The Brenda Diaries

by Margo Candela

  Wednesday, July 20:

  Wyatt is trying to convince me that video games don’t turn guys into immature weirdos. He’s making this argument while wearing camouflage print swim shorts, a t-shirt with a squirrel holding a bat with “Protect Your Nuts” underneath it, mismatched flip flops and a pair of his mother’s Chanel sunglasses.

  I don’t blame video games for his outfit.

  Thursday, July 21:

  I’m trying not to be judgmental, but if a four-year-old has to go to therapy once a week, shouldn’t one of his parents take him instead of a nanny? And might the fact that he calls the nanny “mama” be a sign that therapy isn’t working?

  Wyatt wanted to skip his weekly appointment with Dr. Mike (his therapist), but I told him it was no big, weird deal. I even said I went to therapy even though it’s a lie and he knew it.

  Wyatt doesn’t need therapy—okay, maybe some. What he really needs is a job. A super crappy one so he can figure out for himself just what kind of person he is. I think everyone, including this Dr. Mike, would be pleasantly surprised.

  Friday, July 22:

  What happens when you take a teenager to the supermarket for essentials? A shopping cart loaded down with seven types of sugary cereal, enough soda to fill a lap pool, two plastic squirt guns and one granny smith apple. The apple is for me, not Wyatt. Not that I have any plans to eat it. My job is to set a good example for him, but not necessarily be a role model.

  Saturday, July 23:

  Technically, we’re not violating the “no house parties” rule because his parents didn’t say anything about not going to a party at someone else’s house.

  “You can drink if you want,” Wyatt says. He’s dressed in his usual uniform of cargo shorts, a rude t-shirt and flip flops. I made him leave his mother’s sunglasses at home. “I’ll drive us back. No problem.”

  “There is no way I’m turning over the keys to the Volvo.” It’s late, but there’s still traffic heading into Malibu. “Anyway, drinking with teenagers has never been my thing, even when I was one.”

  I’m not in a bad mood, but in a mood. Cal and Jared both want to hang out this weekend and I was glad to have an excuse to turn them down, but that’ll be done with tomorrow when Wyatt’s parents come back. The only bright spot is that Glenn called and asked me to come in next week.

  “You’re boring, Brenda.” Wyatt shows his affection through insults. “It’s this house up here, Make a right.”

  The house is not a house, but an estate. We pull into the driveway, packed with cars that could have easily paid for my tuition three times over.

  “Lisbeth runs with a sophisticated crowd of a-holes,” Wyatt says, his voice cracking a bit with anxiety he’d never admit to. Lisbeth is the girl Wyatt has a crush on and no chance of scoring with. “There’ll be older people there, around your age.”

  “How awesome for all of us.”

  Sunday, July 24:

  My 450 square foot non-air conditioned apartment has never looked or smelled more like a dump than after a week away in a Pacific Palisades mansion.

  Monday, July 25:

  Glenn thinks Sherri is pregnant because she’s not PMSing as hard as she usually is. I can’t tell. Considering her level of bitch always seems about the same to me, I’ll trust that he knows her a little better than I do.

  Tuesday, July 26:

  Glenn had to rush to the supermarket to pick up a list of weird foods for Sherri, so he decided to call it an early day for both of us. Because I’m no dummy, I’m taking advantage of the pre-rush hour traffic to head over to my favorite magazine stand on Robertson.

  I park my car, take $20 out of my wallet and stash my purse in the trunk so I don’t blow all my cash on British fashion and gossip magazines. The guy who runs the stand knows me well enough to trust that I won’t try to shove a copy of Look or Hello down the front of my pants, so he goes back to his newspaper after giving me a nod.

  I grab a British Vogue and a Glamour, and am debating between a Hello or Paris Match (just for the pictures since my French is strictly high school) when a skinny blonde in a baseball cap, sunglasses and a teeny-tiny sundress that is stretched tight over her enormous fake breasts reaches over me for an Us Weekly.

  With each page she flips past, under her breath she says, “Slut. Gay. Asshole. Gay slut. Lying sack of motherfucking shit.”

  She grabs a few more magazines and pays for them before driving away in a shiny new white Mercedes.

