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.

If the stick turns pink the challenge is accepted!

One of my dear college friends, let's call her Amelia, would often call me after we were first married, with a singular question:  If the stick turns pink, does that mean I'm pregnant?

Somebody peed on that.

Over the years since we were young mothers (like a thousand years ago) Amelia and I have laughed about this.  Home pregnancy tests were then, and still are now, somewhat odd both in practice and in information.  Pink line. Blue line. Plus sign. Two lines versus one line.  Growing up in a culture where we simply did not DID NOT discuss bodily fluids, the very idea that we had to pee on something to give us information was horrifying.

I'm getting off track.

I'm reminded of the whole "stick turning pink" conversation because a number of weeks ago, my fair city sent road crews out to mark various spots where they were going to destroy and rebuild portions of the road.  Our block has been spared, although the intersections at either end of the block have been in various states of construction since early July.

But then one day we noticed...this.  This stick with a pink ribbon jammed into the grass right in front of our house.  There are no other pink sticks on our block.  In fact, we had to walk several blocks in either direction to find other sticks and those had blue ribbons and were often clumped in groups of six.

But no...we have one single pink stick in front of our house.  

And what a is a "Proposed HH?"

Hubby and I have spent some time wondering about this. We've asked around. One neighbor suggest we're getting a fire hydrant.  That would make sense except I would personally abbreviate hydrant as HY, but I'm not in city government or road construction.  I sort of hope it's NOT a hydrant because that would mean we could NEVER park in front of our own house which would be a major problem for us.  (Four cars, and a garage that can't house any of them...)

One neighbor believes they're going to put a helicopter helipad on our property. Now, while this might sound "JJ Abrams out there" it's not as nuts as one might think. See, our local hospital, which is about four blocks behind our house, has been quietly buying up local homes for years.  (Well, either that or houses are just vanishing and being replaced by grass...which brings me back to JJ Abrams.)  While there are at least three layers of homes for the hospital to gobble up before it gets to ours, why WOULDN'T they want a helipad...four blocks from the ER?

I should note that Hubby and I have also walked quite a bit in our surrounding blocks and as I mentioned we see quite a few blue sticks, but not that many pink sticks and the very, very few we've found, they have NOT had the same instructions written on them. We've seen "hydrant" abbreviated on blue sticks as "hyd."  So that ends that speculation.

I've decided it's one of two things:  Either the city is giving houses in our area some sort of weird pregnancy test (and our stick is pink) OR...and I rather like this idea...the city is challenging me to a game.  I don't know the rules, and I sure don't know what I'll get if I win...but I know this much:

I really, really, really want to start moving all those sticks around.

I was actually picturing the computer from that Matthew
Broderick movie, but this works, too.

Come on! I wake up one morning and there's a random stick in my yard and I'm not supposed to take it as a challenge?  Like the city is a giant computer saying, "Do you want to play a game?"

Nope, that's not me.

CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.

I may just start tomorrow night. You know...in the dark...  Maybe I move my "Proposed HH" across the street to my neighbor who thought it was a hydrant. 

He's a former cop. I might not want to do that.

Still...

I would explain basic anatomy to you, gentlemen, but we're in church.

Good afternoon everyone!

I know...it's Monday. What am I doing blogging?

Well, I'm sort of avoiding actual writing.  I'm stuck on my 4th and final Nora Hill novel. Not stuck so much as I don't want to do what I have to do to move the story along.  When you read it, you'll understand.

Anyway, yesterday I went to church at my home church, which I haven't done much this summer because we've been out of town (don't tell anyone! LOL).  So of course after services there was a certain amount of catching up we (and by we I mean Hubby who is far more social than I am) needed to do.

After several minutes of chit chat with friends I caught up to Hubby who was talking about cars with two gents who happen to be brothers. Let's call them Joe and Marvin.  They know who they are.

So Hubby, Joe, and Marvin are standing in sort of a circle and talking and it's quite clear to me, and to Hubby, that Joe and Marvin, being brothers, have certain similarities in their manners.  Case in point, the two of them cross their arms the same way when they are talking.

Like this but with more chins.

Now, I don't cross my arms often for three reasons:  1) as a fluffy girl, it's not all the comfortable crossing my arms over my upper body because, well, my arms didn't get longer as I got wider, so it's not a comfortable reach. 2) if I cross my arms under my upper body (read here, in the wedge between my girls and my gut) I look like I'm resting my arms on a pregnant belly.  Not a good look.  3) When
I cross my arms ever, my upper arms widen out and I look like an East German swimmer from the 70's.  REALLY not a good look.

