Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (38 page)

11/14

Crap, just visited my blog to see if there were any comments yet. Realized I wrote a certain smoothie “stop” instead of a certain smoothie “shop.”

AGH!

Seconds later, cell rang and caller ID was store. Freaked out.

Turns out Guy only needs me to work; slammed with visitors to campus, final football game of season, etc. I said sure. I’ll get hours as long as I can. I expect to be unemployed soon. . . .

11/15

Last night was unbelievable.

Dara got dropped off at home by a friend, who warned us that Dara might be a little tipsy. No sooner had she gotten out of the car than Dara immediately made a beeline for wrong house. Grant’s. We tried to get her to come back. She kept insisting she had to see Grant, it was now or never.

“What’s now or never?” asked Shawna.

“Him. And me,” she said.

“What? But he’s—he’s not your type,” I stammered. “Not even close. And besides, he has a girlfriend, Kelli.”

“No. He’s single now,” Dara said.

“He is?” I asked.

“Sure. Kelli, like, dumped him a couple weeks ago,” said Shawna. “You knew that. Even Bryan knew that.”

“It’s probably
your
fault,” Dara sort of slurred. “He probably won’t care how I feel because he’s pining for you and you are totally stringing him along.”

“I am?”

Shawna nodded. “You’re, like, a first-string stringer-
alonger.”

“You know, I left him a note in his car, and he never even wrote back,” Dara complained as we got her to sit down at the kitchen table. I quickly made some coffee for her, and remembered the cat drawing on the note I’d spilled juice on—I’d always assumed that was from Kelli.

“But he’s not your type,” I just kept repeating. The thought of Dara and Grant together was just . . . unthinkable. For my brain. It made me feel as dizzy and ill as Dara looked.

“What’s my type?” Dara sobbed. “My type doesn’t exist.”

Shawna was all business. “OMG, you should not drink wine. Ever. Look at you.” She got some cold water and a washcloth, and we started trying to sober up Dara, made her go on a walk around the neighborhood. She kept babbling about how pretty the mountains looked, when it was too dark to actually, really, see them, or much of anything.

Turned out she went to some graduate student’s poetry reading and stole the wine.

No doubt she’ll be writing a poem about that when she recovers.

But now I have so much more to worry about. One, what if Dara does actually tell Grant how she feels? Would he like her, too?

And two, what about Bryan? When he finds out Dara likes Grant, and not him, he’ll be devastated.

Well, serves him right.

Maybe he’ll stop poaching my friends then.

But isn’t that just like stupid love? It’s all twisted. And am I stringing along Grant? How?

Maybe we’d been spending too much time together trying to be friends, but not since he finally yelled at me the other night. We hadn’t exactly spoken since then. What else was there to say?

11/16

Interviewed Grant at grocery store today for my column. Not stringing him along. Just interviewing him. There’s a difference.

I thought maybe doing a story on him would make him forgive me. Win-win. I get good blog material and attempt to repair bad relationship at the same time. I’m profiling him, Shop & Shop, and the green team initiative. Grant seemed pleased.

“We’re trying to get away from plastic completely, but as much as that’s not possible, we strive to collect every bag we give out by urging customers to return bags for recycling.”

I really made him sound smart!

“Of course, we can’t retrieve every bag. Some end up in landfills. But we try. There’s no way we can control everyone’s behavior. Some people are thoughtless—and some people are just dumb,” Grant had said.

The article practically wrote itself as I sat at a nearby coffee shop post-interview. I was feeling so fabulous. The week wasn’t out yet and I’d already gotten blog done and set it to post automatically.

Then I got home, and there was a certified letter from Smoothie Stop. I have been “terminated.”

Like a rodent. Wow. I am really screwing up at everything these days. Wittenauer hasn’t even returned my call. I probably insulted him somehow, too.

11/17

Mystery solved. Did some searching on the web. My article about Smoothie Stop was everywhere. It got picked up by one blog. And then another Twitterer. And then another.

One was even titled: “Stealing Is BAD! Smoothies Are
Good
.”

And it’s shades of Cornwall Falls and Courtney Von Bloggen all over again.

Everyone knows that I think Guy N. at the Smoothie Stop stole many, many, if not all, ideas from Truth or Dairy and did not even attempt to cleverly rename them.