  The magazine guy comes to stand next to me, but he’s looking over my head at the speeding Mercedes and its foul-mouthed driver. “That was Nicolette Meyers.”

  “Really?” I didn’t get a good look at her face and I can’t tell one fake rake from another. I’m not sure who Nicolette Meyers is, but she sounds vaguely familiar.

  “She comes a few times a week. She wants me to tip off the paparazzi.”

  I nod at him and realize he’s waiting for me to say something. “She’s a lot shorter than I thought she would be.”

  “They always are. Do you want a bag for those?”

  I shake my head, pay for my magazines and walk up the street to the Starbucks to hide out for a few hours.

  Wednesday, July 27:

  Sherri has purchased five different kinds of pregnancy tests to take on Friday, the earliest her pee will predict her future. If any (or all) are positive, she’s putting herself on bed rest for the remainder of the summer and I don’t have to worry about scrounging for a job until September. If none are positive, she’s going to drive over, hop on Glenn right then and there and fix that issue. Both Glenn and I are praying for double pluses on this one.

  Thursday, July 28:

  My ear got yelled into today by a client of Glenn’s who accused me of not grasping the gravity of his situation even after I bumped another client so he could come in for a same day appointment. By the time he showed up (late!), I was ready to lay some passive-aggressive hate on him (with Glenn's okay.)

  The prick sabotaged my plans by showing up with a Dipped Fruit Bouquet from Edible Arrangements and a gift card to Starbucks. (He'd called Glenn to find out what I liked). When he handed it over, my "Thank you!" wasn't sarcastic or bitchy. It was real. I know this makes it seem like I'm easily bought, but I really appreciate $60 chocolate covered fruit and not having to pay for my lattes for the next two weeks.

  I was in such a good mood when I left work, I called up Jared and we ate my fruity bouquet before he ate mine. And that earned him a great big "Thank you!"

  Friday, July 29:

  With Sherri not being knocked up, I need to fend for myself for August. Sherri has this idea that if she keeps busy at the office and stays close to Glenn for as many hours as possible, it’ll encourage her eggs and his sperm to get in sync with one another. Hopefully, Glenn will do his duty and get his wife preggers. I should send him some vitamin shakes to make his spooge extra pregnancy inducing.

  Saturday, July 30:

  Jared is slumped over on my Ikea couch. He’s been moping because I read his screenplay and didn’t exactly love it. Telling him I didn’t hate it either wasn’t enough to make him feel any better. Jared heaves a sigh and blinks his puppy dog eyes at me. Instead of making me feel bad, I want to reach over and strangle him. Just a little bit.

  But I can’t. Last night, watching a rerun of The Simpsons, I got a bit tingly when Marge and Homer made out. Jared, for all his pouting, is a sure thing.

  “Super cute!” I hold up an A-line skirt with cheery yellow embroidery. “Don’t you think so?”

  Jared shrugs. “I guess so.”

  “I’ll try it on.” I slip it over my jeans and twirl in front of him, rolling my eyes when I’m not facing him. Sometimes a girlfriend has to flirt like a mad woman to make her boyfriend feel like a man. “What do you think now, lover?”

  “Its fine,” he says with another shrug.

  “Fine isn’t good enough—I paid retail. I’ll give you the full effect.”

  I wriggle out of my
jeans, losing a flip flop in one of the legs. I stand on my tip toes and look alluring. Jared sets aside his book and reaches for me. I settle down onto his lap and reach down, but he puts a hand on top of mine to stop me.

  “Let’s just sit here for a bit. I hardly ever get to hold you. Okay?”

  “Okay.” I force myself to relax and stare at a hairline crack in the wall until it gets blurry.

  Sunday, July 31:

  Maya’s back! And she managed to get from the airport to my apartment without having to call me for a ride—or even call me to tell me she was coming back. Still, I’m not annoyed that she barged in on me and Jared while we were not sleeping. In the future, she won’t make the mistake of not knocking before she opens a closed door.

