The Brenda Diaries Read online

  “God, Maya, I can’t put into words how much I’ve missed you. You really are the sister my parents always threatened I’d end up with.”

  “Fuck you, Brenda.” She wipes and looks at me, her hand inching toward the trip lever.

  “Don’t you dare, you bitch,” I say.

  Maya smiles at me, flushes the toilet and for offering her the comfort of my home, I get a blast of cold water.

  Friday, March 18:

  My dreams of spending a quiet weekend with my newly installed washer/dryer unit aren’t going to come true unless I can convince Maya and Jared to fall in love with each other and leave me the hell alone.

  Saturday, March 19:

  Spent the day with Jared and I spent $135.47 on a dress from Anthropologie. Paid retail, but I’m positive it will go on sale within the price adjustment window. Everything was going fine until he suggested we think about getting a pet. He doesn’t even know my middle name and he already wants to share custody of a living thing? I’m starting to wonder about him.

  Sunday, March 20:

  Have decided what I need in life is side job. Friend of a friend knows of someone who’s looking for a tutor for their kid. Pay is supposed to be good and under the table. Walking out with cash in my pocket makes me feel like a glamorous call girl without having to deal with someone else’s bodily fluids.

  Monday, March 21:

  Honeymooning receptionist has refused to come back to work at the real estate office. She and her new husband are going to open a surf school/bed and breakfast in Costa Rica. Good for her and good for me since I get to work here until they find her replacement. Bridget used her power as office manager to up my rate a whole dollar an hour and has also coughed up a parking pass while she interviews aspiring receptionists. I’ve politely declined an invitation to vie for the job. It’d take a lot more than an extra buck and free parking to make me give up my career as a temp extraordinaire.

  Tuesday, March 22:

  My tutoring interview went great last night. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it is talk my way into a job. I didn’t meet the kid whose mind I’d be expanding—he was at a friend’s or maybe upstairs sleeping. Neither the parents seemed to know, but they laughed it off. I laughed too when they offered me $20 above what I was ready to accept.

  Wednesday, March 23:

  I’m in the ladies room, in the stall furthest from the door taking a call a from frantic Summer. I don’t usually take calls while I’m working, but Summer texted that there was an emergency.

  “Say you’ll do it. Please, Brenda. My butt is on the line. You don’t want me to get fired, do you?”

  “No, of course not.” I really don’t. Summer is the only rep I’ve worked with at TempOne and I like her as a person, but this is kind of a major screw-up on her part. She’s confirmed me for two jobs and she’s trying to keep her supervisor from finding out. “They’re both great jobs, one is for an event planner so she only needs you after 6 and you get to go to parties!”

  “Fine, I’ll do it but, you have to bump up my rate to make up for the extra gas I’ll be using to get from one to the other.” As much as I like Summer, I still have to watch out for myself.

  “Consider yourself bumped. I’ll email you the details right now. Thanks, Brenda!”

  I scurry into the corner of the toilet stall when someone opens the bathroom door to come in.

  “Hey, it’s me. I totally got it.” It’s one of the potential receptionists. She doesn’t bother to check if anyone is around before she makes a call on her cell. “I start on Monday. Health benefits start immediately…. No. I didn’t…. They don’t need to know I’m going to need to go on maternity leave in seven months.”

  Add lies and deception to the drama and intrigue of real estate peddling.

  Thursday, March 24:

  You know what’s a bad idea? Wearing khaki pants and a red polo shirt to Target. It wasn’t me who wore this regrettable outfit, but Jared, my almost boyfriend. Maya was out looking for another married man to get involved with and we had my place to ourselves so we wanted to get busy. But it’s kind of hard to get busy when a friend, especially one you can’t stand, jacks all your condoms. Guess Maya had her evening all planned out, even if it came at the expense of mine. And that’s why she’s known as the Sluthammer.