Why did I start a blog again?

Why do I swear to never do things? I always end up doing them anyway and then paying the price.

Need a job.

11/18

Horrible newspaper article today: “Smoothie Shop Strikes Back.”

Blog war has taken to traditional media outlets.

Guy N. says that I was jilted by him, and that’s why I am writing bitter article. He says I have made a history of becoming involved with smoothie store owners.

What? As if!

Article has a picture of Gerry.

As if, people!

And a photo of me—the one from my student ID. And Guy N. claims Gerry and I are having an affair.

OK, if I was having an affair with Gerry (again—as if, people!), why would I pursue Guy N.? Dude makes no sense. He is so stupid!!! And why am I even making this rational argument?

Ludicrous! Nightmare!

Someone just called for an interview.

Crap.

Must I now blog in order to refute vicious, offensive (possibly slanderous) claims?

Phone rang again. This time it was Mary Jo, calling to ask in general how things were going. I gave her an earful of all my current problems. Made it funny, though, so she laughed. Sure, it’s funny to
her
. It’s not
her
picture with Gerry.

After that, I asked, “Have you talked to Wittenauer lately?”

“I’ve seen him,” she said. “That’s why I was calling.”

“Doesn’t he look OK?”

“He does,” she said slowly.

“I’m going to see him at Thanksgiving. In, like, a week.” I told her about the grand grandparents’ plan in Nebraska.

“Sure you don’t want to come to my house again? That was a lot of fun last year.”

“You came to my rescue,” I remembered.

“Anytime,” she said. “So, I’m sure you’ll talk then.”

“Right.” What was she getting at? Didn’t have time to find out because housemates ran in, carrying all the copies of the
Coloradoan
they’d managed to buy around town. Fewer for sale = less humiliation for Courtney.

11/19

Second article in newspaper today. When interviewed yesterday, I explained about blog and how I’m trying to write about ways to make the city greener. Reporter pointed out that slandering Smoothie Stop does not save the environment.

Stupid reporter.

Anyway, it’s not slander. That’s for serious writers. This is just random musings on a random blog that nobody is supposed to read.

Dr. Bigelow gave me a strange look in class. Oh no. Don’t tell me. Here I am just getting closer to making a good impression on him, and this article hits.

He thinks I am a sleazy go-getter.

That I like older men with hair loss and questionable fitness. Authority figures.

Realized as I was standing there in line at his desk after class, waiting to tell him about my upcoming Shop & Shop post, that he was rushing through other people’s questions to finally get to me, after all this time.

Seemed like it wasn’t a coincidence.

“Wait! Wait up, Ms. Smith!”

“Must catch a flight!” I called over my shoulder.

Fled classroom.

Can’t wait for Thanksgiving break.

11/20

Kept a low profile today. Was packing for Nebraska. Wondering if I should just pack everything and not plan to return. But then I think, No, I’m not going to let stupid Guy Nicollet ruin my life. Any more than he already has.

Dara had already left for Seattle, and Shawna’s parents had picked her up, so it was just me and Oscar and DeathKitty in the house. (A neighbor is feeding her while we’re on T-giving break.) (A brave neighbor.)

Suddenly, there was a knock on the basement window and I nearly freaked. Peered up anxiously and saw Grant standing there. “Let me in,” he said.

I met him at the back door, wondering if he came by to see if I needed a ride to Denver. Bryan was picking me up, but—

“You drive me crazy, you know that?” He slammed the door behind him.

Ooh. This was kind of exciting.

Oscar kept leaping all over him, whimpering, and licking him. “Not now, buddy.” Grant actually pushed Oscar into the kitchen and closed the door, then went downstairs into my basement hovel. “I could lose my job because of you!” Grant said.

“What? What are you talking about? I only wrote good things,” I said.

“You call this a good thing?!” He quoted the part about not being able to get every bag and how that was just unrealistic, and people being dumb.

“Well, you did
say
it,” I reminded him.

“And I trusted you to edit it and make it sound better!”

“I thought you sounded great. I think the program sounded really, really good,” I said. “And anyway, what are you worried about? Nobody reads what I write.”

“I read it, OK? I Googled you.”

We were standing very close. There was a really short, really embarrassing pause. I felt a little glow inside me, like I was a toy with a battery inside me. Like a doll with a belly button that lit up when it was happy and had a bottle.

