The Songs Taken

For the eighth grade winter formal my mother made me a green velvet and taffeta knee length a-line dress. My frizzy brown curls were pulled back so onlookers could see the full glory of my sparkly eye shadow. Tan pantyhose and black patent leather shoes completed the look. It was one of the few times in my adolescent years I remember feeling beautiful. Though I was certain no one else attending would feel the same.


We had "social mixers" twice a year in middle school. So, by this, my fifth school dance, I knew what to expect...
I would enter the dimly lit poorly decorated cafeteria with nine of my best girlfriends and scream hysterically when "The Sign" came over the speakers. We'd dance in a circle of sweat and estrogen twirling each other around the floor. Together we would take frequent bathroom breaks to deal with the crisis of the moment - supporting each other through the dark and seemingly endless tunnel that is middle school (dances). All-4-One would start to croon a cheesy romantic tune and my eyes would quickly scan the room for any signs of interest. Realizing rejection was imminent I would feign some physical malady - a run in the hose, an eyelash in the eye, a twisted ankle, an unexpected menstrual flow, etc. and escort myself away from disappointment. I would quietly wait out my humiliation in the bathroom or hallway or once in the vending machine room behind the Fruitopia machine until fast paced pop music deflated the room of anxiety. I would end the night with my arms on my best friend's shoulders gleefully yelling "woo woo" on cue as we marched around the room to "C'mon N' Ride It (The Train)".

Four previous middle school dances had proven this routine true. As the eighth grade winter formal was coming to a close it didn't seem like there were going to be any surprises.

Until...

Mazzy Star.

A boy with a buzz cut in a lose-fitting white button down shirt and black cargo pants slowly made his way across the crowded room and asked the fat girl in the homemade dress to join him for her first ever slow dance. With my hands on his shoulders and his hands just barely touching my hips we swayed to the raspy haunting lyrics of "Fade Into You".




Twenty years later, while making a music playlist for a romantic weekend in the Arkansas hills, my partner and love, Rebecca, suggested we add "Fade Into You" to the list. Like a child on a school bus in Greenbow, Alabama I simply responded, "Can't. Song's taken."

The rich memory of slow dancing in the gentle embrace of a real live boy on that cold December night was so compelling and expansive that it filled every single beautiful second of "Fade Into You". The song no longer has any room for memories. It's taken.

A first dance, a perfect date, a stolen kiss, a star-filled summer night drive, a romantic encounter with your lover in the kitchen- there is magic in these moments. Still they are just that, moments, and by definition do not last very long. But set a moment to music and it can last forever.


Whether you want it to or not.




I fell in love with Corey the moment I saw him. Whenever he walked into a room it felt like it was happening in slow motion. His dark shiny hair would bounce gently with each new step while the cool motion of his black corduroy pants mimicked the sound of ocean waves - exotic waves, sexy waves, exotic sexy waves from some place I'd never been but desperately wanted to go.

We became fast friends, spending most of our teenage nights messaging on AOL or talking on the phone. I waited months and months for him to get a clue.  Months of dancing with my bedpost and pretending it was him. Months of crying into my diary over the new girl he liked. Months of enduring horrible movies like Speed 2 and Event Horizon.

One innocent afternoon I convinced Corey to accompany me to Titanic - James Cameron's epic three hour tale of a smoking hot Irish boy with floppy brown hair and a sassy privileged red-head with exposed nipples. There was some kind of historic event in there somewhere too. But the death and destruction of thousands along with the sinking of the famous ship was nothing compared to the horrifying moment Rose let go of Jack's hand.

I cried.

Hysterically.

My shirt was wet with tears.

I had trouble breathing.


Corey just turned and stared at me with a look of complete panic.


As we walked out of the theatre Corey was still confused and frightened by my extreme display of emotion. He threw his arms around me and said, "I didn't know what to do. You were losing it and all I could do was sit there. I wish I could have done something to make you feel better."


Feeling immediately better I wiped my tears, smiled and said, "Oh yeah? Like what?"


Moments later we were boyfriend and girlfriend, because that's how it works when you are fourteen.


