If you should hire me, you will be spared the embarrassment of the supervisor who authorized this sign about the dangerous “aquaduck” failure. (These creatures should be avoided at all costs, by the way.) Rest assured that you will be in good hands with me.
If everyone, as Andy Warhol posited, gets 15 minutes of fame, I have already had mine. In the fourth grade, I beat every student in our district in spelling. I’ll never forget the glory of beating a sixth grader with the word, “professor.” I credit my early reading of cereal boxes.
I’ll always remember my pride as our principal escorted me, a minor and mini dignitary, to the finals. What’s also true is that I’ll never get over my bitterness at placing fourth in the finals in Hyannis, because my rival, who placed third, happened to get an easier word. The green silk ribbon I received did little to dispel the feeling. Cellar? I could have spelled that in my sleep. They gave me “saboteur,” clearly the more difficult word. And just as I pored obsessively over three-ring binders of words to prepare for my 15 minutes of fame, I won’t let go of your project until every last word is spelled correctly. Even if it’s “saboteur.”