He’s going to kiss me, I thought. Or I’m going to kiss him, or something. And that would be really, really great. And really, really wrong.

“How could you forget? Thanks to your attack on the Smoothie Stop, everyone’s reading your blog now, OK?”

“Really? Cool,” I murmured.

“No, it’s not cool. Because all it takes is one person to show that piece to my manager and I will be toast.”

“Whole wheat or sourdough—”

“Courtney! This isn’t funny. This is my life. This is how I support myself!”

“OK . . . OK! I’m sorry. What do you want me to do?”

“Take it down. Tonight. Before anyone else sees it,” Grant said.

“OK, but once something is on the net, it’s on there forever—”

“I know, but just
try
.”

“OK. I’ll do it right now,” I said.

“I’ll watch,” he said.

“Like I’m not going to do it?” He had to stand over me and make sure that I followed through, as if I was completely unreliable and incompetent.

I started to get that hot and cold feeling as he loomed over me, watching me type my username and password. Like, he shouldn’t stand that close to me. I have a boyfriend! I have a boyfriend! But somehow I still can’t resist Grant. If he makes even one move toward me . . .

“Um, did you write that ‘I’ll hold you, Court’ comment?” I asked.

“What?” asked Grant.

“Nothing. Never mind.” I tapped away. I was taking my best article down. This was a crime. But I’d do it for Grant. I’d probably do anything for Grant, if he asked.

Suddenly, there was a commotion upstairs: I heard DeathKitty screeching, and Oscar barking. The pets were killing each other.

“Just—stay out of my life, OK?” Grant asked. “Whenever you’re around things get messed up.”

“Fine, I will.”

“In fact, maybe you shouldn’t have transferred here,” he went on.

“And maybe
you
shouldn’t have had me move in next door!” I shot back.

Sparks were flying. Upstairs, fur was no doubt flying.

Through it all, found myself wanting to kiss Grant so badly. Which was a great and horrible feeling.

He stopped in the doorway and said, “Just for the record, I still haven’t forgiven you. For the blog or anything else.” And then he was gone.

11/21

Woke up at home in Denver with a vague, blurry memory of Grant and me, lips locked. Did I dream that, or did that happen?

Then I remembered: That wasn’t real life. In real life, Grant is furious at me, and I’m not so thrilled with him. I’m meeting Wittenauer in Nebraska on Wednesday night.
That
is what I’m excited about, not Grant.

However, in the meantime I have been accused of having an affair with Gerry. G-E-R-R-Y.

Had to talk to him. Drove over to Truth or Dairy, THE ORIGINAL, I don’t mind saying. Put on my trademark wool ski hat and Mom’s hideous pink down jacket for camouflage.

Business was slow. Gerry was sipping coffee and tapping his feet, looking very anxious. Talked to him about how we can defuse this situation.

“Gerry, look. You have to make another statement. You have to tell everyone that there’s nothing between you and me. People are coming out of the woodwork with pictures and stories—”

“I’ve tried telling them, Courtney. But do you really think coming by here was the best idea?” He quickly blended a large Coconut Fantasy Dream for me and shooed me out the door as if I were just another customer. A poorly treated customer, at that.

As soon as I walked out of Truth or Dairy: snapping photos. Paparazzi!

OK, maybe it was only one guy and a large flash on his camera, but still. One is all it takes. Now my picture will be everywhere: in newspapers, online somewhere, fraternizing with Gerry AND wearing Mom’s horrendous pink jacket.

Wonder if we can leave for Nebraska tonight.

I’ve never written that before.

11/22

Went outside to get newspaper on the stoop.

Outside, Mr. Novotny had no leaves left to tend to. The trees were bare. He was sitting in his garage with the TV on.

Looked over at me. “So. That’s why you came back?”

“What?” I asked.

“You and ice cream guy,” he said.

“What? No!” I slammed the door.

Ice cream guy?
Is this how everyone’s going to know me now? Well. Maybe better than fruity guy, but still.

Opened Denver section and there was Gerry’s face. “Smoothie War Blends into a Frenzy.”

Blends. Ha-ha. So clever.

Hate journalism and all journalists.

Plus, I will never have, or make, a smoothie again in my entire life.