  So off to Target we went, which I needed to do anyway. I forgot how much TP girls go through and Maya is always peeing. It’s like her hobby or something. I like Target. I’d work there if I didn’t have to deal with people like me. Plus, I had coupons for all sorts of essentials like deodorant and toothpaste. Even with the whole sex-interuptus, my night was looking like it might turn out to be a good one.

  Of course, Jared had to ruin things by trying to hold my hand telling me it was our first real domestic errand we’d ever run together. I pretended not to hear him, like I usually do when he says something dumb, but he took my silence to mean he should keep talking. He yaps more than most of my girlfriends and those bitches never shut up. Anyway, he said we should take our relationship to the next level and brought up adopting a dog again. Like he wants us to be the Brad and Angie of the canine world or something.

  This is when an older lady tapped him on the shoulder and asked him where she could find the fiber supplements. Jared is a loser, but he is polite and he told her to try near the antacids two aisles over. Then someone asked him to reach for the last box of tampons, way back on the top shelf. While he was going for Target employee of the year, I grabbed a box of condoms, going for the cheapest brand until I realized I value my vagina more than a 40 cent price difference.

  By the time we got home, I wasn’t in the mood for anything or his company. Being that I’m not a totally cold, heartless bitch, I made him some microwave popcorn and let him watch The Daily Show before kicking him out. So that was my night, which makes me wonder why I woke up to an open box of jimmies on my nightstand.

  Friday, March 25:

  More real estate office drama between Daniel and Marcia. This time Daniel accused Marcia of trashing him on facebook. Marcia didn’t deny it and she also added that Daniel had been sleeping with the receptionist. Not me—the one who’s on a permanent honeymoon. Daniel called Marcia “a dried up bitch” and said her chances of selling a townhouse or landing a man were lower than zero. Marcia then pointed out his botched hair plugs weren’t fooling anyone and said she’d let him have her next sale so he could get them fixed. They were separated before any crotch punches could be thrown.

  Someone who had been in another bathroom stall clued in the office manager about the woman who is supposed to start on Monday and her fetus situation. They’re not going to make her a job offer and she’s been calling to find out what’s going on. The office manager is pressuring me to come back next week, but I can’t (I have two other jobs to work) and I don’t want to come back.

  I can’t take all the drama.

  Saturday, March 26:

  Maya has been giggling and gushing over the guy she met last night. She’s convinced he’s “the one.” Of course, this one is also married, making him one of many married men who Maya has fallen in love with. I’d feel sorry for him and maybe even consider warning him, but if he’s old enough to get married, he should know enough to not cheat on his wife.

  Sunday, March 27:

  Juggling two temp assignments starting tomorrow. Whatever I wear in the morning has to work for both. It’s not the first time I’ve pulled a double and, even though I sort of remember saying I’d never do it again, I couldn’t say no to either. Both pay at the tippy top of my rate scale and I’m willing to not dig too deep as to why.

  Monday, March 28:

  I’ve found out why lawyer Theo doesn’t have a permanent assistant—no one will work for him and he’s only in the Century City office one or two weeks a month. The rest of the time he’s in New York. It’s easier for HR to book a temp then deal with trying to find someone who can put up with him.

  After putting in a ful
l day working for him, I dashed over to Brentwood to work for Constance, a premier event planner. Or, rather, to take orders from the clones who take orders from her. I haven’t actually met or even seen Constance, but I’ve heard her yelling in her upstairs office.

  I’ve been stuffing gift bags for a fancy luncheon and after I’m done with these I have to alphabetize name tags and place cards. Easy work, but her screaming does make me nervous.

  One of the assistants, Keelin—a nice Irish girl who really needs to lay off the Red Bull—said I’m doing brilliantly and I’m the best she’s ever seen. She’s putting me on gift bag duty for the rest of the week. Yay, me?

  Tuesday, March 29:

  I don’t usually buy into stereotypes, but the one about lawyers being rude seems to be true. This job is straight desk babysitting and while I don’t have to worry about learning anything new, I do have to deal with lawyers. They like to make things more complicated than they have to be just because their big brains get paid $300 an hour to think of a way to screw people over.

