Sarah figures out what her drama professor was trying to tell her, and it changes nothing.

Welcome to the weekend!

So many, many, many years ago, in order to complete my English major requirements in college, I had to take a class called, "Christians Perspectives in Drama."

I'm a writer who loves movies and I just happen to be Christian. This should, I thought at the time, be the easiest course I take all year.  Just talk about how movies these days (1989) are going to hell in a hand basket because of all the sex and violence and I'm good to go.

It was a theory that had worked for me in the past.  Give them what they want and they'll give you an A...or, more likely a B because let's face it, I didn't want to work all that hard and if it's a Phys Ed class, well, then it's a C for me.

But this class was different.

The professor was...well, an interesting guy.  You remember the Hobbit movie from the 70's?   Not the energetic creepy sprite from the live action movies, no the cartoon one.  Yeah, well my professor for this course reminded me a bit of Gollum from that movie.  Sort of creepy, dim eyesight, and like a wet string of spit always sort of stretched between his upper and lower lip; never swinging free, never dropping, just sort of always there.  He also had a way of speaking that was unique; even toned, almost non inflective with a sort of musical timbre. If you can imagine Enya singing one or two notes continuously without increasing or decreasing volume or meter.

Given that I had to take this class at the end of my senior year, when most of my classmates were in their "Senior Slide" I was convinced this would be a no brainer nap time.

It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last time, but I was wrong.  Really wrong.  The guy opened the very first class with this question:  Who has seen a movie recently?

I raised my hand. DUH. Hubby and I were pros at seeing every single movie that hit theaters within a fifteen mile radius of our campus.  We saw some movies twice, but it was a movie released between the early winter of 1986 and late spring of 1989...we saw it.

In this case the movie was "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels."  A hilarious romp of a flick with Steve Martin and Michael Caine. If you haven't seen it, find it. It's so much fun!

The professor asked me to tell him about the movie. I summarized it, as any idiot 21 year old college senior might.  I pointed out the morality issues, and how we as Christian teachers in training should be aware of this great decline in moral values and battle against it in out classroom.

Then I sat back and waited for my A.

"But who was the Christ figure in the movie?"

I didn't even blink. This wasn't a Christian movie, thought I, and therefore there was no Christ figure because that would be WRONG.  "There was none, of course, it was a comedy."

I mean, when was the last time you saw Jesus starring in a comedy?  It's "The Passion of the Christ" not the "HBO COMEDY SPECIAL OF THE CHRIST."

"Every film has a Christ figure and if you didn't find it you missed the point."

I remember nothing else from that class.

I mean, other than I had to write a play at the end to salvage my grade.

Why did I tell you this story?

Well to point out that people have very different reasons for watching movies and therefore the movie watching experience for everyone is different.  And I'm saying that in the hopes that you'll stop reading and not notice the opinion I'm about to law on you:

I think "Staying Alive" if every bit as good if not better than "Saturday Night Fever."

Okay if I haven't alienated my entire reading audience, hear me out:

First of all, I hate films made between 1968 and 1980 because the film style is non sequeter, the film lighting is overly gauzy, the dialogue often makes no sense, and the clothes are just....terrible.

Let's set aside my distaste for film styles of the 1970's because I have to admit that yes, "Saturday Night Fever" is a great commentary on the disco world in Brooklyn, following especially young Tony, who is willing to put up with his disapproving family, his terrible job, and his wildly annoying friends just so he can dance.

But 1983's sequel "Staying Alive" brings a slightly (very slightly) more mature Tony who is now living in Manhattan in the 80's. He's putting up with his disapproving family (who disapprove so completely, only one character, his mother, came back for this second film) both of his terrible jobs, is wildly annoying director and a lead dancer who is all hair and very little logic.  But he deals with it all so he can DANCE.

It's clear that Tony has the comprehension of concrete in dealing with women. In "Fever" he uses and

abuses his friend and #1 groupie Annette and he chases completely out of reach, in over her head, Stephanie.  In the end,  he hurts Annette and Stephanie uses him and hurts him.

In "Alive" he uses and abuses his friend and #1 groupie, Jackie, while he chases completely out of reach, in over her head, Laura.  In the end, and here's where it gets good, he figures out that he loves Jackie and rejects Laura after she asks him to come back.  (Oh, I didn't say Spoiler? The movie is 35 years old. BUY A VCR or something.)

So, Tony shows growth in "Staying Alive" where he shows very little in "Saturday Night Fever"  Although I wouldn't really know, because the film style of the 70's was just to string several random scenes together without prelude so it took me about four viewings to figure out what Stephanie's deal was.

