Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (4 page)

8/23

Mary Jo and I are
not
getting along.

I was getting dressed this morning and all of a sudden Mary Jo shrieked and said, “What’s that on your stomach? Oh my God!”

She was referring to my pierced navel.

I explained that this was a piece of jewelry. She still seemed really confused about the whole thing.

“Well, I just think that’s, um, I don’t know. Wrong?”

“What’s wrong about it? People pierce their ears. And lots of other things,” I reminded her.

“Yeah, but—I don’t know. It makes me think of the way that our cows have to get tags stapled to their ears to tell them apart,” Mary Jo said.

She was comparing my navel to a cow’s ear?

“Yeah, but that probably hurts them,” I said. “This didn’t.” Not much, anyway. Except for the way it swelled up whenever I didn’t use enough Hibiclens on it. “And besides, I
chose
to mutilate myself. I mean decorate myself. Whatever. Cows don’t have that choice.” Ha! So there for getting all self-righteous on me. At least I never stapled a cow.

Maybe people argue so much here because of the crappy weather. It’s so hot. There’s like 97 percent humidity. My hair is a frizz pile. Rain came in through the window and soaked the granola fruit bars I left on the windowsill, and now they’re oatmeal. All the photos on my bulletin board are curled up at the corners. My towel smells like mildew.
I
smell like mildew.

“This is nothing,” Mary Jo said. “Last spring it rained so much, our basement flooded. And outside? The cows kept falling in the mud and a couple of them broke their legs.”

“How long is this going to last? I really need some sun,” I said.

“Don’t worry, Courtney—you’ll get used to it,” Mary Jo told me when I kept staring out the window.

“I don’t
want
to get used to it,” I said. “I want to get away from it. The weather back home is so much better.”

Mary Jo got insulted and left for the cafeteria without waiting for me or anyone else. Like she’s responsible for the rain?

LATER . . .

Back from my new, exciting job.

Had to phone people today and remind them what a great place “Cornball” Falls is.

Hello? Does anyone see a problem here?

So far I haven’t even been here a week, and I hate it. But there I was with my canned lines, reading them off a script that’s so worn it looks as if it’s been used by students every year since 1915.

“Your donation provides valuable support for students like me.”

“Would you consider increasing your gift this year?”

“Would you like to donate a building?”

“Would you like fries with that?”

There’s this ear-of-corn Velcro poster-thing on the wall that measures how well we’re doing on the fund drive, like a thermometer filled with corn kernels instead of mercury. It looks like a project for a day-care center. And everyone has these signs up on their cubicle walls in front of them, to prod them into pushing for more money, like a reward system. “Way to Go, Rachel! $250!” and “$1,000—You Rule, Wittenauer!” Those are for the upperclassmen.

And then there’s me. “Courtney. Keep Improving. $20.”

Hey, is it my fault I get the losers’ cards?

We have these index cards we have to use for each alum, with all this personal info, like what dorm they lived in, and what their major was, and what they do now, and how many kids they have. We have weekly goals, total amounts. So far I’m several hundred dollars short. Okay, thousands. I know—I’ll flip through the cards, find the person with the largest donation ever, hit them up. Is there a chance in hell that Bill Gates went to Cornball Falls?

8/24

This afternoon was fun. Thyme and I went to the bagel place for coffee. I asked her about the Newell Hall of Economics. She launched into their entire family history. “It’s—it’s not my dad, it was my grandfather, because he went here,” she said.

Are we all just here because of grandparents?
Must
we pay for their generation’s mistakes?

Her grandfather gave the money a long time ago when he made a ton of money by inventing something or other. Then he got pushed out of the company, and Thyme said he was “a victim of evil downsizing corporate warfare.” Is that typical or what? So they did have a lot of money, but they don’t anymore. How sad. Whereas I don’t have any money now, and never really had any, although I did all right working at T or D.

After coffee we went to the bank so I could open an account with my last few paychecks. Thyme already had an account but she came with me. Which was funny, because there were all these signs all over the bank: “Tyme is money,” plastered on the cash machines. Turns out Tyme is the name of the ATM network here. I asked Thyme if that was embarrassing and she said she liked the juxtaposition of a free spirit and a corporate establishment. “Because it’s so untrue, you know. Me, Thyme? I’m not money. I’m so
anti
-money. So it’s so ironic.”

