Candice Christian’s Weekend Update!

Crying out for love cover 51gZn9bl6TL__SY346_


for your love new pic 51bkU8pw71L   I wish you would new pic

It has been a very busy week for Candice, she has been quite active releasing: For Your Love, A 4 book bundle titled ‘Crying out for Love’,  A Certain Girl and Thursday she released ‘I Wish You Would’. This girl must not have a social life, that’s quite an output.  Below are samples:

A Certain Girl v2

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Sample of ‘I Wish you Would’

Even in this day and age of feminine equality and fairness for all, the world of academia is still totally male dominated. All throughout my career I’ve had to fight tooth and nail to get anywhere; putting up with patronizing lecturers during my undergrad years, convincing ugly balding old professors to give me a Ph.D. research post then struggling through years of dealing with both to finally get a lecturing post. Not that I’m complaining mind, not really. They say these things build character, and I suppose they have done. But I had thought finally getting a lectureship, working under a fellow female professor, I might be able to concentrate on my job for once. Fat chance.

Professor Lizbeth E. Zarrat is without a doubt the worst boss I’d ever had, and that includes working with some pretty seedy individuals in nightclubs during my undergraduate days. Technically, since I’m now a full member of the University staff, I’m not answerable to anyone short of the principle and the University itself, but of course it doesn’t really work like that. I was given the unenviable task of teaching the 1st year course, and Lord High Lizbeth of Stuck-up is the head of first and second year engineering undergrad teaching.

Perhaps I should have pointed out earlier I’m a Civil Engineer, an area not traditionally over filled with women. I’m cursed, in a way, with being attractive with it. I know I should be happy, plenty of my friends get really annoyed with me, mock or otherwise . . . , when I complain about being attractive, but it can be a serious handicap when you’re trying to be taken seriously, especially by men. Nobody ever really though I was any good at any work, they tended to assume I was rather dumb eye-candy that had taken an engineering course to get a man with a good job. At least I’m not blonde. . .

I’ve had a couple of boyfriends, but they never really lasted long. I’m sick and tired of being patronized by guys who couldn’t see beyond my figure and looks. I’m not going out with you to get help with the mathematics and I certainly will not do THAT just to get your inferior assessment answers that are probably not even half as good as the ones I did two weeks ago when it was handed out!

Sorry, I’m flitting back and forth between my current life and my history, I hope you’re not getting too confused! I know who I am at the moment is based on who I have been and the things that have shaped my life. Perhaps I should give you a little more of my life story. My name is Dr Brittany Byrd, I’m 29 years old and I was born and raised in Scotland. I had a happy enough up-bringing, was considered a bit of freak because I enjoyed school – very very silly to admit in the rougher Labor voting socialist areas of Scotland – and generally kept myself to myself. My parents, God bless them, were never rich, but brought me up without ever really needing anything. There were plenty of things I wanted I never got, either because they were too expensive, or deemed not-for-girls, but I suppose I never really needed them anyway.

It was always assumed that like my elder sister and my parents before, I would go to University. However, it was assumed I would study something a little more lady-like that Civil Engineering. Nobody objected, but it was talked about in hushed tones, like the embarrassing Great-Grandmother who was “self-employed” during her youth.

Nobody at my University or work ever really took me seriously, and although at the time I didn’t think it bothered me, I guess it must have done, otherwise I wouldn’t be making such a big deal of it now. I think what annoys me the most is that even by the time I was in my final year they still didn’t think I was serious. I had been in the top 5% of my year, every year, and yet still I was treated as the dumb girl only along for the ride. Anyway, that’s something I should put behind me, but it’s given me this drive to always prove myself, to show that just because I’m an attractive woman I’m not stupid.

Once I’d finished my degree, I managed to find a research post, studying for my doctorate. The only reason I got it was because the professor was convinced that if he had three years to try, he was bound to get in my pants at least once. I don’t drink, so his plans at every research group meal or party always failed, and in the end I finished on time, and the filthy old bloke had to accept it was never going to happen.

A few years of bouncing around post-doc jobs and I finally got an interview for a lectureship at a mediocre university. I knew it was working with Professor Zarrat, I’d read a lot of her papers, and spoken to her once or twice at conferences. Although she’d never impressed me as a person, her work was extremely impressively, few engineers could boast as high a success rate within her field. Fortunately, it was slap bang in my area too, and when the interview arrived I was perfectly prepared. I had invested in a new suit, I say invested because although I’m usually very careful with money (you have to be surviving on post-doc wages) I’d spent most of my month’s wages on it. It’s difficult to hide my chest, but I was happy with the job it did. Basically, I wanted to make myself as asexual as possible, so it would be my work and skills that the interviewers would concentrate on.

