The Brenda Diaries (8 page)

“Pass.” While I like depositing fat checks into my bank account, I’m not in the mood to be a reluctant dominatrix. “What else is there? Something that doesn’t suck, preferably, but I’m flexible.”

“It’s really light, Brenda, but….” Summer knows I’ll take just about any assignment. “There’s something in Glendale. Telemarketing. And the pay is not great.”

It’s a pain in the ass to commute and I’ve never done any telemarketing, but it’s either that or Theo or nothing. “I’ll take it.”

Saturday, June 11:

I decided to read in bed and that turned into an almost five hour coma. Worse, I had a green apple Jolly Rancher in my mouth when I fell asleep. I bet I’ve rotted my teeth and will have to get dentures or something.

My big plans for what’s left of my Saturday are to brush and floss my teeth a lot and be in a bad mood. My toilet is still making weird noises so I have to shut off the water to get any quiet. Then I have to turn it back on to flush it. Maya is fighting with Armie so she’s moping on my couch watching Lifetime lady crack movies.

Jared wants to come over, but I can’t face another marathon of kissy face and hand holding. There’s only so much PDA one person should be forced to put up with for the sake of not hurting the other person’s feelings. I agreed to go to brunch with him tomorrow so he’s just going to have to find something else to pet to tide him over until then.

Cal texted. He wants to hang out. Told him I’m in a foul mood, but he likes grouchy girls. I know if I say yes, I won’t be home until right before my brunch date with Boyfriend and I’ll feel worse than I already do. Yeah, no thanks.

This grouchy girl is staying home and wondering how soon she can go back to sleep.

Sunday, June 12:

Oh, happy day. Ivan just told me that Mr. Papadakis has given the okay to replace my janked up toilet. It’s like Christmas has come early, but this time I’m actually getting something I want and can use. Joy!

Monday, June 13:

Having broken my no-job-on-the-other-side-of-the-405 rule by taking this telemarketing temp assignment in Glendale, I’m going to swallow my bitching about the hour it took me to drive a dozen or so miles. (It’s a bit more since I got off the freeway and drove around equally clogged surface streets before admitting defeat and making the slow crawl back onto the freeway.)

And while I’ll admit to having my own deep seated negative feelings about telemarketers, I’m going to do my best to turn around those stereotypes and make the cold calling experience a good one both for me and the person on the other end of the phone line. If anything, I get to learn a new skill (which will go near the top of my resume right under gift bag stuffing).

Tuesday, June 14:

Okay, I get it. My landlord, Mr. Papadakis, is old and maybe he or his parents grew up during the Depression (not this one, the other one) and he can’t help being super thrifty. Still, I don’t see how he thinks replacing my toilet with one that’s older and PINKER makes any sort of sense.

Maya finds this all very hilarious. So funny that she couldn’t keep herself from snapping a pic and sending it to me, along with her compliments on my new “vintage commode.”

Ivan told Maya he tried to talk Mr. Papadakis out of it, but was told I’d like it because I’m a girl and it’s pink and sometimes I wear pink.

Jared who, as my boyfriend, is supposed to be on my side texts that he can’t use a pink toilet—it’s “emasculating.” This from a guy who owns
The Notebook
. On Blu-ray. 

Screw it. I’m going to buy a real new toilet and ask Ivan to install it. Mr. Papadakis doesn’t need to know. If he wants to come visit the vintage one, I’ll make up some reason to keep him out of my apartment. I can’t toss it—I have secret dreams of moving someday—so I’ll have to stash the pink toilet in my parents’ garage or risk losing my security deposit.

Toilet subterfuge, that’s what my life has come to.

Wednesday, June 15:

I’ve never had any desire to join the armed services, but I’ve seen enough movies set in boot camps to be absolutely convinced it’s an absolute miserable experience. Telemarketing is kind of the same thing. It’s physically, emotionally and mentally taxing—without the fresh air.