The customer service person totally gave me the 3rd degree. She made me fill out a dozen forms, sign in 18 places. She practically wanted a sample of my blood. She was so suspicious of me, it was ridiculous. I was going to leave and open an account at another bank, but I’d filled out so many forms I felt like I couldn’t move.

“Von . . . what does that say? Van Dragon?” the woman asked.

“Your middle initials are V.D.?” Thyme asked. “Ooh. How rude.”

“Tell me about it,” I said.

“It’s better than STD though. I guess.” Thyme started laughing, and then told me if I thought my middle name was bad,
hers
was Penelope. So I guess things could be worse. Maybe. Thyme Penelope equals T.P. Not good at all.

I got this big lecture on how not to bounce checks and customer service woman said they had problems with new students every fall, blah blah blah, and she hoped they wouldn’t have trouble with
me
, Courtney Von Dragoon Smith. Like we’re small children and can’t take care of ourselves or something without
her
telling us how to add and subtract? It was so insulting.

“I’ve never bounced a check in my life,” I said.

She smiled, sort of. “Oh, I’m sure you haven’t, Ms. Smith. But if you have, we’ll find out about it.”

“What a witch,” I said to Thyme as we left. “She’s out to get me or something.”

“It’s clear-cut ageism,” Thyme agreed. “You could file a complaint.
I
would.”

“Maybe I should switch banks,” I said.

“Don’t bother. They’re all the same.” Thyme flipped her skinny braids over her shoulder. “I don’t even believe in banks, but they’re a necessary evil.”

“Like coffee?” I joked.

We laughed and went over to the student center for another 3 cups. After that we were so wired we went to gym to work out. Thyme did yoga; I sprinted on LifeCycle. Felt like a real athlete until actual cycling club walked into gym. Very fit. Sleek. Me, sweating out coffee, face red from exertion. Thyme walked up cool and refreshed from basically lying on foam pad for an hour. Guys in club checked her out, ignored me.

Must give up coffee. Must also invest in sleeker workout clothes.

8/25

I got a package from Grant!!! Yes! Good karma, because I tried so hard today to get settled here. I went to classes and bought my books.

Inside Grant’s package was a Colorado State notebook and baseball cap. Plus an old T-shirt of his I’d been pestering him for. I’m putting it in my book bag and carrying it everywhere and when I miss him, I’ll take it out and smell it.

People will look at me strangely, but I don’t care. They probably already do, because I’m not Norwegian or Swedish or whatever everyone is here. (I’m not tall, I’m not blond. What am I, anyway?) (Too philosophical a question for me right now.)

Grant’s package gave me a burst of energy, and then I realized how much I miss him and started to cry. Why didn’t I go to CSU? What’s wrong with me? Why do I make such bad choices?

I needed to calm myself. If I were back home, I’d drive to the buffalo overlook and check out the herd. But no such luck. No buffalo here. No car.

But we are out in the country, and it was actually a sunny afternoon, so I got on my bike, hoped it wouldn’t rain, and rode out of town. The road I was on was curvy and pretty. Not to mention bumpy. Green trees, wildflowers everywhere. Reminded me of a picture in the CF catalog. The one they used to shamelessly lure me here.

Anyway, there I was, riding on scenic country road, feeling really happy for once, except for constant rolling hills that all went straight up, and the fact I’m not in the best shape of my life. Then I went past this sign that said
BUCK’S TAXIDERMY
—i.e., e.g., turning dead animals into living statues/monuments to hunting skill. Then beneath the “Buck’s” part, like I wasn’t getting a graphic enough picture of exactly what he was talking about, the sign said
FUR, FOWL, ETC.

“Etc.”? What does that mean? People? Reptiles? Swine? Disgusting.

When I got to the cows, they were marching single file along this path to the barn. I put down my bike and walked over to look at them. They were so orderly, they looked like soldiers. Milk soldiers. Fighting for dairy. Fighting for their lives, no doubt. Do dairy cows get to retire to green(er) pastures? Or when they’re milked out, are they turned into burgers? Poor cows. They’d be cute if they weren’t full of gallons of milk.

