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Double fail: I get rejected for my dream job AND I get dumped

16 Dec

I haven’t written anything on here for a month. But in my defence, it’s been a really tough, shitty month.

I got an interview for my dream job at a national newspaper, a place I interned at while I was at university and have been desperate to get my foot back in the door there ever since. I cancelled all my plans – including an annual trip to see my oldest and bestest girlfriends and a Beth Orton concert with my sister – and spent a week solidly prepping for it.

The interview went well, or so I thought. Then last week I got a rejection email. Apparently I was a “very strong candidate” but some of my answers were not quite “specific enough”. I spent the rest of the day at work with a smile so fixed it felt like my face might crack and then bawled my eyes out in the car on the way home for the entire 45 minute journey, with nothing to dry my tears and wipe my snotty nose except the gross yellow duster I use to clean my windscreen.

The annoying thing is, the job was nothing I hadn’t done before in previous roles. I think perhaps nerves got the better of me at the interview and I rambled a bit. I should have popped two Beta Blockers beforehand instead of one. Or maybe three.

Then today I got dumped. For the second time this year.

I was due to go and see T. in London this weekend, and when I texted him to see what train I should book, he called me. I figured something was wrong because he never calls me, he only ever texts. We chatted for a bit about our weekend and I started to think I was just being paranoid as he was being perfectly normal. Then I decided to bite the bullet and asked if he still wanted me to visit.

To cut a long story short, he likes me but he doesn’t want to lead me on; he’s not sure he’s ready for this to get more serious as he just got out of an eight year relationship earlier this year; he drunkenly kissed another girl a couple of weeks ago (!) and feels really guilty about it, if I’d got the job at the national newspaper things might be different because I’d be moving to London but keeping things going long distance feels like a lot of pressure, blah, blah, blah.

The thing is, he was so nice about it that I actually ended up consoling him. “It doesn’t matter that you kissed someone else because we’d never really talked about what was going on between us” … “If you’re not comfortable with this then I’d rather you say so now rather than stringing me along” … “Thanks for being honest with me”… “Don’t worry, I’m not half as devastated as I was about the job”….

I am a fool and a push-over and right now it feels like I’m destined to be single and stuck in a job that’s about as creatively fulfilling as peeling onions with a spoon FOREVER.

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Should I break-up with my job?

14 Nov

God I hate my job. I’ve been there six months now and I’m still not really sure what it is they hired me to do. Something to do with attending lots of meetings and putting together lengthy proposals for business development which are subsequently rejected if they require any sort of monetary investment. The actual job I applied for must have been a work of fiction because it is NOTHING like I expected. Even worse, my boss thinks it’s perfectly reasonable to call me ‘flower’. And yesterday, when I asked him where I could find the projector for a presentation I had to give, he stood up and rolled his eyes and told me to “follow Uncle Will”, which is not only massively fucking condescending but also creepy and weird. But hey, nothing like a bit of nonchalant office sexism to make you feel valued at work!

I know it doesn’t look great to a new employer if I look for a new job so soon but what else can I do when, day by day, I can feel my creative brain cells dying a slow and painful death. Yes I have a lot of responsibility, but no actual authority to change the way things really work. It’s a media organisation ffs, and people are still talking about Twitter like it’s something that’s been beamed down from outer space. The money is good but that’s about the only thing I really like about my job, which seems pretty shallow. Is it unrealistic to expect to actually enjoy going to work, at least sometimes? Or to feel fulfilled by what you do? I think finding the right job is a bit like finding the right man. When you find one that’s a good fit you feel happy and inspired, but sometimes – despite your best efforts – you have to admit you’re just not on the same wavelength. I just don’t want my CV to make me look like a slag.

Ps. Thanks to those blogs that have nominated me for the Liebster Blog Award, I promise to get round to doing a post on this next week!

