Love and Other Things I'm Bad At Page 6

  “Well, er, and how is it going, Courtney?” he asked. “Making contact with some alumni you know?”

  “Yes,” I said. But not as much contact as I’d like.

  He said he often dropped by to check on us, since his office was just upstairs (we work in a large basement room). He said he’d like to sit in on my next call, see if he could offer some helpful tips since I’m new at this. Nightmare!

  I changed the subject and told him I wanted to get involved in some campus groups and could he tell me about some? He asked me what my interests were. The whole time I talked, he kept opening the file cabinet beside my desk, then closing it. Very weird guy. Has to have something near him in perpetual motion.

  “We have the nature club, of course,” he said. “And there’s the faculty-student birding society.”

  “Well, I’m not necessarily interested in just watching nature. I’m more interested in saving it,” I said. “Is there anything about, um, I don’t know. Saving the cows?”

  “Why do the cows need to be saved? Or, wait—do you mean in a religious sense?”

  The guy in my neighboring cubicle wheeled over. “I’ve got a suggestion.” His voice sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it at first. Probably I’d overheard him begging for donations, and since he actually got quite a few, maybe he talked more than most.

  “Wittenauer. My favorite fund-raiser! What do you know?” Dean S. asked.

  Wittenauer is the guy who pulls in huge donations seemingly without trying. He started talking about a group he’s in to protest this hormone that is used campuswide. Dean S. looked very embarrassed, then Wittenauer explained it wasn’t a male or female or sex hormone. It’s something in the milk that’s served in the cafeteria, student center, etc. He explained that he was talking about RBGH.

  I couldn’t believe it. “You mean the date rape drug? They put that in the milk here? What sort of place is this, what sort of society—” I was sputtering irately when Wittenauer put his hand on my arm and told me I was confusing RBGH with GHB.

  “No, no. Courtney, is it?” He smiled. “No, they don’t put that in the milk.” Like that wasn’t a mistake anyone could make!

  “RBGH isn’t as bad as GHB,” he said. “I mean, we’re not talking about men drugging drinks with sedatives to get women to sleep with them.”

  Dean Sobransky was so embarrassed he could barely talk. “I’m sure nothing like that goes on here,” he said. “I, have to . . . have to . . . have to check my messages.” He bolted from the room.

  Wittenauer went on to explain that RBGH was something like Repulsive Bovine Growth Hormone. It makes cows produce more milk, which is definitely not a good idea. Anyway, isn’t milk gross enough on its own, without additives? But then additives are in everything, so why am I surprised? “That sounds disgusting,” I said.

  “You should come to the next meeting,” he said. “It’s the RBGH Action Group. We meet on Sunday nights. We’re always looking for more members.”

  Yes! I have found my first group.

  9/7

  Mom called tonight so we could start planning Thanksgiving. Big surprise. She has planned Thanksgiving in early September for as long as I can remember. I told her I couldn’t be in charge of anything this year because it’s going to be hard enough for me to just get there. I played the travel hardship card. So ha! Bryan can bake “all the breads” this year. Which means we’ll see many canned Pillsbury products. Then I asked if she could bring Grant with her, and she said of course.

  So after I talked to her, I called Grant. He was home but said he couldn’t talk long because the guys were waiting for him to go out. I could hear them talking loudly and laughing in the background. Grant kept asking what my weekend plans are. He has a bunch. I don’t.

  “I’m like . . . a loser all of a sudden, Grant,” I said.

  “Come on, Court. You can definitely find parties to go to,” Grant said, laughing. “You and Oregano—”

  “Hey, don’t make fun of her. She’s my best friend here!” I said.

  “So you and Thyme should pick some parties to go to. Okay?” Grant said. “Read your student newspaper. Read every flyer you see. Listen to your campus radio station.”

  He sounded like a public-service announcement. He sounded so smug, him with his roomful of friends, me with my roomful of . . . knickknacks.

  In a way, I’m getting kind of sick of these pep talks. Like Grant knows how to adjust to a new environment and I don’t, or something. Like I’m not evolving. I know more about adjusting than he does. It’s really very insulting. Did he go 1,000 miles from home? I don’t think so.

