Boo-Boo, D.B. probably loves picnics, and I love to eat, so this match was clearly written in the stars.
I have the perfect bait to lure D.B. to Boston: the absolute worst gift ever given to anyone under the guise of dating in the history of ever. The last time I saw my ex Marie, we were belatedly celebrating my 29th birthday. She hadn’t yet morphed into my hater, but you’d never know it from that night. She stubbornly insisted we return to the Thai restaurant where she once accused me of attacking her with my words, and history, shockingly enough, repeated itself. We were seated at the same table. We ordered the same appetizer and entrees. And she picked a fight with me during dinner – my birthday dinner. By the time the waiter had brought us the check, I knew we were over. Really over.
As I was saying my hope-we-can-be-friends-and-please-resist-the-urge-to-stalk-me speech – a lot of good that did – she pulled two items from her backpack, then ordered me to leave the room so she could wrap them. Moments later, she beckoned me back asking to borrow scissors. And tape. And wrapping paper. So, so, so, so over. Eventually, at her behest, I begrudgingly uncovered a plush red lobster and a turd-colored Life is Crap T-shirt with a cartoon drawing of a stick figure named Dr. Ben Dover snapping on a white glove in preparation to probe the anus of a stick-figure patient with his ass in the air on an exam table. “I got the same one for myself!” she chirped. My mouth muttered, “Thank you,” but my mind screamed ARE YOU FUCKING INSANE?!?!? The answer, I soon would learn, was a resounding yes, yes she was.
The lobster – Marie claimed it reminded her of our weekend in Maine – has since relocated to Cleveland, where it has become a favorite chew toy of Layla, my mom’s standard poodle. Despite numerous attempts, I’ve been unable to pawn off the shirt, and frankly, I’m too embarrassed by its blatant crassness to donate it to a shelter, especially now that all of the homeless souls in the city know that my cats drink bottled water. So five months later, it’s still crumpled and collecting cat hair atop my dresser, serving as a constant reminder of my glaring lapse in judgment.
Sometimes, I admit, seeing that shirt is too much to bear, which is precisely why I am worthy of at least one date with Death Bear. I have earned it. He’s now booking appointments for April, and therefore we – and by “we” I mean you – must hound him until he agrees to commute to Cambridge to go out with me. It probably couldn’t hurt to mention that I put out. I’m not really sure how bears get it on, but I know how gay bears do it, so that’s a start. I don’t have anything to lose, except, well, that Life is Crap shirt. What with the lions, and now the bear, I’m one or two tigers away from an oh my. And, now that I think of it, Marie was nearly 10 years older than me and pushing 40. Does that make her a cougar?