We revisited the film a few days later so Corey could have his chance at comforting me. Except, since it was my third viewing in under a month, I just fell asleep. But I fell asleep in the arms of the man I loved. It was a magical moment. As the credits rolled he woke me from my slumber. Celine Dion belted out "My Heart Will Go On" as we waited in line to exit the theatre. Corey turned to me and said, "Hey. I think this should be our song."


Our song. Like, our love song.


Everywhere we went - there was our song.  Riding in the back of my mother's mini van it played while we held hands. Walking around the mall we could hear the tune playing in multiple stores. It was used in all the television ads for the movie along with ads for movie merchandise like replica giant blue sapphire hearts. Delilah would play the song at least four times on her nightly radio show. Each time we heard the beautiful melody it affirmed our love.


Then, four weeks later, like the famous and wondrous ship, our love sank. It sank deep into the dark depths of the ocean never to see sunlight ever again.


Though, there was one remnant of our love - our song.


It was like a failed relationship haunted house. Every time I turned a corner I would hear the frightening Celine Dion howl "My Heart Will Go On". Walking innocently at the mall with friends the melody would play and I would drop to my knees and cover my ears. At the doctor's office the sharp sounds of "My Heart Will Go On" muzak could be heard along with the crying of children getting pricked with a needle. Ana Gasteyer mocked my pain and heartache with every dramatic beat of her chest as she parodied the song on Saturday Night Live. Listening to the radio was particularly terrifying. I lived in constant fear of hearing the torturous sound of flutes. As my mother would turn the dial I would wait in panic praying to God to end the evil reign of Celine Dion. When I least expected it she would appear and for four minutes and forty seconds I was forced to relive to agony of losing my first love.

Our love had ended, but our song went on and on and on and on and on.

For a long time I was taken, held captive, by the music of my former love. Slowly, I had to crawl back to sanity away from Celine Dion and her dastardly song. It wasn't until many years later that I was able to stand and look Ms. Dion square in the eyes and scream out "You have no power over me!" just as another Sarah had to do with her musical nemesis.


It was then I took control of my destiny and started using Napster (Evil music stealing, I know). No longer would I rely on the radio man to select the perfect song to capture my moment. Though I knew I was not in complete control of my musical memories, it was too risky to leave it all to fate. That's how we ended up with Celine in the first place. I wanted the soundtrack of my life to have at least a few good hits. So, I created playlists.  Playlists for romantic moments. Playlists for parties. Playlists for long summer drives in the country. Playlists for everything.

And I've never stopped.

In my life there have been hundreds of songs taken by moments. Songs that are bursting with memories. Some I had a hand in. Others were simply fate. I can't hear "In the Air Tonight" without thinking about the time me and my best friends drove the convertible in the rain with the top down. "I Will Remember You" takes me back to the last time I saw Daniel Schwartz. "Don't Go Breaking My Heart" is filled with the memory of my brother and I rocking the face off some karaoke during a New England cruise. Though I'm a firm lover of all things Gaga "Bad Romance" memories make me want to hit a special someone in the face. "Wagon Wheel" immediately transports me back to country roads and the comfort of my two best friends. I hear "Fuck You" and smile about an epic four hour driveway make-out session. "Fantasy" is the song that was playing when I knew I had met the love of my life. "Orphan Girl" and "Pure Imagination" are the songs that comfort my children as they drift off to sleep at night.  My heart bursts with joy every time I hear "Sugartime" and remember my Nana's never-ending silliness. But when I hear "You Raise Me Up"  I often turn away not wanting to remember the awful day she died.



I have a musical diary.


And though there are still songs that cut me deep and drop me to my knees they are quickly followed by an upbeat tune. Actually, they are mostly upbeat tunes. Because my life has mostly been magical.





This is a small sample of The Songs Taken. I'm sharing via Spotify since Napster, LimeWire and Kazaa are no more.

In Defense of Valentine's Day

There are a few things you should know about me.


I have a paralyzing fear of balloons and snakes.

