Lusting after jobs (amongst other things)

Too Much Time: Too Many Boys


I am spending far too much time with the boys.


How do I know this?


I woke up at 5am this morning and I could hear my liver crying. By 7am I was contemplating removing my own kidneys. Pain. In.The. Back.


Plus I have widened my sexual innuendo, double entendre, pun repertoire.

And my best friend Blondie texted me after she left me in the pub on Tuesday night saying;


"Put down the pint of cider and step away from them."


Upon reviewing my text messages of that evening I had sent her a load of incomprehensible babble. Besides, it was already too late by the time I got that message. I had already started on the whiskey and the conversation had become suitably undone. I am sure hanging around with these manboys prevents me from ever actually meeting anyone. 


Further, when Blondie and Dr T and I were out drinking with betterthangoogle and Mr Bee on Tuesday; betterthangoogle and Mr Bee proposed that were not the girliest of girls.


True. Blondie is a black belt ninja and Dr T has spent a great proportion of her time over the past ten years analysing and sequencing the spines of insects, or something like that. And I? Yes, I do my nails, go to the beautician, blah,blah,blah but there is something inherent in my personality that means I act in quite a masculine fashion. 


Girlieness


I tried to start to combat this on Wednesday morning by watching "Confessions of a Shopaholic"  on iplayer. I did not laugh. Once. I wanted to cry and rip my eyeballs out and smear them across my laptop. I stopped watching it. From this experience I have thus concluded that I must, on a daily basis (even if I don't leave the house) wear my "DareDevil" red lipstick so that when men see me and I am talking as if I am a man that they are so distracted by my big red lips that they ignore my banter and only think about kissing me.  I must remember to thank Professor Robert Winston for that insight. After stopping aforementioned chickflick I found a documentary of his about the science of sexual attraction and the behaviours of men and women. 


Again, this is probably where I am going wrong - looking at things from a scientific perspective. How very stereotypically male of me.


Which leads me to my next point...
How does this affect me in the job market?


Does my face fit?


I am by no means an unattractive female.I am not exceptional either. People do, other than my nan, tell me I am pretty; often they are men on the street clutching cans of Special Brew. 


Yet my face does not seem to fit. Ever. So I guess it is time for me to look beyond the physicality of it all (this thought process surely means I am quite girly?). 


It did not fit well in my last job. I did my job. I did it well. I enjoyed it. It did not fit well when I was at university. Or at school. Which leads me to another conclusion - I am an exceptionally difficult person to get on with. Not intentionally. But this just seems to be the status quo. 


Now, I don't particularly want to go to job club this week or next week or ever. I fear I may have a physical reaction to it - perhaps anaphylactic shock or I may actually take my eyeballs out. But I have to go as it is one of my action points. So I am going to ask them at job club, what is it I can do, to make myself seem more pleasant and less difficult. A good team player (other than in the realms of pubquizdom). I need to do something about it. And after speaking to my Job Centre Advisor today about my interview this week, she assures me that Job Club will have the answers.


It better, or I am going to go to my GP and demand CBT, a gastric bypass and a face lift.


Here's to hoping my face fits on Friday and that they don't think the lipstick is too much! (And that I can find a way to rap in the interview). 

Another Friday another Dole Office Extravaganza

It is just another fucking Friday (that's my funday)

This was always going to be different to the other Fridays. I knew that from the moment I was given an appointment an hour earlier than usual with no reference to precious point B. This therefore led to a cap on my drinking and use of over the counter medication the night before, simply because early mornings do not suit the unemployed and dejected. 

This Friday I was due to meet my Job Centre Advisor. Now given that less than six months ago that I was responsible in my previous job in providing some degree of careers advice to 16 year olds I was understandably apprehensive. Nonetheless in all the career advice/reference writing I have given the youth of today I have always remained positive and never dismissed their aspirations. Except in those ten situations   one situation where I told a student I was going to relish purchasing my late night kebab etc from them, if they could even read how to deep fry some chips and learn how to hold a knife in a non threatening manner. 

So I arrived; less most of my documentation - which led to another hoohah and I suspect mumblings of incompetence. I think not working for several months has definitely de-skilled me to an extent and caused my organisational skills to take a considerable downturn.

Because of the earliness of my appointment there was none of the usual protracted period or waiting. But during the brief moments of wait I did notice a complete absolute piece of meat. He was not just prospective nookie material. He was and is potential marriage material. I might just make a point of rocking up an hour earlier so I can stalk his unsuspecting piece of ass.

My name was called. Incorrectly. Stupid Persian heritage. Everyone looks around. They think I am a terrorist. Not cool. This is not unusual for me, but clearly makes everyone else feel uncomfortable. They call my name again, in-spite of the fact I am standing up and walking towards them. Everyone looks tense. I want to scream the correct pronunciation of my name. I don't. I just look around the room and give everyone a knowing glance. CHRIST, if I were in a room and I heard that name called I would jump and run. I can not blame them. My neurotic laughing does not break the tension. It exacerbates it. At least when I marry my new victim I can change my name.  

The Meeting

I assume the position opposite my advisor.  She is not hot, nor does she seem kind. This all looks a little Pauline from the League of Gentleman. 


The usual range of questions start the formalities;


 "Have your circumstances changed over the last two weeks?" 