For every “No, thank you, we’re not interested” I get 10 a-holes who have been stockpiling their hate to spew in my ear as soon as they find out why I’m interrupting their marathon
Divorce Court
,
Judge Judy
and
Maury Povich
watching. I always suspected people were mean, bitter and spiteful, and this job confirms it.

Thursday, June 16:

After almost an entire week of heavy duty customer service (mostly for customers who don’t want to be serviced) I’m not surprised my workdays as a telemarketer have started to mess with my after work life. People are weird in general and when a computer is dialing random 310 area code phone numbers, at least one weirdo was bound to wind up in my ear.

My last call yesterday lasted a whole 10 minutes and the guy didn’t end up scheduling a free appraisal for the stucco siding on his home. Worse, it took me that long to realize he was jerking off. Then he hung up on me without so much as a thank you.

I’m giving my chipper pitch for stucco siding and that guy is saying, “So does it go on smooth or rough? How rough? Tell me how rough? Can I have half of it done smooth? Real smooth?” I’m as dense as a bucket of stucco.

So I wasn’t really in the mood to get it on with Jared after that. Of course, when he dangled the offer of Thai food and a new DVD of
Pride & Prejudice
, I couldn’t say no even though I didn’t quite say yes to sex. I gave him a strong maybe with the intention of saying yes (Pad Thai! Tom Yum Goon! My favorite movie!), but when it came down to it he might as well have been a random 310 computer-dialed phone number.

Jared was super understanding, but I could tell he was a bit blue in the balls. Since boning was off the table, he wanted to talk instead. So I pounced on him and it was almost as good as my second bowl of Tom Yum Goon.

Friday, June17:

I’m guzzling atrocious vending machine coffee as if there’s an answer to my prayers at the bottom of the paper cup. When it comes to temps and horrible assignments, it seems God has other things to deal with.

Saturday, June 18:

Even though I’m not in the mood to go to Jared’s ex-girlfriend’s engagement party, at least dressed the part. A very “I don’t care you boned him before me and now you’ve gone on to boning someone who must be better than him because you’re marrying him and not the guy I’m boning who you boned first” dress from, of course, Anthropologie. It might be all the DayQuil I’ve popped for this cold or flu I’ve come down with, but I’m feeling kind of spry about the whole thing.

Sunday, June 19:

I seem to have made quite an ass of myself at the engagement party. While I can righteously blame an ill advised mixing of DayQuil and fruity alcoholic drinks, I don’t think Jared’s ex Emily, her fiancée Kurt and, yeah, even Jared are going to give me a pass…like the one I made at Emily’s grandpa. 

Monday, June 20:

As a rule, people who are sick should do the world a favor and stay home until they’re not hacking their lungs up. And, under normal circumstances, I’d be home in bed, nursing my cold/flu/whatever. With everyone mad at me, I’ve subjected myself to all manner of over-the-counter remedies in hopes of masking my most hideous symptoms.

Unfortunately, I didn’t buy anything for my stomach, which started turning cartwheels when I saw my archrival temp Priss sitting in the conference room where we have to wait to be told what we’ll be doing this week. The only empty seat is a folding chair right behind her fried, highlighted hair.

“I guess they just put out a blanket call and are taking everybody. They must be desperate,” Priss says with a quick glance over her shoulder in my direction.

My brain is muddled with an over-the-counter chemical cocktail so by the time I come up with a retort (“It sure does look that way, bitch.”), the office manager, Maureen, walks into the room. I have to swallow my outrage along with a glop of snot from my still runny nose.

Tuesday, June 21:

I’ve spent the last few days apologizing to people. First to Jared for embarrassing him at his ex-girlfriend’s engagement party. Then to his ex-girlfriend for a DayQuil-fruity alcoholic drink induced flirt fest aimed at her fiancé. (No way in hell am I apologizing for not getting back to her fiancé about the supposed dinner date I agreed to. If he’s dumb enough to complain about that to her, she should thank me for cluing her in to what a tool he is.)