If, for whatever reason, you hated me and wanted to torture me in the meanest way possible putting snakes in balloons and then filling my bedroom with the terrifying snake-alloons would be the perfect way to do it. For maximum terrification I recommend creating a device that will make the balloons pop at random intervals thus creating extreme anxiety about both popping noises and the increasing proximity to a slithering death creature.

Also...

I love Valentine's Day.

So, if whatever reason you loved me, and wanted to delight me in the nicest way possible the best way to do it would be with a Valentine - perhaps a Valentine that somehow incorporated wine and cake, because I love those things too..



As a young energetic lass with an incredibly artistic mother I always had the most amazing Valentine's Day boxes. While other children were covering their pathetic little shoe boxes with foil and construction paper hearts my mother and I were busy gutting the inside of a beloved teddy bear and shoving a plastic bottle up it's tuckus to create a free standing "Love Bear" . Though mine was clearly the best and most original VDay box, it wasn't the status that appealed to me. It was the process of creating something special with my Mom.


Yes, at an early age I knew the true meaning of Valentine's Day - love.


I'm kidding, at an early age I believed Valentine's Day was about getting gifts, being adored, parties with frosted cookies and finding a super cute boy to kiss and hold hands with. Once I even threw a fit when my father neglected to get me, his only daughter, a Valentine's Day present. (A few years later, learning his lesson, he gave me a SUPER sweet light purple hair crimper. That thing was amazing.)


It took me a while to find my love for Valentine's Day. 

So I can kinda see where there are some who aren't quite on board...yet. 

I've heard a lot of criticism of VDay this past week - from Jim Gaffigan on CBS Sunday Morning to the Huffington Post chart entitled "Will You Be Disappointed this Valentine's Day?" with every answer leading to yes to people questioning the history of the holiday. 

(said in my whiny baby voice)  It's too commercial. We don't need a silly holiday to remind us to love each other. I'm single, Valentine's Day makes me feel sad inside. 



Blarg. Come on people. 


I spent some time researching St. Valentine and the origination of this wonderful holiday and here's what I've come up with: 

The commercial holiday naysayers annoy me. Don't participate in the commercialism. Make your cards on recycled handmade paper, confect your own confections, grow your own flowers - or keep it simple and just look someone in the eyes and say "I love you".
Just because some idiots spend their dough on giant white teddy bears and oversized heart-shaped Mylar balloons saying "be mine" doesn't mean you have to. But don't throw the baby out with the bath water. She's a perfectly good baby.

Yes we fucking do need a holiday to remind us to love each other. Come on. We are awful, horrible, selfish people who are so uncomfortable with love we try to squelch the ONE DAY we've set aside to celebrate it. Look around, the world is rather lacking in love. If anything we need Valentine's Day once a month. Get on it Obama. 

Sure, we shouldn't have to remind people to express their love, but we do. It's very silly. It's also silly that we need labels on cigarette and rat poison packages to warn people they are deadly. It's silly we have to tell people not to preform the stunts on Jackass. It's silly we have to create laws telling people to wear their motherfucking seat belts, but that's just how it is.



As an overweight crazy cat lady who spent most of her Friday nights putting on fashion shows for her cat and eating chicken in the bathtub while watching Grease 2  I was never the target Valentine's Day audience. Rarely did I ever have a romance, let alone one that occurred on the holiday.  No one was sending me roses or chocolates or cards. I was a classic candidate for Anti-Valentine's Day -the kind of girl who should have spent her VDay dressed all in black, stalking local restaurants and sabotaging the romantic dates of happy couples. Or I should've cried while watching Nicolas sparks movies and eating gallon sized tubs of ice cream. I should've be sad. I was alone, because cats don't count as life partners. And to be alone is miserable and pathetic. 


Except I didn't feel miserable or pathetic. My tears didn't wash the fabric of my pillow every February 14th. I never dressed all in black - I prefer to dress like a rainbow. I was delighted for my friends who were happily coupled. 

I was happy being single on Valentine's Day or any other day, because I loved myself. 

First, when you have a cat around you are never truly alone. And no I don't care if that sounds pathetic. Cats are amazing. Especially mine.

