Off the Record

Hartford Coffee should carry fresh fruit. Clementines, bananas or apples, even. It is a nice option to have in place of the traditional scones and sweets. All libraries should be open from 8-8 every day of the week. None of this 12-7 crap. Babies have cute shoes and make funny sounds. My eyes are going bad. I wish I had money for an optegan. Or an optemeter. I mean, an optometrist. More police should patrol my neighborhood. The city should have wireless. You should all give me lots of money. Kids should not throw rocks at my stained glass windows. Ameren UE should not have hired Karen Foss. Steve Patterson turned 40. I like Fish Frys. I am good at crossword puzzles. I miss Spain. Give me money so I can go back to Spain. Babies' cheeks wobble when they run. I need a plant so I'm not so lonely.

I came home and had a chai with Bailey's poured in it. The sun still shining, the neighbor still trying to sweep into that one crack on his brick street, the same roofing material litter swaying about in my yard, and the traffic heading south faster and heavier. I made a call, filed my pay sheet, sent some emails, considered reading the paper or putting away my dishes. The room had already been rearranged for the second time in a week. The floor had already been swept. The clothes washed. The flowers watered. And the paper read. I took another sip and pondered moving the light back to its original spot. Are there other people out there like me who are living this incredible life full of culture, people, inspiration, beauty, solace and originality? I have to struggle at times to pay my rent or I must decline a drinking invitation or opt for a can of tuna instead of a 1/2lb of salmon, but I can't imagine doing this any other way.

I looked like one of them. My converse shoes, gray pants and layered shirt look threw them off, I'm sure. I wore a blazer though, in an effort to maintain some sort of resemblance to a professor who had actually gotten their master's degree and teaching certificate. A boy named C.D. stopped me short and asked, his large eyes, shaggy hair and ski cap making me smile, "Do you go to school here now?" "No." "Oh," he looked at his feet, "well, my name's C.D." "Hi." "See ya." On my next encounter with him he asked my name and what I was doing there. At the beginning of my last class I decided to take roll while sitting on the desk. In Saved by the Bell and Full House the cool teachers ALWAYS sat on the desks while lecturing. I let them saunter in and take their seats before diving right in, saying my name was Sarah and that their teacher had grown so tired of them that she took a day off. I gave them their assignment for the day and let them run with it, all of them holding themselves very well. One boy introduced himself to me with a strong handshake before class even begun. Another seemed intent on discussing my favorite Almadovar films during Spanish class. He was also curious about the way I drove to Alton from my apartment in South City. One girl asked me outright, "How old are you, anyway? Someone older could never dress the way you do and get away wtih it." I was wearing a neck tie under a sweater. After my second day, I knew that this was definitely something I could get very used to.

As I struggled yesterday filling out a W-4 I realized that I've only completed a mere 3 in my life. This is not to say I have not had jobs over the past seven years, however; it is to say that I have left a very small sort of paper trail for my dozens of paying jobs. Busser/manager/waitress/dessert cutter at a restaurant in Alton and Elsah. Score keeper at all home basketball games in high school. Set designer/constructor/theatre manager at summer stock at SIUE. Dark Room manager at Webster. Assistant to the Housing directors at Webster. Freelance writer. Bag stuffer for Nestle-Purina. Housesitter. Catsitter. Dogsitter. House rehabber. Yard worker. Babysitter. Production Assistant for The Great Race, Fox News, tourist video for St. Charles. Video editor. Substitute teacher. Food runner/hostess/busser at Cyrano's. Theatre concessions at the Rep Theatre. Copy editor for a Spanish-based pharmaceutical company. Photographer. Bartender for a Connecticut Street party. Mascot wearer. Dishwasher in the kitchen of Lenten Fish Fries.