  “This has to be messengered before lunch.” Theo drops a file on the desk. He’s really tall and skinny. Not thin, but skinny. He’s balding, but has a good haircut. That’s the only nice thing I can say about him. “If they can’t pick it up within the hour, you’ll have to take it yourself.”

  “Of course,” I say. My lip curls as I watch him walk into his office and slam the door. “I can deliver it on my hands and knees if you want.”

  His door swings open. “What was that?”

  I smile, waving the file at him like it’s a lace hankie and I’m about to take a very long voyage on a luxury steamer ship. Rude people, next to willfully stupid people, are my least favorite to deal with.

  The phone rings, I answer it, take a message and then slip it under the door for Theo to read. He hates voicemail. He also hates children, cold coffee, his mother, his wife in New York and his clients. Things Theo does like: his girlfriend in Studio City, triple grande lattes, colored paper clips, yellow highlighters and screaming at people.

  Wednesday, March 30:

  Another day of dealing with Theo’s mood swings and then stuffing gift bags for the still unseen Constance is done. Instead of going home and straight to bed, I’m letting myself get talked into going out with Maya and Jared. What’s the worst that can happen?

  Thursday, March 31:

  Despite my better judgment, which was compromised by a 12-hour workday, I went out last night with Maya and Jared (who is NOT my boyfriend no matter what his facebook status says). Maya said she wanted to celebrate me landing my first tutoring gig and Jared was feeling neglected and ignored, so he tagged along.

  Girls, let me give you some relationship advice: Don’t hook up with a guy who has been in therapy since he was just out of diapers. Guys like this are way too in touch with their feelings and expect the same from you.

  Maya wants to meet a hipster, preferably a married one, and so we drove all the way to Silver Lake because it’s where they all hang out. We hit a couple of bars and wound up in some seedy, dingy and thoroughly depressing place called Footsies, which isn’t even in Silver Lake. But Maya read on some blog or message board that it’s the diciest of dives and she was right.

  After one drink, I felt like my life was over and I should just rent out a bar stool so I could spend the rest of it talking about my glory days. Of course, Jared was all for it. He’s only too happy to turn any situation into a therapy session. (And yes, I ignored him when he suggested we go to couples’ therapy.)

  While I was trying to fend off his mentally emotional advances, Maya was making out with some guy in a knitted cap and hoodie. I can’t recall his name because he went by an acronym and I’m never good at remembering those. Whatever. Maya will have it tattooed on her left ass cheek by this weekend if he bothers to call her back.

  After a couple of hours having deep conversations about cartoons we used to watch as kids (which Jared streams on his laptop at work), I finally let out a huge yawn and said I wanted to go home.

  Maya got pissy. She accused me of hating to see her happy. I agreed with her, but that didn’t make her feel better. Jared was bummed because with Maya sleeping on my sofa bed, he can’t climb into my bed. (He’s got some issue, but he’s working on it in therapy. Relief.) We headed home and even though it was 3 in the morning, we hit traffic (construction or whatever). Maya bitched about it, Jared tried to empathize and I realized I had to be up in a few hours to drive down the same road to get to work.

  Friday, April 1:

  I’m beyond exhausted. My (free!) Starbucks latte fix from this morning wore off hours ago and I still have an evening of stuffing and cowering to look forward to. I’ve resorted to pouring a huge cup of office coffee down my throat. It’s usually stale and weak and there’s only powdered creamer, but there’s no time to get something decent. After the week I’ve had (and am still having) I just want to stay home and watch TV, but Maya and Jared want to hang out. This is what I get for having friends.

  Almost Like the Real Thing

  April 2 to May 1

  Saturday, April 2:

  As Maya shows no signs of leaving the comfort of my IKEA sofa bed, I told her she’s going to have to kick a few bucks into the cookie jar. She’s pissy about it because my apartment complex is, as she puts it, “way retarded” when it comes to amenities. She’s not at all impressed with my TWO parking spaces. She kept bitching so I told her there’s a seedy motel down the street that she’s more than welcome to check-in to. It has a pool that’s always drained after they haul out a dead body.