Second, spending time by myself isn't depressing. It's awesome. I love myself -and I'm not talking masturbation (though it's perfectly healthy). I could spend a whole night just talking to myself in the mirror or doing a crazy art project or creating a short story about the weird guy in the neighborhood who walks around carrying a brief case full of cat food or getting drunk and making a new dish out of all the ingredients in the fridge. With me around there are endless fun things to explore.


Third, I think we make the mistake that romantic love is the only kind of love that counts. Or it counts the most. How limiting. How sad. I spent most of my young adult years being single, but I was never short on love. I have amazingly loving parents, a brother who adores me, friends who fill my life with love and laughter, co-workers who support and care about me, and grandparents and aunts and cousins. My life has always been filled to the brim with love. So, even just hanging with a cat and a rotisserie chicken on Valentine's Day I was still the luckiest girl in the world. I often decorated my tiny apartment with glitter hearts and mailed Valentine's cards to all my friends. Because if you are lucky enough to have love in your life at all then that is certainly something worth celebrating.




I've added more love to my life since being a single crazy cat lady.

Two more cats. 

I'm kidding. 



Actually, I have three cats, two children, an amazingly loving lady and one breathtakingly beautiful life. 

And you better believe I am sure to tell them all how much I love them EVERY SINGLE DAY, but especially on Valentine's Day. The day I set aside to go the extra mile and make a celebration out of my loves. 


I highly recommend you do the same and have yourself a very Happy Valentine's Day. 

The Coca-Cola Connection

Just drive in and get a Coke, if you're thirsty. 
  
                                                      - Waiting for Guffman 




My Nana always had a variety of carbonated beverages available to us. Her large off-white garage refrigerator was heavily stocked with Coke, Dr. Pepper and Diet Rite among others. Before every game of Liverpool Rummy you'd hear the distinct slam of the screen door followed by the sharp pop of an aluminum can. We'd drink and play and talk and eventually the caramel coloring would take effect and we'd be singing silly songs and slinging curse words across the table.

The tiny one car garage at my Great Grandmother's house barely had room for her giant brown 1970's Impala. She kept her sodas in the cardboard boxes provided and stacked them along the garage wall. Back in the days when my brother still consumed meat, we'd load up on sweet and sour chicken from Hong Kong Inn and storm through her front door unannounced. She'd rise from her green sitting chair and immediately begin preparing the kitchen table for our meal. "Get a Coke. You know where they are," she would say. Once the clanging and popping and pouring was complete we'd settle into our usual seats and catch up on the happenings of the week.

After yoga and before Jeopardy my east coast Grandparents often enjoy a rousing game of cards. Players grab snacks and beverages before pulling up to the long wooden antique table. Sodas were once stored in the house, but due to their unhealthy nature have been banished to the garage and reduced to mini-sizes. Carbonation junkies are required to exercise their calves as they journey down the hallway and staircase across the beautifully organized garage to access the devil juice in the tiny black refrigerator. Still, around the table, those delightful popping noises rouse conversation, sarcasm and connection.


There's something about Coke*. Something that brings people together.

Yup. Those are my finger blurs. I take a great picture. 

Ms. Judy, a feisty seventy something lady with billowy white hair and dark serious eyes, preferred to purchase her sodas in bulk - fifteen to twenty cases at a time. In the fridge on the main floor of the Administration building Judy would store a case of each carbonated beverage. Below, in the basement, she would stack the extras. The plethora of cardboard boxes would combine to create a colorful wall of carbonation. Only thirty or so people work at the Haven and maybe eight of them drink a soda on a regular basis. Even when the company downsized the soda supply did not. If suddenly four hundred people descended on The Haven and needed a jolt of bubbly caffeine goodness Ms. Judy was ready.



Often I had seen the generous amount of pop boxes sitting in the basement during my trips to pick up shoes or towels or blankets or something else stored in the dark nether quarters. I assumed the stash was reserved for parties or fundraisers or other business functions so I left it alone. From time to time, when the craving struck me, I'd take a walk down the street to Walgreens and fork over $1.69 for a Coke.