  I’ll go out and party all weekend. Then I’ll go to that milk meeting. I’ll show him that I can adapt as well as anyone.

  9/8

  Mary Jo asked if I wanted to go shopping this afternoon. Which was really nice of her. She has this old yellow beater pickup truck that her parents are lending her so she can get settled, but she has to return it to them tonight when she goes home for a weekend visit. (Yay! Weekend of solitude in the room! But I won’t really be alone. Baloney. Because I’ll have Mary Jo’s baloney in the fridge to keep me company. Hope it doesn’t spoil over the weekend.)

  So anyway, she invited me to come along to this place called Farm Supply to stock up on stuff like shampoo and crackers. Even though I didn’t need anything for my farm, I thought I should make the effort to be friends. Thinking that she doesn’t like me is really upsetting. Ever since the housing-switch fiasco, we’ve been avoiding each other, except for 9–10 each night, when we both end up here.

  So back to the excursion. (Mary Jo is a very good driver. Said she learned how when she was 10, driving around the farm.) The store was like a giant department store with tons of hardware instead of underwear. This is shopping? I thought, as I wandered past aisles of wrenches and drills and chainsaws. Many industrial cleaning products. Snow throwers. Appliances. Candy. There were some semi-interesting canvas overalls and flannel-lined jeans. That and a ton of bright orange and camouflage clothing under the HUNTER’S PARADISE sign.

  Mary Jo really knew her way around the place. I stayed with her because I was afraid of getting lost. She has some very helpful skills, it turns out. Like figuring out what size picture hangers we need for our room.

  “How far would we have to drive to reach an actual mall?” I asked as we stood in line. There was a special on Twizzlers so I bought 8 or 9 family-size packages, since I didn’t want to leave empty-handed. They looked sort of massive as I watched them go down the conveyor belt. But, oh well, Super Size Me.

  “Hm. To reach any mall?” she asked. “Or a good mall?”

  “Good,” I said. “As in not the lame outlets on the edge of town.”

  “Well, probably about two hours,” Mary Jo said, putting all her horse hairstyling and skin care products on the belt. “Why?”

  WHY? Wasn’t it obvious?

  Emailed Grant after Mary Jo left for the weekend and told him that Mary Jo is a bit weird but basically nice. He emailed back that she seemed nice whenever he talked to her and that I was lucky to have a good roommate. I guess he’s right. Especially if she goes home on random weekends.

  FRIDAY NIGHT . . .

  Do they have to put bar code stickers on pens like this? You can’t pull them off or it leaves a sticky film. But then you have to stare at the bar code as you write. Not very inspiring. Yes, I am just 1 of a billion humans writing in a journal today. Not even the best journal or best writer. A speck, a UPC code.

  Sorry. Tonight wasn’t that bad, really. And I do have the room to myself, so maybe I should be doing something more fun than writing in here about the sorry decline of fountain pens and the increasing depersonalization of our society. (Yes, I’ve been reading too much poli sci.)

  Thyme and I hung out at the student center listening to bad student jazz in the bad student coffeehouse, a section in the center that they’ve roped off and tried to make hip. But it has bad coffee, all of which tastes like hazelnut whether you order hazelnut or not, and bright lighting. I guess it might work in the morning if you were trying to wake up. And liked hazelnut. Maybe.

  But our pain and suffering was all worth it, because we met some girls who told us about a party tomorrow night. It’s at a big house off campus that is known for having great parties. These girls said it’s like considered a failure if the police don’t show up. What? They have parties like that here?

  SATURDAY NIGHT . . . DATE? NO THANK YOU.

  I MEAN I DON’T KNOW.

  Got home about 10 hours ago. 10 minutes I mean. Whatever. Can’t think straight can’t walk straight.

  Party was sooooo fun. Talked with a billion people. Danced. Ate hummus. Yes!

  Some guys wanted to dance with me but I said no. No because I love Grant. The guys from pool table also there. Kept slamming into us and spilling beer on me. Suede coat is ruined but oh well.