So I generally stand with my arms at my side or I move them around if I happen to be talking.

So we're standing in a small circle, the brothers, Hubby, and I.  Hubby points out that the brothers cross their arms the same way.  He tries to imitate them, which he does well. I focus on how they position their hands when they cross their arms. 

I should take a moment note that "catching up" for men and women is really different. Whereas I was checking in on how the kids were, how's the job, how's every one's health, Hubby was discussing car repair and how people cross their arms.

One could point out that I, in turn, then took said conversation about the crossed arms and turned it into a blog, but one would have to be patient until I get to the point of the blog to understand why I'm writing about this at all.

So let's get to the point.

So anyway, I'm looking at how Joe and Marvin position their hands. And I attempt it, but, because of the reasons I mentioned before, I'm not able to copy them.

This is where it gets blog-able.

Jesus knows blog-able when He sees it.

Hubby looks at me, then looks at the brothers, then looks at me again. He says something to the effect of, "Well if you do this," whereupon he tries to push my arms into position the way Joe and Marvin have their arms. That would be pretty much across their chests.  

That so does not work for me.  Because, see...the aforementioned female stuff.  Which I point out by saying, "That does not work FOR ME."  I'd go into more detail, but we are in the HOUSE OF THE LORD.  (We were in the church entry way which still counts as God's House.  I checked.)

They got the point.  Of course they did.  But that didn't detract from the moment when three men over the height of six feet stared downward at my...upper Victoria's Secret area. IN CHURCH.  (I mean, that's really the type of behavior you save for the church balcony!)

That's when I turned and walked away. Hubby said, "Well, on that note," which is sort of our funny way of leaving an awkward conversation, he followed me.  I gave him three steps before I said, "That's blog-able."

We saw Joe later, and Hubby warned him about the blog.  Joe protested asking what he could have POSSIBLY DONE to deserve being put in the blog.

Don't worry, Marvin and Joe's wives will explain it to them. If not, someone at church will.  I won't have to say one more word about it.

And that, my friends, is how blogs work.

Welcome to the Hiawatha!

(NOTE: THIS POST IS NOT FOR ANY READERS UNDER THE AGE OF 18!)

Hello everyone!

This past week Hubby and I trekked across Lake Michigan (literally...we took the SS Badger Car Ferry) and had ourselves a little vacation time.  I don't get out of Wisconsin terribly often, so maybe the following story won't surprise you world travelers out there, but I can tell you...people do NOT talk this way in The Dairy State...at least, not to perfect strangers who are also customers.

(It should be noted that I spent a good portion of my childhood and a tiny bit of my adult time in Michigan, and I think of myself as having grown up as a "Michigander.")

So after a few days on the road we reached the city of Escanaba, Michigan. Now, if you haven't been to Escanaba...well...Let's put it this way:  Much of the U.P. is super tourist friendly.  Clean, wooded roads, charming parks all along the lake shore, national forests every five feet, quaint little villages offering salt water taffy, fudge, and post cards to everyone. 

Escanaba...a little less so.

Escanaba is a city where people actually live and work and when people insist on living and working someplace, that place tends to get messy, dusty, worn out.  Sort of like my house because there are four people and five cats living here and I can't keep up with it all.  Escanaba is NOT a tourist town.  There's a charming park where boat folk can part their rides and children play on the shore of the Little Bay de Noc, and in that park is a lighthouse/museum (which has pretty short hours). We also had a lovely breakfast at The Swedish Pantry and picked up coffee at the most fun coffee place, "Joe to Go". That said, Escanaba is a city like most that really doesn't depend on tourists and therefore doesn't feel the need to maybe clean its windows once in a while.

Having just come through the Michigan Tourism Centers of Ludington, Mackinaw City, Cheboygan, and Manistique, I can tell you, Escanaba was a jolt back to reality.  Not so much in a bad way...but I will say this:  Stuff got weird when we got to the motel.

The motel we stayed at there, The Hiawatha, was a room we booked online, as we had all of our other hotels/motels/lodges.  I'd been utterly charmed by our selection of "no frills" places thus far, so pulling up to the Hiawatha was a bit of a jolt.  This looked a lot like a dumpy motel I'd worked at...in 1981...and it didn't look like it had been updated since.  But we don't judge a book or a motel by its cover. Besides, we were tired from walking along lovely lake shore boardwalks and shopping in quaint little places that specialized in cherry jam and candy.  We just needed a place to shower and sleep.