Then, one day, having no money at all and a deep desire for caffeine, I walked across the lawn to the Administration building. Quietly I put my key in the back door, hoping no one was working on the main floor. Tip toeing I snuck into Ms. Judy's kitchen. The smell of fried chicken still lingered in the air. Ms. Judy wasn't just the company's soda supplier, she also prepared all the meals.  She cooked lavish protein rich feasts for the admin boys - steaks, pork chops, filets, you name it. For the preschoolers she prepared more kid friendly dishes - grilled cheese, hot dogs and of course the occasional fried chicken and mashed potatoes. The kitchen and dining room were dark and empty. I could hear the faint sounds of men mumurming about business stuff and whatnot upstairs. Slowly, I opened the double doors to the refrigerator. Pepsi, Coke, Diet Coke, Diet Dr. Pepper, Dr. Pepper, Diet Pepsi, orange soda, root beer - SO MANY CHOICES. It was like Walgreens only better - it was free. As the bright fluorescent refrigerator lights illuminated my face I stood speechless taking in the beauty.

"Hello!" came a familiar voice from the other side of the door. Ms. Judy entered the kitchen carrying grocery bags. Flustered I rambled, "I was just getting...it's been a long day so I needed...I usually go to Walgreens but I thought maybe it would be alright if....I just needed a Coke." "Of course," she beamed, "Anytime, Sarah. Help yourself. Hey I'm trying this new recipe. Tell me what you think." She handed me a chocolate brownie looking thing with caramel and pretzels. I ate it. It was slightly soggy, but delicious. "Yummy. Thank you," and with Coke in hand I walked off  towards my building.

And like that a new connection was made. Over a Coke.

I made many trips to Ms. Judy's kitchen.

Once when I came into work with a slight hangover I sought out an early morning Coke - a long standing hangover cure of mine. Ms. Judy took one look at me and knew exactly what was up. "Had too much sauce last night, eh?" she cackled while cutting up a pineapple. "Ugh. Today's gonna be rough," I lamented while sampling her newest cookie recipe.

We had small moments like this most days  -

"How's your day?"
"Did you see that thing on the news?"
"Going anywhere exciting this weekend?"
"How's your brother?"
"Did you ever get that dishwasher fixed?"
"Would you like a Coke?"
"How about a piece of chocolate?"
"Would you like me to make an extra hot dog for you? Of course, I'll burn it for you Sarah."

I came to learn of Ms. Judy's love of travel, her devout Catholic beliefs, her enjoyment of alcoholic beverages, her lack of knowledge about other co-workers actual names, her husband's interest in golf and her children's various life choices - all in these brief moments.


Then, one day, she was gone.


On Wednesday morning I came to work and I found out there wouldn't be any more moments with Ms. Judy. She died sitting in her chair watching television. All those hellos and how are yous and questions about my life and sharings about her life were gone and replaced with silence.


I burst into tears.


When my Nana died ten years ago I could feel a part of myself become empty. I still had all my organs and two elbows and eyes and ears and I could feel my heart beating and my stomach dropping and my throat closing. All of my toes were still intact and my fingers were fully functional. Though I couldn't identify the location, a part of me that was once full and present was suddenly empty and gone. And it fucking hurt like hell.

Then, after all the crying and screaming and grieving and drinking I began the slow process of regrowing the part of me that vanished.

I collected connections that reminded me of Nana or that somehow honored her memory. I sang "Sugar in the Morning" at inappropriate moments. I told her stories. I taught my friends to play Liverpool Rummy. I reminisced with my brother. I developed a closer relationship with my great grandmother and maternal grandmother. I became a mentor. I prayed. I went to church. I made cookies with my children.  I painted my toenails red. I wore her jewelry. I slammed screen doors. I answered the phone singing. I drank Cokes with white haired ladies in elastic pants.

Eventually I felt less empty.

When my Great Grandmother died I could feel the emptiness expand again. And again I grieved and set out on a quest for connections.

The moment I heard of Ms. Judy's death I felt it again. Smaller, but still, an emptiness.

She wasn't my grandmother or dearest friend. There were hundreds at her funeral with decades of memories and moments with Ms. Judy. Really, I was just a blip in Ms. Judy's life as she was in mine. We spent no more than seventy-two total hours together. Though somehow those small moments made a big impact on me. Through her I found connection to those I had lost.