There’s nothing better than sitting in Starbucks on any given weekday morning between 7 and 8:30 and hearing the various people give their elaborate orders to the employees behind the counter. As one with a knack for words, my vocabulary tends to increase at a rate of 4.6% per hour of listening to the requests of these caffeine addicts who most likely practice their orders like theater students rehearse their lines. I can picture them in their cars, driving to Starbucks, exercising their mouths by reciting the vowels and the rhymes their voice coaches told them to practice to help loosen up their jaws. AaaaaEeeeeIiiiiiOooooUuuuu. Next, they have to get down the structure of their orders. Does the milk preference go first? When do I say the size? “I’ll have a dry half caf double tall non-fat latte.” “Gimme a no whip mocha chip frappucino sans mocha.” “No foam soy cappuchino with a pump and a half of sugar-free vanilla, please.” Some people have been ordering the same thing for months and months, but when it doesn’t roll off the tongue as expected, they get flustered and quietly scold themselves. These are also the people who, in the moment of pure embarrassment, forget to grab the cardboard cup huggies and end up dealing with a scalded hand in addition to the Starbuckian scorn. There’s nothing worse than having 10 of your fellow pompous addicts snickering at your slip up while you wait for the paper cup filled with self-defining liquid. What’s equally fascinating is that a person’s order is most often a direct correlation to their economic status, gender and, while this may be a stretch, their religion. If you have the $.50 for that soy substitute, you’re obviously a Wash U administrator, an executive at AG Edwards, or simply lactose intolerant. If you buy a simple coffee (heaven forbid) or a regular latte, however, you may sit on a city council or may be doing Metrolink construction. Someone ordering the mochachocalatte with extra whip is surely a health-conscious, stressed woman doing Public Relations at Y98 or a prepubescent Nerinx Hall student. And someone wanting a tall hot chocolate or Tazo chai tea tends to be under the age of five or an active member in the archdiocese. I like the story of the guy who pulls up in a BMW (sunroof open, even in the middle of winter) and walks into the building without taking his sunglasses off. He stands below the posted menu and looks upward, not in an attempt to figure out what he wants, but simply to assess what sounds hip. Next in line, he offers his monologue, hands over the mortgage to his house and moves to the side to wait for his self-defining liquid. The woman behind him, initially intrigued by the whole sunglasses indoors thing, is dually impressed with the ease at which he delivers his request. She tries to emulate his fluidity, but fails. “I’ll have the double whip latte with no dry espresso.” The whole shop freezes. A mug crashes to the floor. They shake their heads and click their tongues, ashamed of her blunder. She rushes out the door, never to return. This scenario shows that the only reason anyone today ever orders something explicitly ridiculous is because some cocky businessman once decided to do it for fun. People caught on (some more successfully than the aforementioned woman) and discovered that, because of this new language, their social lives improved, they were more productive at work, and their spouses found them sexier than before. They had a new confidence. A new way of looking at life, even. These people are now worshipped for slurring words that only the baristas can interpret. Being pompous really is the key to happiness. But so is a venti double dry soy Café Americano—easy on the venti.

I'm deep. Sorry, Val. "I'm looking forward to growing up and getting married. I love Adam Peipert he's so cute. I don't really like Val anymore. I like plants a lot. I'm planting some."

As a "freelance busser" and food runner at a restaurant, I have come to find out that there are certain things you don't say to a table. Just the other night I brought a few plates to a gaggle of ladies who were planning on sharing. I only found that out after I said, "Are these for anyone in particular or are you just going to eat off each other?" After I left the table I thought about what I had said and felt oddly ok with it; mostly because I didn't think the table had registered exactly what I asked. That same evening, as I was refilling waters a table of two, I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the woman gazing up at me as I poured into both of their glasses. At first I just thought she was looking at me, but, as I went for the second glass, I was sure that she was looking at me with wanton desire while placing her fork in her mouth with intense deliberateness. She slowly brought it out of her mouth as if trying to seduce me. I was only there for maybe 15 seconds, yet this all played out in my mind so slowly. What was her husband thinking? Did he see her? Was he used to is? Was I only imagining things? Should I have my peripheral vision checked out? Is the woman ok? WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH HER!??!?!?!?

I apparently took to baseball at quite a young age. "Dear Diary, today I went to a card show. I got Barry Bonds, Frank Thomas and Ken Griffey Jr. and Nigel Wilson. I am listening to a baseball game World Series. Blue Jays-v-Phillies. Phillies are in the lead. The game's good. My sister is stupid. She wants my Franky. That card is worth a lot. She's not going to get it. From, Sarah. P.S. Phillies 5 Blue Jays 2 so far."

When I was nine, I wrote about historical facts: "Dear diary, Guess what I have a boyfriend named Matt Anderson. He is a hunk. He is so cute. I'm going to kiss him some times. I can't wait till school starts. But then I woudn't get to see Matt. The flood is really bad. Our water is turned off. It is all the way up to the Adult Library."

Excerpt from my diary as an 8 year old: "3rd Grade. Dear diary, I school. I sit in front of Brian Coalson. I'm going to try to write in you every night. I have friend named Megan Ann Aulabaugh. I think I've menchind her before, well anyway I've known her for about seven years, and I'm only eight. I'll see you later!! Bye!!!