The Brenda Diaries

THE BRENDA DIARIES

Margo Candela

Also by Margo Candela:

Life Observed: reality meets fiction

Good-bye To All That

More Than This

Life Over Easy

Underneath It All

Copyright © Margo Candela 2011

Published by SugarMissile, llc

ISBN: 978-0-9840299-0-7

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locals or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portion thereof in any form whatsoever.

SugarMissile, llc

920 Santa Monica Blvd. #112

Santa Monica, CA 90401

Cover Design: LittleMagenta

Cover Image: Steve Cole Images

This Is The Day

Monday, October 3

Hello, my name is Brenda. I’m 23 years old, a Phi Beta Kappa graduate from a second tier university with a degree in sociology (kind of useless unless I want to make a career out of helping people), a minor in creative writing (even more useless because writing for a living is no way to make a living), and enough student loan debt to choke a small horse. I’m 5’6” with brown hair that’s usually not, and a full-on vegetarian one week out of the year. I’m an only child (which never bothered me) and, if I had to choose between having a cat or dog as a pet, I’d go for a nice, hearty cactus plant.

What I did to keep a roof over my head, my student loan payments current and mascara on my lashes took me a couple of months to get the hang of and accept that it was what I’d be doing with myself for the foreseeable future. (That Phi Beta Kappa award did inflate my ego for a while.) Once I figured out how to work it, I was hooked. There was no going back to a normal job—not that I could find one in this monkey ball sucking economy.

This is how it worked: I would get a phone call or a text with an address and what the client expected for X amount of dollars and X amount of hours. I’d get half an hour to decide if it was worth my time and trouble. Usually, it was. This line of work forced me to admit that there wasn’t a whole lot I wouldn’t do—especially if the rate was right. I’ll also admit that I didn’t do it just for the money. Sometimes—with gas, travel time and general aggravation—I barely broke even.

I did it because I really liked the work. Rather, I really liked
to
work.

I’d answer phones, sort and file mounds of tiny slips of paper, enter strings of gibberish into spreadsheets, or just sit behind a reception desk and try my best to look helpful—even if I had no idea what exactly it was I was supposed to be doing to help. I took what I did very seriously knowing I wouldn’t be at any one place too long. My longest temp assignment was three months and my shortest just short of three hours, but I always gave each job the same level of commitment and attention.

Not that my life was all about work, even though I sometimes wished it was. Things got a little, well, messy at home—and just about everywhere else.

That's all you really need to know about me for now, the rest you’ll find out by reading my diary.

Emotional Vampires

February 28 to April 1

Monday, February 28:

My arrangement with Glenn, a certified public account, is strictly under the table. I come in for a week every month and help him get things in order so that he can go another three weeks without me. The rest of the time it’s his wife, Sherri, who is me. And, honestly, she doesn’t do a very good job. I usually spend the whole of Monday undoing the little she’s done, but after that it’s a pretty easy gig. Except that Glenn and Sherri have a lot of separation anxiety. They made this arrangement so they wouldn’t kill each other, but Sherri still comes by the office.

Even though this is strictly illegal and sometimes I go weeks without seeing him, I consider Glenn my boss. And Sherri is my second boss. But mostly she’s just his wife (even though it sometimes feels like I’m married to both of them).

“Brenda?” Glenn wanders over to my desk. His face bent over his brand new iPhone the whole time. He’s a gadget freak—anything shiny and new he has to have yesterday. “Did my wife call?”

“She hasn’t. Would you like me to call her?” I know he doesn’t. What he wants to know is how much longer he has before she shows up.

“Uh…” Glenn glances up and then back down at his phone. “No, that’s okay. Just let me know if she calls. Thanks.”

“Sure thing, Glenn.”

He goes back to his office, bumping into his desk before making it to his seat. Glenn is one of the most low maintenance people I’ve ever worked for and he pays for my Starbucks and lunch. Sherri, on the other hand, sometimes makes this job feel like work.

Tuesday, March 1:

Sherri snuck up on me while I was texting and scared the crap out of me. “Having boyfriend problems, Brenda?” she asked.

“Nope,” I said looking over at poor unsuspecting Glenn who hasn’t sensed the presence of his wife. She stayed away yesterday and I was holding out hope she’d set a new record for not coming around to be co-dependent with her husband. “No boyfriend problems.”