So, now, here I am, drinking a Coke and finding new ways to connect and fill the empty.





















*This author in no way endorses Coke, Coke products or the Coca-Cola company. Coke is actually pretty bad for you and the Coca-Cola company has done some shitty things over the years. So, take this Coke stuff with a grain of salt or a shot of whiskey.

Scattered, Smothered, Covered and Diced

This one is for Kathryn. 

Part 1

At my High School graduation rehearsal I made special shirts for my best-friends with different synonyms for "whore" on the back of each. The five of us sat in the front and when our row was asked to stand up and do a mock graduation walk everyone got a view of bright blue letters reading "SLUT. TRAMP. VIXEN. FLOOZY. WHORE." 

This was the kind of person I was at eighteen. Always mocking the system. None of us were particularly promiscuous at the time or if we were it wasn't something we were known for. I made the shirts for one reason and one reason only - to fuck with people. 

After graduation my parents felt like I should get a job. Traditional employment always sounded exhausting to me. I preferred earning my money via babysitting gigs where the most required of me was willingness to pick up little people from school and tolerate their ramblings on Pokemon until they passed out and I was able to gorge myself on x-rated cable television and sugary snacks. It was easy, fun and rather profitable. 

Still, my parents wouldn't budge. They wanted me to have a "real" job. One with a boss. One with a time clock. One with a stupid name tag or uniform or some other oppressive establishment symbol.  "Get a job!" they would say "or we are taking your car!" 

Those fuckers. 

Admittedly, I was panicked. My car was freedom and without it I was held captive in a land of floral wallpaper and ceiling speakers blasting "People Need the Lord" on repeat.  So, I hatched a plan. I would get a job, but it had to be a job that would somehow shame my parents. Something awful. Something embarrassing. Something they wouldn't want to tell their friends. Something where I would be surrounded by unsavory sorts of people. 

After completing a simple math test I became a part-time employee of Waffle House. 

My shift was from 9:00 pm until 6:00 am otherwise known as "the graveyard shift".  I put down a deposit for my uniform complete with head scarf and striped shirt. They gave me a blank name tag and I was instructed to write in my name. My permanent one would arrive in a few weeks - if I made it that long. My nose stud had to be removed and hair always pulled back.  No smoking behind the counters. One free meal per shift. 

The manager was a stern lady with wispy grey and red hair, "No nail polish less it's clear. And wear black shoes. Got it?" 

Um, yeah. I got this.  


I floated home on a cloud of self satisfaction. I announced my new found employment with the same glee and joy Maria had when she sang from the Austrian hills.

"Iiiiiiiiiii got a job! So, the car is minnnne!!"

"Oh, yeah?" my parents responded, "Where?"

Oh how much fun it was to say these words..."At Waffle House. From 9:00 pm till 6:00 am. I start tomorrow. See ya later. I'm going out with Rachel and Hannah!"


I threw my new uniform and name tag on the kitchen table and darted out the door.


My parents didn't say much. They played it cool. But we all knew...I was mocking them.




Part 2

"Here. Stand on this mark. See that red spot. That's yer mark. Hash browns gotta be called a certain way. When they wants em spread out on the grill ya say 'scattered'. Now for onions ya say 'smothered' and 'covered' for cheese. 'Chunked' ham. 'Diced' is the tomatoes. 'Peppered' is for spicy peppers and 'capped' for 'shrooms. 'Topped' is the chili and 'country' is for the gravy right over there. Then you set the plate for what'ya called. Like this (throws weird things on plate). Understand?"

I was given a whirlwind tour of yellow stained toilets and inadequate food storage along with introductions to co-workers who all had names that started with "K". Soon came the breakdown on how to prepare waffles and calculate tax without a calculator. It took less than an hour to learn the ins and outs of the barely 800 square foot facility.

Two weeks in I was a veteran. I knew every customer not only by name, but by order - like a good waitress should. I knew Carl came in every night after his factory shift and wanted an iced tea with two sweet-n-lows and an order of dry toast. The boys came in after drinking at the bar and needed coffee and sugar waiting for them before they sat down. After Paul's wife died he came in for pie every Sunday evening, but mostly he just wanted to talk - preferably to a female.