  I took a long shower to let her cool off and when I looked in the cookie jar, there were a few crisp 20s in it. Good.

  Sunday, April 3:

  Is there any better feeling than the one a person gets when looking at neat piles of clean, folded laundry? I think not! And, yes, that feeling is a thousand times better when it’s laundry that’s been washed and dried in the privacy of my very own apartment thanks to my recently installed Kenmore washer/dryer unit. It’s official: I’m dating an appliance. Ken More, I love you.

  Monday, April 4:

  The stragglers have finally accepted the fact that tax day won’t be going away no matter how much they’ve tried to ignore it so now there’s a mad scramble for appointments. Glenn doesn’t charge extra to see anyone before or after work hours or on weekends, but since most of his clients are loaded, he gets perks galore. Best gifts so far have been the use of one client’s Bora Bora vacation home and a bottle of wine that cost as much as my monthly student loan payment.

  These people think the whole world revolves around them (because it kind of does) which means they (or their assistants) don’t bother making nice with me. The only good part is Glenn pays me extra for the extra stress, and sometimes I get thrown a bone or two by those who are smart enough to realize it pays to be nice to the girl who books the appointments.

  Sure, I’m well aware that what his clients drop off on my desk are swag bag rejects. Still, I’m not going to turn my nose up at a leopard print make-up case stuffed with Lancôme products even though it’s not my brand, or a Jo Malone candle that smells so good it’s almost a shame to waste it on my apartment.

  There have been some clunkers like stale coffee samples and books I would never read. (The Secret? Does my life really seem that pointless to complete strangers who pretend to listen to what I say after they ask me how I’m doing?) The suckiest has to be the expired gift card to a gone out-of-business frozen yogurt shop. I’ve made a note of that person’s name so next year when he calls begging for an appointment, I’ll make sure he knows I don’t like frozen yogurt.

  Tuesday, April 5:

  What is it about snipping tags off a new dress and pulling wads of tissue paper out of new shoes that makes getting dressed so very special? My first tutoring session is tonight. This kid is going to learn something and bask in my smarty pants cuteness. Lucky him. And me, too, since I already spent the tutoring money that
I still haven’t earned on my outfit. Whatever. A technicality. Right now, I’m feeling and looking so cute, I’m not going to eat lunch at my desk. I wouldn’t dream of wasting this much cute by staying indoors.

  Wednesday, April 6:

  Just got my first real, unpicked over gift basket of the tax season. Score! It’s chockfull of all sorts of goodies that I can re-gift. And once it’s empty, I can use the basket to hold rolls of toilet paper. I saw that in a magazine and have been meaning to try it out.

  Thursday, April 7:

  It hasn’t been so long since I escaped from high school that I can’t remember what high school was like. It mostly sucked, but at the same time it was a hell of a lot easier than pulling a double shift at Wendy’s with a creepy manager who liked to talk about pickles.

  This is why I don’t understand how it or the turd buckets called students could have changed so much in less than five years. Where do these kids get off? How come they’re so frickin’ lazy? Does anyone have an attention span anymore? And why do I sound like such an old lady? All these questions and it’s only been two measly tutoring sessions so far.

  I understand the deal, arrangement, compromise, or whatever you want to call it that I’ve signed on for. I’m the tutor, hired help essentially, and the parents are my clients and their kid is now my problem. My job is to make sure their mouth breathing little miracle doesn’t make them look bad, at least academically. But this kid, Wyatt, is so not there, so empty behind the eyes that I can’t even pretend to feel bad about giving him the nickname of The Void.

  It took me all of five minutes after meeting him to peg him with it. (It’s a gift, this talent of mine, but it’s also a curse because it makes me realize I only see the bad in people.) Wyatt has no interest in anything unless it results in him getting wasted and then texting all his friends about it. Okay, so that hasn’t changed since I was in high school, but I could only do it when I had a day off from Wendy’s.