  The Big Tease

  August 1 to September 2

  Monday, August 1:

  I was all set to take the day, the week and maybe even the rest of the month off and hang out with Jared and Maya (maybe even Cal), but just as we made plans to take a road trip to the Grand Canyon, Amy the cow texted me. Now I can’t go anywhere because I’m on the top of the on-call list.

  I’ll just have to sit around and wait. On-call sucks.

  Tuesday, August 2:

  Working a one-day assignment is a waste of everyone’s time, especially when the job is to cover for someone who’s unlucky enough to have come down with a chronic case of jury duty. I’m here today, might not be here tomorrow and the office manager doesn’t know what to do with me.

  I’m shown to a desk and told someone will be around in a minute to tell me what I’m supposed to do. While I wait, I pull out my emergency temp kit. In a large Ziploc bag I have tampons, a bottle of Advil, band-aids, hand sanitizer, anti-bacterial wipes, safety pins, a stain remover stick and a copy of 100 Years of Solitude that’s taking me a hundred years to read. I use one of the wipes to clean the phone, keyboard and desktop surface trying not to move things around too much.

  The person I’m supposed to be for the day has three kids and boyfriend. I know he’s the boyfriend because he’s about 10 years younger than her and doesn’t appear in any pictures with her kids. The phone rings. I look around, but no one is coming my way.

  “Hello. May I help you?” As I don’t know what I’m supposed to be helping with, this is a risky thing to offer right off the bat.

  “Ohmygawd, Tanisha! He called. I told you he would! And I told him if he thinks he’s going to be my man, he has to do more than show up at my place with a hard dick on Friday nights. So he starts in about how he has to see his kids and how his ex-wife is such a bitch and won’t let him. What a load of crap! He can’t stand his kids and I know he’s still fucking that bitch. I told him that if he wants to be with me and sleep in my bed, he has to put me first. Before his kids, his job, everything.”

  She pauses, waiting for Tanisha to agree with her. “I’m sorry, but Tanisha is on jury duty. She might be back tomorrow. Or not.”

  “Why are you answering her phone! That’s an invasion of her privacy.” She’s mad, but whatever.

  “If Tanisha is taking personal calls at work on company time, then that’s a violation of her employee contract.” I have no idea if this is true, but it sounds true. “I’ll be informing her supervisor. Thank you for calling.”

  “Fuck—”

  I hang up on her. I doubt she’s pissed enough to come over from where she is to kick my ass. And if I get in trouble, I don’t really care. I swivel around in Tanisha’s chair, adjusting it so it feels more comfortable. When the supervisor scurries over with a stack of files for me to shred, I’m more than ready to be Tanisha for the day.

  Wednesday, August 3:

  Big surprise. I wasn’t asked back. Worse, Tanisha’s blabby friend got a hold of her at the courthouse and Tanisha called her supervisor who called Amy the cow who has put a warning letter in my file. Now I have to go into the agency tomorrow to get a talking to and there’s never any parking around there, so I’ll have to pay to park in a lot.

  August isn’t shaping up to be as great as I hoped it would be.

  Thursday, August 4:

  Amy isn’t a cow in person, but she sure is bitchy. She kept me waiting for 20 minutes and now another 20 have passed which means that I’m going to have to fork over at least $12 to the parking lot attendant to get my car keys back.

  “I’m sorry.” I repeat my earlier apology even though I’m not sorry. I am sorry that my perfect record is ruined because I answered the phone and told some stranger she shouldn’t be wasting some employee’s company’s time with her stupid gossip. “It won’t happen again.”

  “Not with them it won’t.” Amy jabs at the keyboard. Her fingernails are a mess, she must chew on them. I guess wrangling temps is a lot more stressful than I thought it was. “You’re blacklisted from that place. And I don’t have anything else for the rest of the week.”

  “That’s okay.” It’s not, but Amy probably wouldn’t care if I told her.

  “We do have a couple of temp-to-perm assignments. Have you given any thought to that?” Amy asks.

  “You mean like work somewhere? Forever?” I’ve never had a steady full-time job. Even when I worked at the mall during the summer, I always knew I’d move to a new store as soon as school started again. “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Health insurance? A 401k?” She gives me a motherly look even though she’s not more than five years older than me. “Don’t you want to settle down?”