I went back to my bike and realized I’d set it down in world’s largest cow chip. Spent an hour scraping off the seat with a stick. Bluck.

8/26

My first “real” weekend here, without relatives! Yes!

There was a major catastrophe here this morning: everyone realized there was no home football game and no home
anything
games this weekend. Girls (except soccer players who were at practice) drifted aimlessly until everyone paired off into different cars to head to the outlet mall.

Okay, not everyone. Annemarie stayed in dorm, music blaring. Mary Jo got irritated and went to science library so she could study in peace and quiet. Thyme went on hike with CF Nature Club. Kept trying to convince me to go with her, but I couldn’t.

Last night I figured out I have to get a job in town right away. My money is running out very quickly.

Job search really sucked. Everything’s already taken, or I’m not qualified, or I don’t
want
to dress up like Helga and wear horns on my head and serve German potato salad on roller skates at the Vivacious Viking.

For some reason in this town, employers only want kids who are 14 and 15 to scoop ice cream. Even though it’s totally clear I have the muscle for it from working at T or D and could outscoop them,
plus
I know about smoothies and wheatgrass, which they’re going to have to make the transition to sometime. But no. Looked at me as if I were speaking foreign language.

Plus half of the places served frozen custard, and I don’t even know what that is. Who eats frozen pudding? I thought that was like . . . British or something. Or is that flan? What
is
flan?

There are the 6 or 7 identical-looking souvenir shops, where you can buy trolls, German beer steins, and any Cornwall Falls College T-shirt your heart desires. (Which would be none, so far.) In one of the stores, this man kept offering me fudge and cheese samples. In another, the women working there kept giving me dirty looks, like I was going to steal a bronzed badger or a cuckoo clock or something. No thank you. I have enough crap in my room, thanks to Mary Jo.

I was sitting outside on the brick wall by the dorm, thinking about whether there was a plasma bank nearby, whether I could finance my higher education
that
way, or maybe an egg bank, after all I’m in the prime of my reproductive life, aren’t I? And aren’t you supposed to be able to get a few thousand bucks for some prime eggs? I’ve got several dozen to spare.

I had totally given up hope when Tricia came by. She’s the bubbly one who said during our drugs ’n’ sex talk that she’d organized a rally to keep
every single kid in her neighborhood
off crack, and it worked, gosh darn it.

Like they have crack in Walla Walla, Idaho, or whatever small town she said she was from. Like they even have neighborhoods.

“Courtney! What are you
doing
up there?” she asked. As if no one had ever sat on a wall before. She had this giant pink Cornwall sweatshirt on and a matching hair ribbon. Her hair is the color of corn, just like Mary Jo’s, but also has many, many faux shiny highlights. If this place had sororities she’d be all over them. But that’s one of the reasons I liked this place—or thought I liked this place, anyway—no exclusive Greek societies. No “rushing,” except maybe to class when I’m late because I’m riding my bike through snowdrifts.

Anyway, I told Tricia how I have to find a job, and she excitedly started shrieking how the place where she worked was hiring. “Um, and where’s that?” I asked, expecting her to say the Hallmark store. Which wouldn’t be so bad, actually, because I’ll be buying lots of cards this year to send to Grant.

“Bagle Finagle!” she said. “It’s so cool, and so fun. And I know Jennifer would hire you in a second? Because she’s the manager? And she’s really cool?” Tricia says everything like a question.

I thought about what Gerry said to me on my last day of work at T or D as he toasted me with a Coconut Fantasy Supreme. “Any employer would be lucky to have you. But don’t bowl them over with your individuality.” Whatever
that
meant.

So she took me over there and I filled out an application. Everyone working there seems nice. Jennifer seems sort of like a tyrant, but who cares? I need money.

“It would be so great if we could get the same shifts?” Tricia said after we left to walk back to the dorm together.

“Um . . . yeah,” I said, thinking,
Um, no. Not really. Not at all, actually.
She would probably try to organize a rally to keep me off caffeine.