The dance numbers are better because disco dancing is terrible.  Not that I'm going to buy a ticket for "Satan's Alley" any time soon because, well, it looked stupid, but the rehearsal shots for the Broadway show" were great and you know, it wasn't disco.

The clothes are better in "Staying Alive" because 80's clothes are awesome and 70's clothes are terrible.  The exception being the iconic white suit which is in both films.

Travolta's butt is better in "Staying Alive" because isn't no in polyester.  It's in denim or a really, seriously, well fit spandex dance outfit, or a loin cloth. But no sans-a-belt pants with bell bottoms!

Also the music is better.

OH FOR SHAME!  HOW CAN I SAY THAT?

Yeah, I mean the Bee Gees are great and all...but that's really all you get in "Fever."  And half the time it feels like they just said, "Well, the Bee Gees said we could use the music, so let's stick another song here."  The music montages are...painful.

Meanwhile, 80's music montages and movie music not only fit in the story, sometimes the lyrics of the songs actually tell part of the story.  Sure, very few of those songs made the top 40.  (Frank Stallone's "Far From Over" being one.)  And, fun fact, there are 18, yes 18 Bee Gees songs used in "Staying Alive."  So yeah, the music is BETTER AND it includes the Bee Gees.

Finally, the dialogue makes sense. The conversations have a point.  It's not some sexed up dudes running around saying this and that and using slang no one on the planet truly understands.  Yeah, point to "Staying Alive."

Yes, "Staying Alive" is every bit as good as, if not better than, "Saturday Night Fever."

I never did believe there's a Christ figure in every movie, but I'm pretty sure, as I read my opinions, that my professor was trying to tell me I'm a moron for not looking deeper into a movie and drawing out all the hidden meanings.

Well he's hardly the only person who thinks I'm a moron.

Sometimes a movie's just a movie and you watch it because TV is terrible.  You want good looking guys, good looking women, great music and dance numbers.  Sometimes you don't want a movie to change the world.  You want to escape the world.  Then you find the movies that take you places.

"Saturday Night Fever" didn't take me anyplace I wanted to go.  "Staying Alive" did.

Sort of makes you want to read my other movie reviews, doesn't it? I've got three collections, all right here.

Maria broke her foot, the Cube went to Nashville, and Sarah was assaulted by her own bra.

Good evening!

It's been quite the week!

As some of you know, Hubby left last weekend on his annual trip to Colorado to see his sister and hike in the oxygen free air of the mountains.  As some of you also know, this two week span is generally when some sort of life changing, or disasterous,  thing happens at Bradley Manor.

Well, I was optimistic. I mean, Peaches is working, her classes at WCTC  started up again, and on weekends she's interning at Good Harvest Market where she is making wonderful things like gluten free vegan blonde brownies that taste AMAZING.  (Seriously, they are awesome!) Meanwhile, Skippy was spending Labor day weekend in the Twin Cities with friends, and then turning around and heading to Nashville with his lady to meet up with other friends for a few days.  (He's taking some well earned vaca time as a celebration of his promotion to driver manager who gets to hire AND fire drivers and conduct performance reviews at our local Toppers Pizza)

I, personally, had a number of projects involving the many plastic bins in our basement, and a very messy candle closet.  Plus, some of you know, I'm procrastinating on writing the fourth and final installment of my Nora Hill Mystery Series.

With all of this going on...how could any of us get into any sort of trouble?

Which is exactly what I told Hubby's buddy, Joachim, when he asked after us at Choir practice on Tuesday this past week.

"Everything is great," says I.  "I just had the best weekend and it's all smooth sailing."

And then, not 24 hours later...

See, here's what happened:  Skippy was getting ready to leave for his trip to Nashville. He'd loaded up his car, the faithful Maria, the red Ford, and was on his way to see his good friend Moxie before he left.  He pulled out of the driveway in the pouring rain (last week was BRUTAL for much of Wisconsin.) Three minutes later I receive the following text: 

Do you know why my wheel isn't straight?

There's something you should know about Skippy. He words things a bit differently from other people.  It's probably why he's a poet. (check out his third collection of modern poetry here)  So when the boy asks if I know about his wheel, he's not asking me to solve a mystery. He's telling me there's something wrong with his car and he thinks I'm the one who did it.

Well, I was the one who pulled the car out of the driveway an on to the front lawn Wednesday morning. I did do that.

Why did I pull the car onto the lawn?

Well, simple: we have four cars in the driveway. The last person in at night is NEVER the first person out in the morning, so we start every morning by pulling at least one car out of the driveway and putting it on the street. Except Wednesday was garbage day.  Normally Tuesday is, but with the holiday on Monday our pick up was delayed so Wednesday morning was garbage pick up and hubby doesn't like having a car parked on the street on garbage day so I put it on the lawn. Hubby would have done it differently, but he's in a different time zone.