  Okay so Thyme is dragging her sleeping bag into the room because MJ “Don’t Call Me MJ!” is away for weekend. While she is gone I called Grant and this is what I said on his machine I think:

  “If you were a pen I’d be the bar code sticker.”

  Couldn’t stop laughing when I hung up. I hope he gets home before his roomie.

  Wait. Why is he not home? It’s middle of the night.

  Oops. Different time zone. I’m waiting an hour then calling him. He has a right to be out as late as me.

  1:10 A.M. Sleepy.

  1:30 A.M. Thyme is putting horse hair products on her face. “Be careful, or you’ll grow a tail,” I said and we are laughing so loud that Krystyne told us to be quiet. Rules against laughing at this dumb place.

  2:10 A.M. Called him again. Told him to call me no matter when he gets in.

  9/10
r />   So far I have spent the morning doing 5 things:

  1. Trying not to puke.

  2. Remembering embarrassing things I did and said last night and cringing and then wanting to puke.

  3. Waiting for Grant to call.

  4. Waiting for ibuprofen to work so this god-awful headache goes away. (Am writing this with one eye closed. Ow.)

  5. Waiting for Thyme to stop telling me what’s wrong with patriarchal society.

  “Hey, I wasn’t even raised by my dad, so why are you lecturing me?” I said, wanting to annoy her so much that she’d just realize I was in pain and didn’t want to chat. Especially not, with feeling so embarrassed over being blown off by my boyfriend and dancing with people I don’t know and discussing the meaning of life and the relation of animals to God in between shouting out song lyrics. But I guess that was sort of sucking up to the patriarchal society in her eyes to even care about a boy (like she doesn’t have a crush on Ben, she only comes in every day to see me at work so she can see him, and she wanted to dance with him last night when he showed up, but he didn’t want to dance, he only wanted to talk to me about the concept of alienation not being so alienating when you’ve had a few beers).

  “Courtney, it goes much, much deeper than you realize,” she said.

  “I know,” I said. “I was just joking.”

  “Well, it’s not something to joke about. Remember, no one is truly free when others are oppressed.”

  She says that about every situation that bothers her. Which is every situation.

  Now she’s examining everything on my dresser for environmental correctness. Maybe having Thyme for a roommate would not be such a good idea.

  “You know, the binge drinking that goes on in today’s college society is just awful,” she said. “We never would have gotten so plowed last night if those guys hadn’t kept filling our glasses with beer. That was so patronizing of them, to just assume we wanted more, like we didn’t know how much we wanted.”

  “Maybe if we hadn’t kept drinking it,” I said. “They wouldn’t have refilled . . . um . . .” Really vivid memories of keg beer were flooding my stomach. If a stomach has memories. Which I think it does.

  LATER THAT SAME DAY. MUCH TOO MUCH LATER, IN MY OPINION . . .

  Grant finally called. Let’s just say that it did not go well. I needed him to tell me he was home visiting his parents and grandmother in Denver and that’s why he wasn’t home at 1 and 2 A.M. That’s what I thought he was going to say. The only explanation. But that wasn’t it.

  He was at a party. He had fun. He went out to breakfast at 2 A.M. He wouldn’t stop talking about how much fun it was.

  “So how was your night?” he asked after he’d finished telling me the details of his late-night donut selection. “You sounded kind of wild. What did you mean about the pen thing?”

  I didn’t know what he was talking about. “You must be talking about someone else’s message,” I said, sounding hopelessly and pathetically jealous. “I wasn’t wild and I never mentioned a pen.” Although as soon as I said that, I remembered.

  “Whatever you say, Court.” Then I heard him yawning. It made me miss him so much that I burst out crying. Why couldn’t I be there to lie around on a Sunday with him?

  Ended up with him spending 10 minutes trying to cheer me up. The whole time I could hear a football game playing in the background. How could he listen to Broncos and console me from darkest depths of depression at the same time? How rude.

