Peggy!, my staffing firm agent, needs my SAT scores.
MY SAT SCORES!
SAT, you dread letters summon memories of an early morning spent filling in your tiny bubbles with my #2 pencil. My mediocre results (very mediocre but good enough for early enrollment in the state school) were supposed to stay hidden for the rest of eternity.
But now the good-enough results of my sleepy, graphite scribbling returns to haunt me like a spectral marking from some dead (average) ghoul.
My staffing agent, Peggy!, always says her name with an exclamation mark, but with a name like Peggy! how could you not? Anyhoo, she indicated many top companies are requiring candidates SAT scores these days.
Who ever heard of this? I nearly threw up from the wave of nausea I felt.
I crisply remember that day in late Spring of my Junior year of High School. I stood at home and with trembling, pudgy fingers opened my SAT results.
They were, as mentioned, adequately middle-of-the-road. However, taken into account my minority status (gay, poor, fat teen) I was able to parlay the run of the mill results into a senior year with little cares other than planning as many Senior dances as possible.
Which I did with relish. That’s both enthusiasm and copious amounts of chopped pickles and onions; see above gay, poor, fat teen.
Those days weren’t too long ago that I settled for less than perfect or rather more than whatever is was to just barely get by. And now I’m ruing the very day. That day is actually still now, I guess. I do have Peggy! as my agent.
And Peggy!’s name on her business cards isn’t even Peggy!. It’s Margaret. I don’t understand how she gets Peggy! from Margaret.
Why now must Peggy! besieging my psyche with such vulgar requests to revisit a very hurtful and not-as-fabulous time of my life? Oh why Peggy!? Why?
And she also wants my G.R.E. scores! G.R.E. say what, Peggy!? Oh Peggy! I thought we had a connection as I sat in your uncomfortable folding chair and lied to you that I can type 87 words a minute. Here I go, Peggy! Watch me fly:
;lfhjae4thiojae3lkyal;rhigsklca asdl;vjao3pirt;q3kh azs;lvkjpml’;snlk;rky3rk;ltnq;3kga;lkvja;jkldg;l23;jtyiq3;oi5 yj;lke
And … done!
Does Peggy! also need to know that I finished a not-good-enough THIRD in the Mister Metrocub Contest?
Do you Peggy!? Do you need to know all of my average aspirations and kinda, sorta, maybe accomplishments but really they’re stuff anyone could do if they applied themselves with little to no effort?
While we’re at it, I ate three helpings of asian snack mix, the kind with the yummy, dried seaweed, last night because I got nervous that the heat wasn’t turning on. Yes. I also binge-snack when faced with the possibility of hypothermia, Peggy!.
Are you happy now? Are you pleased this request has so shattered my “eh, it’s ok I guess” mentality?
In all fairness: Here is the actual email I sent to Peggy! regarding my scores. And yes, I shamefully told her my numbers:
Subject: re: scores
My SAT score was NOWAYYOUBITCHES.
I took it my junior year, scored high enough for early enrollment into my state school and didn't bother taking it again because my family couldn't afford it.
Don’t you love that!? “Because my family couldn’t afford it.” There I was that fateful morning in 1992 wearing my coat-of-many-colors with no pencils of my own. Instead, I filled in the test bubbles with the grime and dirt from under my fingernails. A simple, little ragamuffin seeking a higher education with only one opportunity to keep me from the cruel hardships of a north Georgia coal mine.
OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!
How did this turn into a live post?? This just popped into my email. Seriously, no joke:
Subject: re: scores
I just wanted to let you know that COMPANYWHOHATESGAYS went with someone else. I will keep your resume on file and let you know if we have anything of interest for you. Feel free to get in touch with me if you get anxious for a change.
Kiss of death. Goodbye, Peggy!. And what did she mean by get anxious?