“Well, I am.” She says this in her usual hard, icy voice so I don’t know if she’s kidding. Mostly likely she is. As twisted as Sherri and Glenn’s relationship is, they don’t seem like the cheating types. Swingers, maybe, but not cheaters. “Is my husband keeping busy?”

I nod, but don’t say anything. I want her to go away. Sherri nods back and reaches into her tank top to adjust her cleavage before she slithers into Glenn’s office.

“Sherri!” Glenn leaps up from his desk and slams his laptop closed. He was looking at porn again. “Did you call? I didn’t get your call? Brenda? Did I miss a call?”

“Nope.” I keep my focus on the stack of papers I need to fax to clients for signatures.

“Do I have to call, lover? I thought it would be more exciting if I just showed up.” Her voice goes from icy to a purr.

“I’m going to pick up lunch.” I shield my eyes and grab my purse.

While it doesn’t gross me out that my boss and his wife have sex in the office—I guess it’s one of the perks of running your own business—I still don’t want to be here when it happens. And because I’m a good employee, I make sure to double lock the door behind me.

Wednesday, March 2:

Tax season is in full swing, which means the phone rings every other minute. People are badgering me to get them in to see Glenn and then they call the next day and cancel or they just don’t show up. I hope they all get audited.

Thursday, March 3:

Subjected myself to another date with Jared last night. Well, not sure if you could technically call it a date. He came by my apartment around 10 with a frozen pizza and a couple of DVDs—his oven and DVD player are on the fritz. He fell asleep after 3/4 of pizza and halfway into
Pineapple Express
. And for that I did a commercial break’s worth of kegals?

Of course, I made sure he made up for it before I had to leave for work this morning. No one falls asleep on my IKEA Extorp sofa bed and doesn’t put out. And while his sex pass went both downtown and uptown, I made sure he knew it was going to take a lot more than bad pizza and a DVD to get me to take any detours.

So now he’s texting me that I’m a tease (which I am and which he knows), but I have to pretend to work so I’m ignoring him because he doesn’t pay my rent. Hell, he doesn’t even take me out to the Olive Garden and a matinee, but he does know his way around my subway system.

As soon as I get a real boyfriend, I’m cooling things off with Jared. First, I need to get a job where I, like, feel I’ve accomplished something instead of just counting up my hours and how much money it means I’ll take home after taxes. I read this story about some guy who helped a village in Nepal get water through pipes and taps instead of the kids and women having to walk hours a day to a river. I’d totally go to that village and teach English, especially since they now have running water. I assume they also have the Internet. I’ll double check and make sure before emailing them.

Another text from Loser. I mean, Jared. He wants to know where I keep my cereal bowls, cereal and milk. Yes, he’s still at my apartment. There are plumbing issues at his place and I was pleasantly post-coital so I said he could take a quick shower. I never mentioned anything about him eating my food. I text him back to stay out of my kitchen and not leave wet towels on the bathroom floor. I hate that. Why do guys think it’s okay to do that? And they always use more than one towel, like it’s a spa or something and some nameless, silent attendant is going to make fresh towels appear in the blink of an eye.

Yeah, so Jared is going to get dumped any time now. Maybe I’ll meet someone while I’m fetching Glenn his lunch. He’s on a vegan kick and two or three times a week he has a veg and grain salad from a place he likes so much, I’m surprised he doesn’t divorce his wife for refusing to eat there. I don’t mind the schlep because of the kebab place next door. I get to load up on meat sticks which I eat at my desk while he argues with Sherri over the phone over her not supporting his veganness.

If Jared announced that he was a vegan, I’d dump his ass instantaneously. But I won’t do it tonight. We still have another DVD to watch and I’m in the mood for a trip downtown.

Friday, March 4:

Summer, my rep at TempOne, has scrounged up a last minute assignment for next week. She’s emailing me the details later so I have only a vague idea of what I’ve said yes to. Right now the only thing I care about is locking myself in my apartment and not coming out until Monday.

Saturday, March 5:

Screening calls. So far Jared has called twice and texted once. I’ll give it another text before I get back to him. Not to be mean, I just like things in even numbers.

Sunday, March 6:

Meeting Jared at my favorite magazine stand on Robertson. He thinks it’s a date. I just want to buy European fashion and gossip magazines. If he wants to pony up for something to eat and drink while I look at them, I’m okay with that. If he wants to come back to my place and have sex, I’m okay with that, too.

Monday, March 7:

I’m covering the reception desk at a real estate office while the regular receptionist is on her honeymoon. They only gave her a week off and they won’t pay for my parking. Cheap, unromantic bastards.