And then there was my sorry to Maya for encouraging her to drown her Armie sorrows in a bag of Hershey’s Kisses. Now she claims her married boyfriend will never take her back because she’s gained a whole pound. To prove I’m really sorry, I promised to run the Santa Monica steps with her after work even though I’m not over my cold/flu.

All this sorry saying has made it almost like a bad habit, which is why my sorry of this morning when I bumped into Priss as we passed each other in the copy room was totally not sincere. It was a reflex! If anything, she was at fault. I was going in and she was going out and everyone knows that people going in have priority. She should have stepped aside, but she didn’t and I ended up saying “Sorry!” before I realized it was her.

I’m done apologizing. From this moment on, everyone is just going to have to suck it. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is.

Wednesday, June 22:

Jared is ignoring my calls, texts and emails, and short of paying for a skywriting message, I’ve run out of ideas on how to let him know that I’m beyond sorry about everything that’s horrible in the universe (least of which is my engagement party faux pas in front of his super cool friends). But desperate times call for desperate measures so I’m buying him that damn porkpie hat I mocked him out of getting. I’ll even let him pork me while he’s wearing it. If that doesn’t prove I’m sorry, nothing will.

Thursday, June 23:

I’m not a fan of trash talking my own gender, but the sad truth is that when you get a whole lot of women and girls together weird things happen. Menstrual cycles become synchronized and a seven floor elevator ride turns into
The Lord of the Flies
, abridged, but with chicks.

“Maureen?”  I approach the office manager tentatively. She runs hot and cold, literally. She’s going through menopause, but is so devoid of body fat, she gets the shivers if there’s too much ice in her Diet Coke. “I’m done with the data entry project.”

“Already?” She fans herself with a sheaf of papers as a hot flash starts to creep up on her. “That was supposed to last until the end of the week. You must a very fast typist.”

“Well, yeah, typing sort of comes naturally to me. So I can work on something else now. Maybe on that newsletter project you mentioned this morning. After all, I’m a fast typist.”

Maureen plays favorites and I’m not one of them. Priss, of course, is. She’s been floating around, weaving between cubicles with a clipboard making sure everyone else is doing what they’re supposed to. And I’ve found out she’s getting paid $2 more an hour than me to do it.

“Uh….” Maureen fans herself, her face growing another shade of red. Off comes her cardigan.

“I minored in creative writing and was an editor for the annual student publication.” I say this fast, hoping I can get her okay before she yanks off her blouse. “We won a few awards.”

“Well….” This is as far as Maureen gets before Priss rushes in with a glass of Diet Coke with just enough ice in it. She gulps it down, her eyes closed in rapture. “Thank you, Priss. You saved my life.”

“Don’t mention it, Maureen.” Priss gives me a smug smile.

“Should I get started on the newsletter?” I ask—even though I know I’ve already lost any chance of climbing out of the data entry hole I’ve dug for myself.

“Oh, that?” Priss says in a mock innocent voice. “I’ve been working on it. I had no idea you were interested in anything besides data entry, Brenda, since you’re so good at it. This is totally my fault, Maureen.”

“It’s fine, Priss.” Maureen pats Priss’s hand and takes another gulp of soda before she gets around to my fate. “Brenda, why don’t you just focus on the data entry for now? We can find you something else for tomorrow.”

“Well, I’m not sure, Maureen—” Priss starts.

“Fine. Data entry. I’m on it. Thanks.” I stomp back to my desk, cursing myself for letting myself be bested by bitchy Priss and a can of cold Diet Coke. 

Friday, June 24:

Jared sent me a picture of him and some chick with fake boobs to go along with her fake blond hair. Worse, he was wearing that damn porkpie hat I gave him as a peace offering. I knew he was still mad at me when we met on Wednesday, but I never thought he’d stoop to this.  I’m not sure if I should be hurt that another girl was all over him or offended that he stooped to such a pathetic cliché to get back at me. A fake blond with fake boobs at a bar? He went to Harvard—I expected at least a smidgen of originality.