"No, they have not, I am still unemployed, I am still here ,I am still not working." I already have the stubby pen jammed in-between my grubby little hands and without realising I have started stabbing the table. I can feel her eyes upon me and then her coffee stained breath swarming underneath my nostrils.


"Now, today I am going to talk you about a few things. This is our first meeting, I doubt I will get through everything, but hopefully I will get a better idea of you and you will have a better idea of what we can do for you."  


Before she can continue, I abruptly interject "I am not doing a work trial if this is what this is about and I am not going to a job club". The swarm builds up under my nose again, I brace myself as she is about to speak. 


"First of all I need to re-confirm your details."


Details were duly confirmed.


"Now, what difficulties have you been facing?" 


"Many, I won't bore you with details of my life."


"Okay, so let me help you, for example, could the reason be you have not had a success finding a job be because you have any previous convictions?"


"Do train fines count?"


"No. What about drugs and alcohol issues?"


At this point I notice that she has a certificate in her pod which displays the words "Suicide Awareness Training". I hope she does not think that my shuffling about from side to side and scratching of my face is a sign. I have terribly itchy acne and because of the early rise I consumed three coffees and I am desperate for the loo. Which makes me think, that in all likelihood that it is in-fact my coffee breath making me retch.The retching probably makes her think I am a drug addict, along with the awful skin and swaying. Anyway, noticing this certificate does not stop me blurting out "I had no problem with alcohol until I became unemployed". She did not laugh. I find myself stressing that I was attempting to be funny, in return she gives me a pitiful look. 


She moves us on swiftly from this part of the conversation. I was quite grateful.


Action Stations


"I wish to explain to you one of your new action goals. In light of our conversation you are now having to attend a job club. Here are some leaflets with maps and details of ones in your local area."


As she has in-putted this on the system and written it down, there is no getting out of it. The only way I can get out of it is if I sign off. Bugger.


"Secondly , if you can not find a job in your area of expertise within the next month you will have to explore other fields of interest" She looks awfully pleased about this. It is a snear I have employed before, a snear of haha you loser. GOD I AM A LOSER.


"I am not sorry for what I am about to say to you. I know and understand you are doing your job. But please understand my position, I spent so many years at university and I have spent 8 years more or less working in the public sector. I am not giving that up.You can not expect me after 6 weeks of signing to be told that. There are people who are signed on for far longer, who make far less effort"


She sighs, looks more pissed off than at the start of the conversation and hisses"Yes, well this part will be actioned in our next meeting. Now next of all I wish to explain to you about work trials"


Whimpering and still swaying I manage to splutter "What?! No, sorry but no. I have cleaned toilets, been a waitress, stacked shelves, wiped bums, worked in call-centres and done all manner of work. I am by and large experienced. Really, please offer that to a 19 year old who needs it. Putting me in a work trial is truly a waste of your resources organising the placement and so forth. I will do volunteer work which is clearly linked to my career."


Frostier still "Again, we will action this in our next meeting."


"Um, I am not entirely sure you are listening? "


Definitely not listening. 


"Please sign here. Your next meeting is after the holidays.Have a Happy Christmas"


The only good thing I thought was to come from this was finally claiming a stubby pen of my own, but literally when leaving the job centre I got a phone call offering me an interview for a very interesting job.I am still awaiting the details of what I am going to have to present. But rest assured I will, no matter what work in a verse of Apple Bottom Jeans if it kills me.  




In other news...

• I have a black Christmas tree
• I went for breakfast with a property entrepreneur who can not help but steal teaspoons where ever we go and picks 5ps off the floor. 
• We have our first meeting arranged for campaign nanny. 

The Dole Office Part Two

A week later on Friday the 4th of November 2011 at 10:25 am at point B I sign on officially for the first time. My reward? A stubby pen with which I stab my signature on a piece of paper which I assume is part of the bureaucratic process which will enable me to claim my glorious £67.50 per week. Thank god I am almost 30, those who are under 25 can claim a measly £53.45. 

As part of the protocol, and once she has snatched the prized stubby pen from what I have now realised are my equally stubby fingers I hear the first attractive person say in a really husky, smokes 40 a day, due to the social demographic she interacts with say "Have your circumstances changed since last week?" at this point I make eye contact with her and briefly wish I were a lesbian,  muster a sigh, a shrug of the shoulders and a somewhat nonchalant "No". 

The amount of people I would perform sexual acts with in the room has increased dramatically from last week: one. I am still dumbstruck it is with a woman. 

Job Club

As a means to evade boredom and to meet up with people in a similar situation (also to hopefully include a spot of afternoon drinking) I have arranged a "Job Club" with my unemployed brother and his best friend. My brother does not show up. His best friend does. And later in the same afternoon as I signed on for the first time I am sat in a local library surrounded by fellow unemployed bums, students with no aspirations, some actual bums who smell like bum and my brothers best friend. I feel the world closing in. Thankfully my brothers mate leans across the table and suggests what every recently unemployed person on a tight budget loves "A pint of cider?".

With the first meeting of Job Club over and no possible leads (The Evening Argus really was VERY disappointing that day) we headed to a local pub. The weather turned. Which actually worked out in our favour, we ended up in a beautiful pub by the fire with ploughman's and some locally brewed cider and ale. My brother showed up. He was equally at a loss with the lack of job prospects that day.

The First Interview

On my way home I dutifully checked emails on my phone. Amazingly I had been offered an interview for a job I cheekily put an application in for a week after the closing date. Job Club had inadvertently had its' first success.