Why is it that when you'd give up a few digits -- or a limb, or gosh, you never really use that left ear for much -- to hang out with Brad Pitt, the only man that keeps showing up at your door looks a lot like ...THIS guy on the right. 
It seems to be the same with my career aspirations right now. I'm hardcore wooing the search committee at the University, seriously close to begging for that editorial job in a way that might involve skywriting or painting my desperate plea for employment on the side of a large public transit vehicle. Or both.
Yet I hear nothing. More of the same. We're still choosing the best candidate, they tell me. I did hear from a friend that there were 95 applicants and was told by this friend, in not so many words, that it was amazing I actually got an interview at all, with the sheer volume of similarly desperate and destitute writer/editor types out there.
Meanwhile, on the call center front, I was offered an advance in my status. From "Temp" to "Temp-to-Hire" or, as my associates refer to them, "Temp Temps" and "Permanent Temps."
Take my temp. I'm sweating profusely at the thought of doing this full time, on anything close to a forever basis.
I'm going to politely decline the offer, explaining that I am just so golly-dern pleased to be doing what I'm doing, I wouldn't dare to rock the calm waters of my blissful call center cove of happiness by taking on any more duties or responsibility.
Translation: I like my daily three quality hours of crossword puzzle time, in between phone calls from screaming southerners telling me where I can strategically place my eligibility requirements and acceptable documentation.
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