Hurrah! I get the all clear

1 Nov

I don’t have an STD after all. After doing the pee-in-a-pot chlamydia self-test before work and then worrying through a busy day of meetings and Googling on my iPhone to find my nearest GUM clinic – all the while ignoring vitriolic text messages from Jealous Ex – he eventually confessed that he’d made the whole thing up. Although he didn’t exactly say “made up”. He gave the following explanation:

It turns out while I was on holiday he convinced himself that he’d caught something (just like he convinced himself I was cheating on him) and went to get tested, only he was too impatient to wait the two weeks for the results. So he got a friend to prescribe him antibiotics for chlamydia and gonorrhoea (I have no idea who he knows that has access to that kind of shit). His ‘symptoms’ cleared up soon afterwards and when his test results came back from the clinic they were negative. But that didn’t stop him from using his fictional STD as solid evidence that I’d been unfaithful and using it to justify a tirade of abuse against me the other night.

None of this actually matters anymore because right now all I can feel is relief. 1) That I don’t have an STD, and 2) That just at the point where I was starting to question whether breaking up with JE was for the best, he proved to me what an unhinged asshole he is. I texted him “Goodbye” before deleting his number for good and poured myself a large glass of wine to celebrate.

And besides, I have another date with T. to look forward to this weekend ;)

A close shave

31 Oct

This morning after getting out of the shower I decided to give my lady garden a trim ahead of my appointment at the GUM clinic later. I have a special shaver for this, one of those Gillette devices that allows you to trim to various lengths. But because it was 6.30am and I was still half asleep and rushing to get ready for work, for reasons unknown I removed the safety shield on the razor.

Consequently I can now see A LOT more of Daphne than I have in a long time (yes I have a name for her, that’s not weird). I used be partial to a Brazilian wax, but in recent years I’ve become fonder of look that’s softer, more fuzzy (though still neat). Now I don’t even have so much as a landing strip to prove I’m over 16. Poor Daphne looks like GI Jane. My bikini line has been scalped. And what will T. think of my new buzz cut? There’s just three days to go before I see him next. All I can do is hope it grows back a bit more before then. Perhaps I should fashion some sort of merkin? Or cut my losses and go the whole hog and clean shave the lot?

I am kept awake by a knife-wielding ex-boyfriend

17 Sep

Last night I had the most disturbing dream. I was being chased by an ex-boyfriend (not the most recent one, one I had at university. Let’s call him Jay). Not being chased in the lovesick sense either – he was wielding a bloody great sharp knife. And as I ran scared silly through the city streets, dodging cars and pushchairs and hyperventilating, he didn’t seem to run at all – just popped up every now and then in front of me like Michael Myers in Halloween.

This is odd for two reasons: Continue reading

Be gone, pesky rash – don’t you know I’m a master of disguise?

31 Dec

Well the big day is finally here – the North, a new boy and a minbreak awaits – and while the rash (I dislike the word psoriasis) is not yet gone it is much improved; less red and angry-looking. I have taken the doctor’s advice to r.e.l.a.x a bit more, which has mostly involved dozing in bed with a book (the sublime When God was a Rabbit by Sarah Winman) and the occasional stroll, in between drinking a lot of water and eating my own body weight in chocolate.

I’ve also spaffed a lot of money on new underwear, including a selection of gorgeous semi-sheer camisoles, which hide the rash while still looking pretty damn sexy. And I picked up a new faux fur scarf and bottle of Moet for tonight – if all else fails I can just get him blind drunk, or perhaps blindfold him.

Skincare-wise, I have been bathing for 20 minutes before bed in a warm tub with a dash of Oilatum before slathering myself in E45 cream and liberally applying the Dovobet gel prescribed by the doctor, which has done a nifty job of ‘drying things up’. I’ve also swapped my usual showergel for Sanex, which I use every other day on a warm damp flannel to gently buff away any flaky bits (apologies if too much information).

I’m heading oop North to Lancashire later today where Tom is dog-sitting for friends in a 600-year-old house. Tonight – New Year’s Eve – it’s just the two of us (plus three poodles), some good food and a bottle of champagne. Then on January 2nd we fly out to Amsterdam for three nights. My first real minibreak with a boy! How exciting!! T. has a list of architecture he wants to sketch for his course but I’ve told him we must see the Van Gogh museum, Anne Franke’s house and a good Argentinian steakhouse while we’re there. And Mellow Yellow. Natch.

So while I’m glad the rash is retreating right now I have more urgent matters on my mind, like how I’m going to fit a week’s worth of clothes into a hand-luggage-sized suitcase…

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