My point is...I didn't do anything to Skippy's wheel.  Certainly not something that would make his car look like this: 

Fortunately, Skippy was just around the corner from our house. Also fortunately, I work from home.  

Unfortunately it was pouring rain (Like God was trying to empty heaven or something) and Maria was in the middle of traffic.  (Could have been worse, he could have been in Chicago.)

After several frantic texts and calls to Hubby (who is in charge of all things car related) and to my mother (to work out the logistics of getting my books and her art to this weekend's Waukesha Farmers' Market (Where we have a booth and where I sign and sell all of my books six months out of the year.)  poor Maria was loaded on to a flatbed tow truck and off to to shop.

Before that little bit of joy happened, however, we had to unload a few items from Maria, things Skippy planned to take on the trip, things that couldn't get well in the deluge. Skippy was already drenched and looking quite sad standing there holding his umbrella.  (I maintain that umbrella's are pointless, but we all have one.)  So, being the mom that I am, I took off my lovely new rain coat and wrapped it around the blankets and other items Skippy needed to keep dry and I moved them from his car to mine.

With Maria on the way to the shop, I took Skippy home where we then unloaded all my book stuff from my car (I keep it loaded with my Market stuff all summer).  We did this, again, in the pouring rain, and I have no rain coat on.  I was, as they say, soaked to the skin.

Skippy and I agreed he would take the Cube to Nashville. I had Hubby's car to drive if i needed it, since Hubby flew to Colorado, and there was always Peaches to help out in a pinch.  So, with everything settled, Skippy took the Cube and went to get gas.

I, in the meantime, went to change out of my wet clothes.  And here's where it gets funny.  (I know, you've been waiting for this.)

Being a bigger girl, I have issues with bra straps.  Apparently if you're a 46 anything, bra makes assume you also wear NFL linebacker shoulder pads and therefore need straps that are made to stay on the shoulders of a large man.  It's my middle that's fluffy, my shoulders are normal. So straps slip off all the time. Hence I recently purchased some "racer back" bras.  (This is the type with the X straps in the back.) I don't love them, but at least the straps don't fall down. (Rendering the whole point of wearing a support garment, you know, pointless.)

The particular bra I was wearing on this day was unlined. This meant there was no padding, no extra anything in there to make me more shapely or attractive. A couple of thin hammocks of satin and and X in the back and that was it.

Or so I thought.

In the privacy of my own EN SUITE (yeah, I watch "House Hunters") I removed my wet shirt and tossed it over the shower rod. now, we have a really long shower curtain, so I had to give the shirt a good heave ho to get it up over the rod.  I did the same with my bra.

And here's where my life goes sideways.

In giving my bra a heave, I missed the shower rod and the thing fell back, hitting me in the face. That's when I figured out that unlined didn't really mean no lining. What it mean was there was a mystery lining that expanded when wet. Like those swim diapers or a feminine punctuation pad.  (If you ever left one of those thing in your back pocket of your jeans and then tossed said jeans into the washer, you find out pretty quick one of two things 1) those pads are absorbent! 2) those pads have a breaking point and when they explode they release some sort of alien gel all over everything.  You'd think that would happen once and I'd check my pockets every single time from then on. You'd be wrong.)

Whatever the mystery stuff was inside the bra, it had expanded, making that garment heavier and thicker.  Like getting hit in the face with a satin covered swim diaper.

I swung again, a little harder, this time over shooting the shower rod completely, hitting the ceiling, and, again, getting hit in the face.

If you're thinking the third time was the charm, you'd be wrong.

After the fifth attempt to gracefully drape my foundation garment over my shower rod, and after getting hit in the face five times, I decided to opt for plan B.  I draped the thing over my hamper.  (I could have just taken it down to the laundry room I suppose. Funny, I didn't think of that until just this minute.)

How did it all turn out? Well, there's no bruising from my bra's assault on my face. Skippy and the Cube are having a great time in Nashville and due to return on Tuesday, and as for Maria, well, her foot got fixed. The guy at the shop said it was a broken right lower control arm and damaged axle.  (That's for Joachim and all of Hubby's other car buddies.)

The guy at the shop also said he'd never seen an arm just break like that, that he was amazed and surprised.  I said, "Well, Hubby's in Colorado. Stuff like this happens to us all the time."

Hubby comes back a week from today. I can't wait to see what adventures await the kids and me this week.  Or maybe we'll all just say home and watch "The Office" on Netflix.