What is artful about it when it is forced homework?

11/10.

Mom called to see how the dinner with Sterling went.

He'd acted like it was last minute and unplanned, so this was confusing. Which was it? Impromptu or a setup?

Then she informed me that Sterling is coming with us to Nebraska for Thanksgiving. In fact, Sterling is driving.

"Good, because he has a nicer car," I said.

"Is that all you have to say?" asked Mom.

"Yup, except, what breads is he responsible for bringing?"

"He's not."

"No?"

"He's bringing the pies," said Mom.

Well, he may as well be exposed to her Thanksgiving nuttiness before things go much further between them.

LATER.

Took Oscar for his late-night walk and ran into Grant, who was just getting home. Alone. Naturally, he had to spend some quality time with Oscar. Wondered if Oscar had seen him during the time I hadn't . . . like, illicitly. The way he did when I first moved in.

Haven't seen Grant in a long time. He asked what was up, and since I wasn't going to talk about my week with Wittenauer, I immediately started complaining about my mom. Suddenly, I stopped. There were other things I wanted to talk about with Grant. "Why am I telling you all this?"

"I don't know, I guess because I kind of know your mom," he said.

"Right, right. The thing is, I don't even know my mom anymore. The woman who wouldn't spend twenty-five cents to buy a newspaper is now splurging on hardcover books, and that's just the tip of the iceberg."

Grant gasped. "Wow. She really is out of control," he said in a sarcastic tone.

"Shut up. She is! For years we had to put up with her being a miser. Now she's throwing her money around."

"What money?"

"Hm. I don't know, I guess."

"Maybe because you're all getting older, she has more money of her own," Grant guessed.

"Yeah-since she made me leave CFC and come here, she has more money, you mean," I said.

"There's nothing wrong with this place. Besides, you were nearly on a full scholarship there."

Stupid logical Grant. Hate him sometimes.

"You're not very grateful, you know. People sacrifice stuff for you and you don't appreciate it."

I just looked at him. "People?" What was this about?

"I totally sacrificed my A in Chem for you last year," he said. "I went from an A to a B minus because of you."

And then I knew. "Am I, uh, is our chemistry that bad?" I asked, trying to get him to lighten up.

"I failed my midterm because of you. You dumped me when I was ten minutes from taking my exam! Who does that? Who does that by text? I mean, come on."

"I called," I said in a small voice.

"Yeah, after I called you to ask what was going on, where you were, why we all of a sudden weren't going to Cancun on spring break together. Then the second I turned off my phone for the exam, you call back and leave a message-a message? Like, a five-minute message about how you can't go to Cancun, which was your idea, and the tickets are nonrefundable but you'll send me a refund?"

Oscar started to whine. Not a happy whine. He, like Gerry, hates conflict.

Shivering. Cold, November wind.

"I really felt terrible about that," I said. "Not sending you the money."

"I didn't care about that. I didn't want a refund! It's that you never even said why, where you went instead," he said.

"I didn't go anywhere, OK?" I said in this quiet, pathetic voice.

"Then why did you all of a sudden have to break up? I hated you for doing that. It was so weak. If you weren't OK with going and you were with Wittenauer or whoever, why didn't you tell me before it was the day before we were leaving and I had midterms, or didn't you have midterms at that junior college you went to?"

"It's a good school," I said through slightly gritted teeth. "And I didn't know what I wanted! I mean, I just couldn't make up my mind."

"Yeah. I know. You can never make up your mind and stick to anything. Vegetarian? Sometimes. Dairy? Maybe."

"If I'm such a horrible eater, why are you even still talking to me?"

"I don't know. I don't know sometimes. I mean, I must be crazy, right?" He shook his head and walked up the sidewalk to his house.

"It takes two. To be crazy," I said.

Grant looked over his shoulder. "Since when?"

Oscar was running from one of us to the other, back and forth, as Grant headed for his house and I headed down the street. He was trying to herd us together.

Grant slammed the door shut. On me, on Oscar, on the whole awkward, horrible night.

How long had he been waiting to say that? Since March, I guess.

Clearly, I haven't apologized enough. I mean, I did send him a long email about it. Or did I? Maybe I forgot to hit SEND. Which you can add to my list of tragic errors involved with Grant.

11/11.

Feel like c.r.a.p about what Grant said yesterday. He's right. What I did, when I did it, how I did it, is, like, unforgivable. So why has he even been tolerating me lately? Because he is the nicest person, kind of guy who visits his grandmother, helps animals, and doesn't hold childish grudges. And what kind of person am I? The opposite.

Had to get out of the house, away from the neighborhood. Went to a poetry reading of Dara's and other poetry students tonight. She writes morbid poems about failed love. Why am I not surprised? Still not sure who she is pining for, though. Someone in her past? Hopefully not Bryan.

Her final poem she dedicated to me. It was called "Snow Struck," about trying to get to DIA that night. It was confusing as it had nothing to do with me.

"Snow Struck"

by Dara MacDonnell Crystals Falling Whisper thin Piling up Into solid ma.s.s Nothing can break you now.

No hurtling SUVs Or skidding sports cars You mock two-door Saturns, while Smart cars disappear inside your Fluffy Warmth.

Like whisper-thin feathers And squeaky packing peanuts, You fall, quietly, And we duck and cover And find ourselves stranded on the beach of your ma.s.sive indecisiveness.

To fall If we fall As you fall There can be no forgiveness tonight.

I-25.

Will your pavement still hold me If I make a U-turn?

11/13.

Dara's poetry has inspired me.

OK, not really.

Still, at the Pyth, eating a sprouts sandwich and finally writing my blog about Smoothie Stop and its suckingness. Dara is opposite me, having plain grilled cheese.

Grant and his vet pals are here. However, Kelli is not with the group. I can't think about that or about what I might have done to contribute to that. Am having a bad enough week as it is, consumed with guilt and self-hatred.

What was my problem? Why did I back out of spring break trip? Was it that I still hadn't forgiven Grant for making out with Beth that one time? Maybe I need to talk to her about it. Or even better, Jane.

Tapping pen against desk while listening to iPod and attempting to write on laptop.

Just looked up to gaze around the room for inspiration. Caught Grant's eye and we exchanged awkward waves.

Yeah, hi. How's it going? Remember last time I saw you? Yeah. You yelled at me. Reminded me of what a c.r.a.ppy thing I did to you. So, I'll just sit over here. Yeah, OK. Please don't throw anything in my direction.

Impossible to concentrate when one is aware of all of one's flaws.

"Holding Court"

by Courtney Von Dragen Smith.

When Is Recycling a Crime?

By now, we all know the three R's: Reuse, Reduce, Recycle.

Right?

Recycling is a great concept, but where does recycling end and where does copyright infringement begin?

A certain smoothie stop in town that shall remain nameless has recently been seen by this reporter to be copying a venerable establishment in Denver known as Truth or Dairy (Canyon Boulevard Shoppes location).

The setup is the same: Each offers smoothies, wheatgra.s.s shots, and ice cream dishes such as sundaes and milkshakes. Perhaps that is not such a surprise, as other shops have tried this before, but let's look at the names of smoothies, the menus, the sundae descriptions: (Here is where I inserted photos, in a slide show, side by side.)

Only one of these shops is original.

The other is a copy, and should rightly pay for basically being a franchise with no original ideas of its own. Otherwise, recycling and reusing have become nothing less than hijacking.

11/14.

c.r.a.p, 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."