  9/11

  Major mistake tonight. Very embarrassing. Did I leave my brain in Colorado?

  I thought I was at the anti-growth-hormones-in-milk meeting. Didn’t see Wittenauer (what is his first name?), but decided he must be running late. Meeting started. A lot of people had been there before, but a lot hadn’t, according to the group leader. So we went around the circle and everyone was supposed to say something about themselves. Knew something was odd when the 6 people before me all stated their sexual preferences. Didn’t understand how that related to dairy products. I didn’t want to state mine because it seemed like I might be the only hetero there, but I did say, “Hi, I’m Courtney, and I think I’m at the wrong meeting.”

  “It’s okay, Courtney,” the group leader said. “Everyone feels shy at first. It’s normal to be uncomfortable, but no one’s going to judge you here.”

  The woman sitting next to me reached over and put her hand on my knee. “We’re all friends, and nothing you say will go beyond this room.”

  “Okay, but um . . . is this about milk?”

  16 blank faces stared at me.

  “I’m supposed to be at a meeting protesting hormonal supplements,” I said.

  The group leader, Jay, cleared his throat. “This is the meeting for Bisexual and Gay Republican Hearts. We try to introduce students who have something in common?”

  Agh! I was at dating club for non-hetero non-

  Democrats! Stupid me got initials confused.

  “You’re not here to infiltrate our group, are you?” one paranoid guy asked.

  “You’re not here to find out our names?” someone else asked.

  “You’re not free on Saturday night, are you?” the girl next to me asked.

  “My sister’s a lesbian,” I said. “But um . . . I don’t know if she votes Republican or Democrat. Excuse me.”

  How embarrassing!

  Sunday nights. Not Monday nights.

  When I told Thyme about it, she said, “Well, of course. I could have told you that.” Then she rattled off every campus group’s meeting time, place, agenda. So why didn’t she tell me that when I mentioned I was dashing off to the meeting? Does she want me to fail? Does she want hormones in milk?

  If I had a photographic memory, I wouldn’t go through life constantly embarrassing myself. I would also be nicer to my friends.

  9/12

  Sitting at BF on my break. It’s raining. I should be studying, but, oh well. Ben is studying and isn’t that enough for both of us? I should also be writing Grant a letter (we decided not to call this week in order to save $$). But I’m not in the mood. Can’t tell him how I blew first attempt to get involved in community.

  Mark seems to be walking a tightrope. Business is slow but instead of cleaning and refilling bins, he is touching up his nails by the register.

  “I don’t know. I don’t like the double coat so much.” He just held out his hand, admiring the nail polish. Jennifer went by, saw him, and told him to check the bagels baking in the back, and not to get any Revlon on them.

  Prediction: Mark will be getting a burned bagel sticker next to his name on the schedule.

  Systems of pluses and minuses she uses is really asinine. Good service = cute little muffin sticker and nickname “muffin” all week. Mark would probably like that.

  LATER. DUDE . . .

  Work deteriorated majorly after I wrote the above.

  Hate this job. Hate how it makes me spell everything wrong.

  “Jennifer?” I asked as I anti-bacterialized the slicer. “Why does bagel have to be spelled wrong in the store names? I mean, it would rhyme even if we spelled it right. It’s a homonym. You know, like um . . . time? And thyme, the herb?”

  She patted me on the shoulder. “I think we know what we’re doing, McCartney.”

  I had a name tag on. “It’s Courtney,” I said.

  “Oh my gosh, what was I thinking?” Jennifer laughed. “You remind me of this girl who used to work here, last year. Sorry,” she said in this incredibly phony voice.

  Later on, Ben told me that McCartney was a really good friend of his. But she hated working at BF and she hated CF and she and Jennifer got into a huge fight. She quit and after freshman year she transferred to another school.

  “So do I remind you of McCartney? And were her parents Beatles freaks? I mean, did she have a brother named Lennon or Ringo?” I asked.

  Ben laughed. “Harrison and Lennon, I think. Twins. You do remind me of her a little. But I think when Jennifer says it, it’s not a compliment, so look out.”