Often a man whose name I never knew would slowly pull himself up to the counter bar stools and ask for a bowl, a cup of hot water, and some crackers. He would then use the meager ingredients along with the ketchup on the table to make tomato soup. We charged him a small fee for the water, but the rest was free. Occasionally the owner, Bob, a handsy grey haired dictator, would force the poor man out of the restaurant. The staff would be scolded and told not to give out such freebies or he would dock our pay. Bob was almost never there and losing the minimal pay we received wasn't much of a threat. We gave out lots of free stuff.

Jimmy, an old man with fluffy white hair and sad blue eyes, would come early in the morning and order a diet coke without a straw. "I don't need a straw cause I ain't got teeth," he would say with a gentle toothless smile. Then he would put two quarters on the table and push them over to me saying, "Play Alan Jackson's "Little Bitty" and something for yourself sweetheart."

A large shiny vintage Wurlitzer jukebox sat across from the service counter. The bright neon lights would flash and reflect off the ceiling to floor windows. Classic songs from Janis Joplin and Patsy Cline along with more recent hits by Shania and Tim McGraw would fill the small restaurant night after night. In the wee morning hours I'd sit at the counter, smoke cigarettes, drink Dr. Pepper with cherry syrup and listen to the Dixie Chicks. Customers would come in and look to me for help. I'd 
slowly take another drag from my Camel Light and through a cloud of smoke explain, "I'll be with you in a minute." 

Waffle House was a bizarre alternate universe and strangely enough I fit right in. 



Four weeks after my first shift my name tag arrived. My permanent name tag. 

I was part of the family. 


Kinda. 


Sometimes I felt left out. 


From time to time the manager would hold staff meetings in the storage room. This usually happened when the staff was about to change shifts. Keith, Kenneth, Kendall and Kim were always invited to the meetings while I was asked to watch the floor and alert them if more than a few customers arrived. Usually I used the opportunity to catch up on my nicotine and toxin intake. Sitting at the counter, puffing away, I'd watch the locked wooden door for signs of the happenings behind it, but nothing ever happened. The more frequently these meetings occurred the more curious I became. 

There were parties too. The Waffle House crew would get together at the manager's house and have wild ruckus shenanigans without me. It was rather hurtful. I was eighteen, but I wasn't a baby. I went to Glendale! Partying was our thing. We brought booze to school in water bottles! We skipped class to smoke weed in the parking lot! We were totally wild. There was NO REASON I shouldn't be invited to a party. 

Finally, I decided to confront Kenneth. We had a bond. Kenneth, a beautiful young black man with a killer smile and a knack for poor decision making, was my best friend at the WH. We shared our secrets with each other. I frequently gave him rides home from work. Kenneth would play a tune on the jukebox and twirl me around the floor. Kenneth and I had serious discussions about gay rights and religious oppression. Usually Kenneth and I worked shifts by ourselves with him at the grill and me on the floor. He was the only one I trusted to cook for me. I knew he would tell me the truth. 

"Why am I never invited to parties with the staff? Do they think I'm too young? Because I promise I could drink most of you under the table." 

Kenneth hesitated before speaking. 

"Because we do meth. Everyone. And that's not something any of us want you to be a part of. You know you are the only one here with a High School diploma?" 

"Am I?" I responded still confused. 

Needing to fully understand the situation I continued, "What happens during the meetings in the storage room?" 

"We smoke meth," Kenneth stated calmly. 

"All of you??!? In the storage room?!?! With the food out? That's totally unsanitary" I exclaimed with repulsion and not due to the new knowledge of my co-workers regular drug use but to the complete lack of respect for the food customers and staff ate. 

Kenneth turned and continued frying up the eggs and hash browns for the booth of drunken kids in the corner. I poured myself a tall glass of Dr. Pepper and lit up yet another cigarette. In the distance, beyond the noise of sizzling butter I could make out the faint sounds of laughter.

It was my parents...mocking me.

Those fuckers. 