We discovered, upon entering the motel office, that this little hotel offers its own brand of entertainment for tourists.

Personally, I should have known something was up when we read a hand printed sign on the front door that said, "Sorry, we don't rent to locals."

I mean...

Anyway, this is how check in went:

Check in Girl:  So you're checking in?

Me:  Yes.

Check in Girl:  So one night?

Me: Yes.

Check in Girl:  Okay, you're in room 108.  (Pause)  Ooooh, hot tub room! Whoo hoo!

(It is at this moment that she does a little move I call the "whoo hoo dance.")

Me: Yes, we saw the hot tub on the website when we booked the room. (I'm trying not to blush. I mean, this girl is younger than my daughter and I'm certainly not about to get personal with her.) 
We've been hiking a lot and I tweaked my knee.

Check in Girl: Oh yes...that hot tub is going to feel good on...your knee.  (I swear, the girl winked at me.  Honestly!)

Anyway, I recovered from this blush inducing conversation and took our key (yes, a key...not a card...this place was a little old school!) and went to room 108, located...I'm not making this up, right in the crotch of the hotel.  Right in the corner where the two arms of hotel rooms meet.

Our actual room 108.

All I'm saying is that it's a good thing I'm a fan of mid century modern decorating.  Because the room's furnishings hadn't been updated since Don Draper took his first workplace drink.

But hey, the room was clean, the towels were plentiful, the water pressure was great, and YES, the hot tub was really good for my tweaked knee.

And if that's where it ended, I wouldn't be posting about this hotel.

But that's not where it ended.

The next morning, I went to check out. The check out girl was now a check out man.  And older guy, maybe ten years older than I am.  He was on the phone with someone when I walked in.

He had that low creepy voice that makes you feel slimy. You know the voice.  And he spoke slowly, drawing each word out like it was an ice cream cone he was licking.

Gross.

I figured he was talking to his wife or girlfriend or something, given his tone of voice.  I found out otherwise the minute he hung up and started talking to me.

Check out Creeper guy:  So, you're checking out of room 108?

Me: Yes.

Check out Creeper guy:  Did you enjoy...the hot tub?

Me:  Yes. It was good for my knee.

Check out Creeper guy: Oh...yes...your knee.

Then, for reasons I will never fathom, he asked me if I'd heard of a certain local artist.  He used that same sleazy tone of voice, so I had no idea what ring of hell I was about to view online as he clicked the web address in. But I'm a well brought up girl, trained to be polite, so I waited until the site came up. Fortunately, the artist did photographs of waterfalls in the area. Quite lovely. But Creeper guy kept looking at me looking at the pictures and he...smiled.

Is there a fetish I'm not aware of? Like, one where a guy enjoys watching a fat 50 year old woman look at waterfall photographs done by a local artist?

Anyway, I felt really slimy at this point, so I dropped the key on the desk and made my escape...I mean...left the office.  While walking out, I heard the check in girl from the day before as she chatted with another girl while they were cleaning rooms.

Folks, I am NOT making this up.  This is how that conversation went:

Check in girl: Did you hear about her?

Other girl: No, what?

Check in girl: Oh, she got chlamydia!

Other girl:  (giggles)

Check in girl: And it's worse than that. She got ....(word unintelligible)...because she didn't get the clap treated. And you know what they say, "Get the clap, then get (word unintelligible.)

Tell me you get this movie reference.

I was going to go ask what you got, because, well, I mean, as a writer I'm super curious like that. Plus, she used a word for when you get after the clap and it was a word I'd never heard before, like some sort of local slang for Pelvic Inflammatory Disorder (which is EXACTLY when you get, girls, if you don't get your chlamydia treated.)  But I didn't.  I got in the car and said, "DRIVE!" to Tom.

So, if you're in Escanaba (because remember, they don't rent to locals) check out the Hiawatha hotel. The staff is creepy, but the hot tub is A-OK.

Fun Fact Friday: Now that it's dead, Sarah reveals a childhood dream.

Happy Friday all!

What do you want to be when you grow up?

That's a question we ask little kids...and I haven't a clue why.  What does a 5 year old know about anything?  What kind of job hunting experience do fourth graders have?

Yet in our society we insist on asking children what they want to be. And the list is short at first: " I want to be like my dad or mom.  I want to be a fireman.  I want to be a teacher."  Because life experience is short.

As kids get older, the list is a little more varied:  "I want to play for the Packers." "I want to be a model." "I want to be a baker."  "I want to write a best selling novel, something bigger than "Gone with the Wind"  and spend my days doing nothing but book signings and public readings for the rest of my life."

