The Brenda Diaries (3 page)

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.

This is how tutoring went: I sat there for two hours on Tuesday and another three on Wednesday and tried to figure out how we could turn his vocabulary of “huh,” “umm” and “like” into an essay about Kafka’s
The Metamorphosis
. I struggled until I was red in the face.

Finally, Wyatt took pity on me and came right out and said I should just write it for him, which is the arrangement all his prep school friends have with their tutors. He added that not only were his parents totally cool with this, they’d fire me if I didn’t do it because they’re not paying me $40 an hour (plus expenses) for him not to pass his English class.

I should have known something was up, but his parents, who are movie producers, were super nice and kind of hip for people who are in their 40s. At the interview, I asked about meeting their kid, but they said he was busy with swim practice or reading to the blind or whatever lie they’ve convinced themselves is true about Wyatt.

How can people be so blind and not see they’re ruining their kid? But it’s not my job to teach adults how to be better parents. My job is to make Wyatt understand why
The Metamorphosis
is more than just a Wikipedia page.

By hour five, I realized I had a choice to make. Would I stand on principle, get up and walk out or pocket the $250 that was waiting for me in an envelope on the hall table? What would you do?

What I did was write his essay for him, but I didn’t give it my all. If he gets higher than a B, it’s obvious the other turd buckets’ tutors are trying way too hard or getting paid more than I am.

Friday, April 8:

Maya is insisting we go out tonight. It won’t be a sophisticated dinner enjoyed by two college educated women. No. We’re going on a bar crawl that won’t end until Maya finds someone’s bed (or backseat) to crawl into. Joy.

Saturday, April 9:

Maya is still asleep. Unfortunately, she’s doing this sleeping in my bed. Plenty of guys offered to buy us drinks and while she didn’t turn any of them down, she did keep talking about this guy she’s supposedly in love with. By the time she realized she needed to change tactics, she was too drunk to do much more than keep from falling on her face. I lugged her home and was so exhausted that I didn’t bother to kick her out of my bed when she clambered in next to me at 5 AM.

I hope she wakes up soon. For once, I’m in the mood for brunch-type food. I’ll even put up with her talking about this supposed love of her life if she pays for my waffles.

Sunday, April 10:

I invited Jared over to do laundry at my place. If this doesn’t lead to sex on or near my Kenmore, I’ll be seriously bummed out. I mean, how much more obvious do I have to be?

Monday, April 11:

Working for Glenn again this week. Most of the appointments are for filing extensions which means they’ll be back in a few weeks to cut some painful checks. Suffice to say, these jerks never bring me any leftover swag. They’re the kind of people who drive around in their Mercedes looking for parking meters with time left on them.

Tuesday, April 12:

Have to make sure Mr. X’s appointment time is moved so he doesn’t have to see his soon to be ex Mrs. X who can’t be scheduled on the same day as the woman who her husband is leaving her for. This is why I’m worth every penny Glenn pays me. 

Wednesday, April 13:

Even though I hate when other people do it, I call Summer while I’m in line at Starbucks for lattes for me and Glenn. Theo wants to book me for next week and Summer wants to know if I’m willing to drop another assignment to work for him instead. Both of us would make more money if I do.

“He asked for me? By name?” I try to keep my voice low, self-conscious that the people directly in front and in back of me can hear me talking about my business.

“You and only you,” Summer says. “Is there something going on you want to tell me about?”

“Don’t be gross, Summer. He’s like 40 or something. He’s married and has a girlfriend. Plus, it’s gross. He’s got issues. Like the kind which only a dominatrix can deal with.”

“Oh! Like that movie about the guy and the girl.... What was it called? You know where she gets the mail?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Summer.” I do but I don’t want to add fuel to her gossip fire. “I have to go.”

“So you’ll do it?” She already knows I will. In the end, money is money and I’d rather earn more of it than less.

“Yes. But don’t read anything into it. He’s just a client.” I hang up, aware that my one sided conversation has given those listening all sorts of ideas of what I might do for a living.

“Hi, what can I getcha?” the cashier asks.

“Two grande triple lattes. Actually, make one a venti.” I have nothing more to hide so I might as well get what I really want. 

Thursday, April 14:

You know those words no guy wants to hear? No, not “I’m late.” The other ones. Yeah, those. Well, instead of me saying “We need to talk,” a few days ago I heard them come out of Jared’s mouth instead. According to him, we needed to talk about us. I fully own up to not being one of those cuddly, super supportive girlfriends who needs constant reassurance that the sun rises and sets on her happy, fat face. I keep my feelings to myself and believe everyone should do the same.

So what did he want to talk about? Feelings! All sorts of feelings! How he feels about me, how I feel (or don’t) about him, how we make each other feel about ourselves and each other. Then he put me on the spot by asking “Do you consider me your boyfriend?” He gave me all of a bathroom break to think about it. Jared can be pushy when he wants to, which is really surprising because he’s usually so very mellow about everything except parking tickets.

As I flossed my teeth, I thought very hard about where I want my personal life to go. I wasn’t sure I even wanted a boyfriend since they take up so much time and I’d been pretty okay with not having one since I managed to get rid of the last guy. Relationships are like work, but you don’t get paid in money. Instead you get sex and someone to hang out with.

I worked the floss between my molars and realized that my life would suck a little bit more if Jared wasn’t in it. When it comes down to it, isn’t that what being in a relationship is about? I tossed the floss into the trash can (something Sluthammer never manages to do with floss or tampon wrappers) and marched out of the bathroom. Jared looked up from my
Lucky
magazine with those big puppy dog eyes of his that got all round and slightly teary when I told him, “Yes, you’re my boyfriend. Whatever. Okay? Let’s go get something to eat.”

At Johnny Rockets, the one at Farmers Market next to the Grove, which is my favorite place to eat after something stressful happens, he made a big show of eating off my plate, calling me “honey” and being so damn boyfriendy, it made me lose my appetite. He asked what we’re doing this weekend, if I wanted to spend the night at his place, if I’d go shirt shopping with him and on and on. I tried to wave him off so I could focus on getting my throat to stop constricting, but he kept gushing all over me about how happy he was. He never asked me if I was or wasn’t. He just assumed it was all lollipops and rainbows for me, too.

Thing is, Jared is a really nice guy. No, not nice. Anyone can be nice, he’s kind and kindness comes from being a genuinely good person. He’s also the kind person who wants to be kind to me 24 hours a day. As I watched him pay for my hot dog, fries and banana chocolate milkshake, I couldn’t help wondering what he sees in me.

Yeah, all those feelings I’ve been avoiding for most of my 23 years on this planet are now biting me in the butt. Great.