  “No.” Right now I don’t need good advice. I need to go to work so that I don’t have to think about next week or even tomorrow. “But thanks.”

  Amy looks at me with her big brown eyes that are, yes, slightly cowish. “Maybe it’s time you started working toward something.”

  “Okay. Sure. Thanks.”

  I ease my hand out of hers and try to give her a reassuring smile. She doesn’t need to worry about me. Eventually, I’ll figure things out.

  Friday, August 5:

  Today my workday will consist of returning stuff to the mall. Rent’s due on Monday and I doubt Mr. Papadakis will take payment in a Kate Spade purse, Philosophy body lotion, Burberry sunglasses and a half dozen Victoria’s Secret underpants. Okay, maybe the panties, but only if they’re not new.

  Saturday, August 6:

  Caught Maya whispering into her cell phone while she was crouched in the shower stall. She denied that it was Armie on the other end, but her face was all pink and her eye twitched like it does when she’s lying or has gas. Considering that I was going in there to text Cal who wants to see me tonight, I couldn’t really work up a believable self-righteous tirade. I left her alone and texted him from my car.

  Sunday, August 7:

  Maya’s turning 25 in a few weeks and she wants to go to Vegas and stay at the Aria. She heard it’s expensive and, as far as Maya is concerned, expensive means more fun. Motel 8 is expensive for me, but her daddy is footing the bill so all I need to pony up is good company. Maya will more than get her daddy’s money’s worth. I might not like Vegas (intense sun, heat and jacked through the roof air conditioning aren’t my thing), but I do like the idea of an almost free weekend getaway.

  Monday, August 8:

  By my fourth paper cut, I’m ready to scream. I’m scanning a backlog of insurance documents and even though there are free cold drinks in the break room, nothing can make up for actual blood loss.

  I wander out from the cubicle I’ve been stuck in since I rushed over after Amy called me before 7 this morning, and take a turn around the office floor, going the long way to the bathroom. People are hunched over phones or computers looking like they need either a cigarette or a bullet in the head. They seem to spend most of their days denying chemotherapy claims of grandmas and trying to figure out who’s stealing lunches out of the fridge. Next to an emergency room in Rwanda, this has to be the most depressing place on the face of the earth.

  “Hey!” Cal pops up and waves me over to his cubicle. We were separated after the first hour b
ecause the office manager said we were distracting people with our chatter.

  I scurry over, ducking low so I don’t get caught. “I swear, I’m going to kill myself if I have to scan one more damn sheet of paper.”

  “Chillax, my friend. I just heard that there are some juicy bookings to be had, but we have to move fast.” Cal has flirted his way into Amy’s cold, cold heart so he’s moved to the top of her favorite people list. “We can blow this place like a teenage runaway at a truck stop.”

  “Sounds good.” If I want to have some spending money for Vegas, I need to work as many hours as I can book. “Any idea what the jobs are?”

  “Amy is going to text me this afternoon.” Cal stands up, his chair squeaking. “Let’s go to lunch.”

  “It’s not even 11 yet.” I feel like a nerd pointing this out, but I don’t want to get in trouble. I’m not going to get written up again, especially by Amy. I don’t need another one of her “What are you going to do with your life?” lectures. “And I’m not hungry.”

  “Liar.” Cal makes a face at me and tugs at his sloppily knotted tie. “Fine then. Go back to your hole and I’ll come get you in an hour.”

  “I’ll do that.” As I walk away, the office manager trains her beady eyes on me. I head back to the cubicle knowing I’ll have to hold my pee for an hour.

  Tuesday, August 9:

  Cal made sweet text with Amy and for the rest of the week he’s working out of TempOne doing intake interviews for hopeful temps. It can get tedious (you’d be surprised how many people aren’t qualified to do anything, even temporarily), but he’s earning top dollar for his suffering.

  And I’m stuck scanning sheets of paper for eight hours without any hope of being distracted by his farting noises and yeast infection jokes. I don’t resent Cal for not being here, but he could have at least called me to let me know he was bailing. Instead I showed up halfway looking forward to the rest of the week only to discover just how much more this temp assignment could suck.