That last one was just for me.  Because that exact thing is what I've wanted to be since I read "Gone with the Wind" in seventh grade.

Sure, I have a list of stuff I wanted to be when I grew up. Who didn't?  And no, I've never been a paramedic, a rescue dog (yes, in 3rd grade I was convinced I was a dog), a librarian, or a jockey.   (Other than being an author, that's literally the list of stuff I wanted to be as a kid.)

I have been a waitress, a teacher, a nursing assistant in a CBRF, a 3rd shift retail stocker, a janitor, a telemarketer, a newspaper girl, a hotel maid, a cook in a CBRF, a babysitter, a receptionist, a janitorial supervisor, a 3rd shift  gas station attendant,  a sales person, a cashier, a data entry clerk, an office manager, and the person in charge of collecting plumbing permits for a bath remodeling company.  Right now I'm an employment analyst, and I would explain what that is, but it would take too long.

My point is that when we're kids we dream of great stuff we want to be from a very short list of what I like to call first level jobs.  Fireman, police, teacher...the obvious ones.

But reality, when it comes to jobs, is far more...detailed.  I was already too fat in 8th grade to be a jockey...my mother talked me out of being a paramedic and a librarian, and I'm obviously not a dog.  And, since at my ripe age I've yet to write anything better than "Gone with the Wind" (I'm still working on that one) it's clear I'm probably not going to be any of my childhood dream jobs. 

Which is okay, because the jobs I've had in my life have been colorful. But, let's be honest,  no little girl dreams of the day she's a data entry clerk for the quality control department of a medical equipment manufacturer.  Joe versus the Volcano anyone?

However, there's one dream I've had my whole life, only a very, very few people actually know about it, that I recently had to let go of forever.

I'm never going to be a rock star.

You heard me.

Since the day I bought my first curling iron (Girls from the 80's will understand that) I've held this dream that I would one day sing onstage with thousands of people screaming my name. The closest I ever came was playing "Eeyore" in my high school children's theater production of Winnie the Pooh. The only person screaming my name then was the director. She really didn't like me much but it was a small high school and I kept signing up for parts so she had to give me something.

My official relationship with my singing voice has long been disappointing. In high school and college I tried out for all kinds of select choirs, but didn't make them because...well...I'm not good.  In fact, in high school I only got to go on choir tour with my high school swing choir because some other kid got into trouble and wasn't allowed to go.  Not exactly a ringing endorsement of my talents.  I even had a choir director tell me once after a try out, "I thought your voice would be better."  Turns
out, he knew some of my extended family, all of whom are great church singers.

A friend of mine and I even formed a band in college and called it "Generic."  Why?  Because I'm old enough that when there were non national brand items in a grocery store they had black and white labels and were called "generic" products. My friend, Todd, and I thought that would be awesome for a band. We'd always wear black and white and people would love us for are amazing lyrics and killer vocals.

Full disclosure, Todd and I realized, thanks to a recording booth at an amusement park, that we probably were not meant to sing duets together.   Yes, the tape exists.  No, I will not share it with you.

Me with friends from college acting like rock stars.
Note my drumsticks. Not sure what I was thinking with the
sailor hat.

By the time I graduated from college, I'd come to accept my limitations as a singer and I stuck myself in church choirs.  But that never stopped the dream.  That didn't stop me from using my curling iron as a microphone.  That didn't stop me from hanging colored Christmas lights in my room and pretending I was on a dimly lit stage.  That didn't stop me from singing in my car, thinking I was AWESOME!

Me with some college friends,
pretending we're a rock band.
 Note my headband and drumsticks.

No, the rock star dream died only recently, months after I'd hit the mid century mark for an age.  It died not because I realized I have no talent. I think we all know that's not a roadblock that troubles me.  No, it died because every year for the last several years I get a terrible cold that doesn't act like a cold. I'm not congested, I just cough, HARD, for several days, lose my voice, and then get over it.  Happens a couple of times a year sometimes. 

Back in June I got such a serious cough I started hacking up blood. This was new for me so I went to the doctor and he gave me a name. Bronchitis.  Yep...looking back I figure I've had bronchitis at least fifteen times and every time I get it, I lose another singing note off the top of my register.  I used to be able to wail on a High A.  Probably why a lot of choir directors kept me around. I could read music and I could hit a high A.  Also, I was always in NO CUT choirs. 

Now, I've lost almost an entire octave to bronchitis.  I've gone from a soprano in a no cut choir to an alto in a no cut choir and there are days I don't have the vocal strength for that. 