The panel consisted of Professors Zarrat, Bourne and Pidgeon, the three heads of school in effect. Bourne and Pidgeon were fine, they seemed nice enough men. Pidgeon’s nearing retirement and you could tell in his manner that ultimately he doesn’t really care anymore – but in a happy go-lucky way. Bourne runs the whole engineering school, and is 100% motivated by research. Everyone within a university has to do research, there are no purely lecturing posts, and because many academics never visit the real world, where people have real jobs and real lives, they thinks the entire universe runs on academic research, and primarily doing better and harder research that your fellow universities. So in other words, he wanted to know how good I was at publishing papers. Fortunately, I had a wealth of completed projects, and he was suitably impressed.

Lizbeth Zarrat, however, was a bitch. Because our fields overlap, she knew all the tiny flaws and problems with my work. They weren’t special to me, if you take any results and keep asking “Why?” sooner or later the answer will become “I don’t know”. I model real world situation in a laboratory, and assumptions have to be made, pardon me for not being able to fit an entire canal into my lab! Her questions were so picky, worse than any post-presentation ones, that I really believed I must have failed her standards completely. I’m not one given to crying, but it was pretty hard to drive home that evening and for the first time in 8 years I was sorely tempted to reach for the wine bottle.

It was a pleasant, but scary surprise, to be phoned the next day by a cheerful professor Bourne to tell me I had secured the job, pending one year probation. To be honest, I was so delighted I didn’t really question the probation period, and I still haven’t, but I don’t know if all new members have the same condition. Considering it was Professor Zarrat that was going to write my final report, perhaps I should have checked it earlier.

It was a nightmare of a year. I was thrown straight into the deep end both with research and teaching. Lizbeth gave me a completely new course to teach, five hours a week plus organizing tutorials, laboratory workshops and assessments. Then, on top of that, she passed me a new research project with a very limited grant that needed results by the end of the year. Now, I suppose a bit like my friends you’re thinking five hours a week sounds pretty simple. But it’s not, because I had to prepare five hours of lectures, which means at least ten hours of prep, plus the tutorials and laboratory work, which easily brings me up to a full week. Then the additional research, a project that really should have taken 18 months to two years, meant I was doing 70 to 80 hour weeks.

Things came to a head about half way through the year when despite my best efforts to the contrary, I was forced to take a day off with a severe cold. I’d tried desperately hard to keep going, but in the end I simply couldn’t get out of bed. By the next day I was able to come into work, but only just, and within five minutes of getting into my pokey little office, Lizbeth was knocking at the door.

“Come in”

“Ah, Dr. Byrd, made it into work today then?”

The tone of her voice was nothing short of insulting, but I tried to ignore it, and not let her know how frustrated I was with her.

“Yes. . . ”

“Good. I don’t appreciate last minute absences.”

Perhaps my deep calming breath would have been more effective if I hadn’t had to open my mouth like a fish to do it. . .

“The only reason I didn’t let the school know in advance was because I hoped I could recover sufficiently well overnight. Unfortunately, I did not.”

“Well, it’s simply not good enough. See it doesn’t happen again, you let a lot of people down.”

I don’t think a even a ten minute calming breath would have been enough this time. I was tired, ill, and sore and felt I’d been worked like a bloody slave for six months. Finding energy I didn’t really know that I had, I leapt to my feet and my weakened control snapped.

“Now look here you stupid bitch!” I screamed, “I work damn hard and if you work me so hard I get ill then it’s not my bloody fault that I have to take some time off! If you weren’t such an uppity cow that never. . .”

The slap rocked me back on my heels; for a small woman, she’s got some force. I was dazed for a second or two, and my cheek stung so badly it was bright red. I could feel the blow had upset my nose too, and I took a second to dab my face with a tissue before turning to see her again.

The slap hadn’t really calmed me down and I was all ready to begin screaming again but I stopped dead in my tracks. Her eyes were wide open and staring, extremely shiny, the black pupils looked tiny surrounded by the light blue iris, pin point aimed at me. Her usually tied back blonde hair had come loose and lay around her shoulders, slightly curled, with a lot more definition than I ever expected and her mouth was turned down in a slightly twisted frown behind clenched lips. Despite myself, I had to admit should could have been a far more beautiful woman than she let herself be. And with the amazing speed that thoughts can come in these times, I felt a certain empathy with her, is this what I would become in ten years? Still young, still attractive, but forced to hide it for professionalism sake?

Before I stood any chance of getting even soppier, she snapped back at me, turned and stormed past the crowd gathered at the door.

I was actually forced to ask someone else what she’d said, I’d been too shocked to hear. Her threat was to show me what real hard work was like. . .


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