Tuesday, March 8:

Two agents are having a screaming match over a listing. I’m rooting for Marcie, a divorced mother of three who clued me in on how to get tampons out of the dispenser in the bathroom for free. Marcie is accusing Daniel, who wears way too much product in what’s left of his hair, of swooping in on her client and undercutting her by saying he’ll take .5% less on the standard commission if her client lists with him.

“You’re a dirty snake, Daniel! This is so unethical!” Marcie has broken out in hives. The more upset she gets, the more welts pop up.

“Calm down, Marcie. This is business.” Daniel looks scared, but not ashamed that he was caught. I guess a man who can walk around with hair plugs that look like a badly seeded lawn doesn’t let much get to him. “You need to calm down.”

“What’s going on here? Come on!” Bridget, the office manager, grabs each of them and frog marches them into a conference room.

I had no idea selling townhouses could be so full of intrigue and drama.

Wednesday, March 9:

Daniel isn’t in the office today. Marcie told me in the ladies’ room this morning that she was going to punch him in the nuts. Kind of disappointed—it’s been a long time since I’ve seen a good nut punch. I guess I’ll have to get my jollies by being unique and signing up for a Twitter account.

Thursday, March 10:

Guess who’s in town? Yes, that bitch Maya. Guess whose place she’s crashing at? Yes, this bitch’s. Maya, broken up with her married boyfriend and sick of freezing her ass off in Chicago, wants to make a real go of it in Los Angeles and realize her (month-old) dream of becoming a singer. She majored in STDs in college and won a few karaoke contests so she thinks this is all it takes to become the next Katy Perry.

Hell, maybe she’s right. As she’s pointed out about a dozen times since I picked her up at the airport, my career as a social media juggernaut hasn’t quite taken off. Maya has always had a gift for being blunt. Her nickname in college was Sledgehammer (which I tweaked to Sluthammer, but she has no idea I was behind this and I’d like to keep it that way).

Why do I hang out with her? Why do I consider her my best friend? Why didn’t I buy a case of Lysol so I could spray down the toilet seat after she goes to the bathroom? Because I had no idea she was coming until I got her frantic phone call from LAX at 6 this morning.

Maya didn’t bother to bring her own laptop or cell phone, so been using mine. She says she’s looking for a job, but she’s really stalking her ex who’s too dumb to change his passwords. Maya keeps asking if I think she’s a bad person for getting involved with a married man. There’s no right answer, so I just tell her I want her to be happy even though I’m glad she’s miserable. Actually, Maya is always miserable or making someone else miserable. It seems to make her stronger and she’s never happier than when despair is on the menu. Too bad she can’t clothe, feed and house herself on that particular talent.

I have to go to work soon and am going to sneak out with my laptop. I don’t need her breaking into my email account and finding out I’ve been sending out resumes to some really lame jobs. Maya thinks I’m not living up to my potential, which I’m totally not, but coming from her it’s not much of an incentive to start podcasting my really deep hatred for my latest temp assignment and posting snippets of my dating life on YouTube. I know enough about the Internet to know that I just need one video that people will flock to.

Yesterday I saw a squirrel with a lollipop. True! It was the sweetest and cutesiest thing ever and I didn’t have my cell phone. Maya did. So it’s her fault I didn’t get a chance at Internet stardom and that I’m going to have to figure out some other way to achieve my potential. I doubt I’ll be able to find another lollipop loving squirrel unless I’m willing to stage it, which I totally am.

I want my couch, laptop and cell phone back. If I can’t have any of those, I’ll settle for liberating a can of Lysol from work. You know what? The mess Maya has made of her life actually makes me feel like I have mine together. Now to find that squirrel and get my juggernaut rolling.

Friday, March 11:

Going to the movies. Not telling Maya or Jared, but did tell Bridget, the office manager, I was getting a pap smear so I could leave early.
Battle: L.A.
you better be worth it.

Saturday, March 12:

Maya is intent on making good on her threat to become someone’s girlfriend before the month is over. She’s gone clubbing to hook herself a replacement. I’m staying in with Jared. He’s bringing over a selection of DVDs that are supposed to elevate my taste in movies. What I’m looking forward to is ordering pizza from the place that has the cute delivery guys.

Sunday, March 13:

Maya hasn’t been to bed, but she’s up for brunch. I’ll go, but first she needs to put on something that won’t get her arrested or me mistaken for her pimp.