Which makes me really begin to doubt my plan to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a performer.

Thanks to this last round of bronchitis, there are times when I attempt to sing in my car, the place where I ROCK THE HARDEST, and no sound comes out. Nothing.  I know the notes and I'm forcing air over my vocal chords, but nothing comes out.

So, this past week I figured I would reveal this childhood dream, the last of mine to die, now that it's gone.  I'm never going to be a rock star. I'm never going to perform at Red Rocks or the Hollywood Bowl or on Sunset Strip.  I might even have to quit my church choir because no sound is coming out of my face. 

I still have a curling iron, though. It's actually the same one I used in college.

Hope springs eternal.

Soccer, Summerfest, and Ben Franklin's Sex Life: Reasons why I feel old.

It is no secret that I enjoy the music of Rick Springfield and Pat Benatar.  I've documented my trips to Rick concerts many times in this blog, and last summer I was able to see Pat Benatar in concert for

the first time and had a blast.

So, when the world's largest music festival opened its doors last week (That's SUMMERFEST in Milwaukee, for those of you not in the know) you can bet I was going to go see one or both of them. Unfortunately, due to TERRIBLE scheduling on the part of the Summerfest planners, both 80's icons were playing on the same night at the same time...but on stages on opposite ends of the park from each other.

Sigh.

What to do, what to do?

Well, Father's Day rolled around a couple weeks ago and Hubby is not super easy to shop for.  He really doesn't collect much, unless you count records, and I haven't a CLUE what he doesn't have or what he wants. He reads a lot, and I've gotten him books, but he can only read so much and his "to read" shelf is overflowing.  He doesn't collect movies like I do.  So, I did what every good wife would do:  I got him Pat Benatar tickets. 

See, he's a bigger fan of hers than he is of Rick.  And, I had to purchase actual tickets because the stage she was playing actually had a reserved seating fee for only some of their acts. (Generally, if you pay the admission fee at the gate, any act playing on any stage is then free.  Seriously, if you haven't been to Summerfest, it's AMAZING.)  Since I didn't want to just leave it to chance that we'd get a seat I bought some.  But, in what I can only assume was a spasm of old age, I also bought ticket insurance.  You know...outdoor venues in Wisconsin are subject to Mother Nature's whims.

The concert was last night.  How was it, you might ask.

No idea.

We didn't go.

See, I did the Waukesha Farmer's Market on Saturday, selling my books and meeting readers in person. (LOVE doing that!)  Wisconsin has been trapped in some sort of Hell-inspired heat bubble since Thursday of last week. We can handle cold. But when it's 95 with a heat index of well over 100, we Wisconsin folk hide in our basements.  That's what I should have done on Saturday instead of working the Market because I got home and pretty much dealt with heat exhaustion the rest of the day.  (Fluffy girls don't do well in extreme heat.)

Yesterday Hubby and I got up, did brunch at the The Gingerbread House and church and then went home.  Looking at the weather predictions we were not just looking at hot and humid for the day...we were looking at some seriously stormy, tornado-y type weather.

And that's when Hubby turned to me and said, "So...how does that ticket insurance work?"

Yes, friends, Hubby and I bailed on seeing a favorite act because it was hot and the weather guys said it was going to storm. AND we had ticket insurance to cover us in case we didn't make the concert.

We are either getting OLD or we've developed common sense and I'm not sure I'm loving either of
those choices.

I mean, who wants to be known as a person with a lot of common sense?  Besides Benjamin Franklin, I mean.  (And he balanced common sense out with a ridiculously not-at-all-sensible sex life over in France.)  Everyone wants to be remembered as a free spirit who lived life to the fullest and moved
around the world on his or her own terms.

No one is going to remember you if you stayed home and didn't lose any money on the thing because you bought ticket insurance.

Everyone is going to think you're AWESOME (or stupid but still cool) if you brave the storm and ROCK OUT to some great 80's music while trees are being uprooted and cars are swirling around you in a cloud of dirt and wind.

Instead...Hubby and I took naps, watched some FIFA world cup, and then at night we saw "Twister" which was on TV.  This was all some time after all the worst of the weather passed over us.   Yep, we watched soccer and a movie that was on TV, not even one from my collection or one on a streaming service.

We watched an "edited for time and content" movie on TV like...OLD PEOPLE!

I mean, I make fun of my mother for stuff like this. Next thing you know I'll be calling the kids to come up and fix "the Netflix."

Although...Netflix hasn't been working well on my living room blu-ray player lately.

Kids?