I was so pissed at my parents. I was learning shit. Valuable shit. 

As I puffed away, I reflected. Joan Jett started playing on the jukebox. Staring at the coffee maker I still didn't know how to work, it occurred to me, I was being an asshole. Though, I suppose that's the job of an eighteen-year-old. But I knew better. I wasn't completely unaware of my privilege. My father was always insistent on travel and culture and exposure, so at eighteen I had been exposed to a lot. I knew about homelessness and poverty and racism and drug addition and disparities in education. 

And yet...

I took on the life of a Waffle House employee as a joke. It's not the kind of job you take on because you love waffles. It's the kind of job you take on because you don't have any better options. 

But I did. 

I had all the options. 

Every door was open to me.

I was mocking opportunity in the face of those without. 


Fuck. 



Shortly after, I gave my two weeks notice. I was starting college in August. It was a Waffle House first - no other employee had ever left to pursue a college degree. They were all incredibly proud, but noted that if college didn't work out I'd always have a place at Waffle House. Keith and Kenneth made me a goodbye waffle tower with chocolate sauce and whipped cream. We promised to keep in touch and for a while we did. When I started college I would pop by on Friday nights to show them my ridiculous outfit before hitting the gay bar. Kenneth would play a song on the jukebox and twirl me around the customers. 

But after a few months there was no one to visit. 

Kenneth and Kim and Keith and Kendall had all moved on to new things. 

The Bitch Is Back

Oh, hello. 

When the movie “Son of God” came out in February of 2014 I desperately missed having a blog (see Sarah Goes To Church for more info). All these ideas flooded my mind – marketable religion, capitalizing on Christianity, Jesus Christ lunchboxes, Noah’s Ark zoos, Creationism roller-coasters at New Testament Family Fun Theme Parks…the list went on. Gawd, I love wacky religious stuff!  I spent the next three days brainstorming ideas for a blog post I would never write and now most of those ideas are gone. These are just the leftovers. The solid gold ideas have vanished, because I never wrote them down.

I love to write things down – paint colors, music I want to download, ideas for baby names, all my favorite movies A-Z, grocery shopping lists, quotes I like, life goals, wedding guest lists, etc.  Thoughts in my head drift away like a makeshift raft down a river. I can’t hold on to a thought for longer than a minute or two these days. But, write a thought down, and, if carefully stored, say on the internet, it can last forever.  #ilovecommas

Now it’s been over a year since I've written anything more than a list. I've had a whole year of being a mom (I’ll explain later) and falling in love (later, I said) and traveling to interesting places and awkward stranger encounters and living in a house that’s falling apart and participating in an ever changing world of beauty and chaos and I didn't write a damn thing about any of it.  I can’t help but think of all the missed opportunities to immortalize moments.  All those ideas. All those creative quips. All those cheesy one liners. All those subtle sarcastic digs at ex-lovers. Gone. Gone. Gone.

It's a little sad. 

I miss writing. 

And not to be overly Aerosmith circa 1998 but I don't want to miss...another writing opportunity. 

So, I'm back. 

This time without limits. No longer will I be restricted to weekly church visits and my thoughts and feelings on organized religion. NOPE. This time I'm free as a bird and I'll be writing whatever the hell I please. 

It is now with great excitement that I present you with....a list. 

Things You Can Expect From SWAB:

1.Cheese, but this time with more wine and less crackers. Whatever the hell that means. 

2. A fuckload of fucking cursing. 

3. Bad grammar. Typos. Constant spelling mistakes. Odd punctuation. Over capitalization. An overall complete lack of respect for the English language. 

4. TMI

5. Minimal concern for your feelings. I wrote an entire year of blog posts about religion and only managed to piss off a handful of people. I played it too safe. I won't make that mistake this time. 

6. A melange of topics. That's right A MELANGE. (Though right now I can think of nothing)

7. Weekly posts. Every* Monday** you can expect and original piece of writing from yours truly.

(*there is no chance in hell I'm going to post EVERY week) 

(** sometimes blog posts will be released on days other than Monday)

Now you know. Come along or don't. 

Either way, I'll be writing...