More Sun Less Bush

It never fails. Spring rolls around and all the sudden I seem to have an unruly bush that needs trimmed....or better yet removed completely.

Warm weather is a gentle reminder to take inventory on your bush, and see whether or a not a simple trim will suffice, or if you let it get super gnarly this winter you might have to remove it and start from scratch.

And if its really bad, you may have to ask a professional for assistance.

I would know.

Trying...

I don't think its a surprise or a secret that I've been to a therapist or two. 

In fact my place of employment is crawling with them.

Many times, the therapeutic process pisses me off, I don't get it. It's like I pay someone a butt load of cash and they MAKE ME solve MY PROBLEMS on MY OWN. UGH.... 

Anyway, I had a really awesome therapist once she had red hair. She was not just your run of the mill ginger, her hair was like 3 feet long and all I could do is stare at it for hour after expensive hour. One session I spent the entire time thinking about the book Prince of Tides... what if the therapist had been a beautiful ginger and the client was a late in life bi-curious blonde lady with an absurd amount of children for her age? Now that would be a MOVIE right?

Back to the point ahem...she would ask me if I completed something we talked about in therapy the week before and I would always answer "I tried". Finally she held out her hand with a pen in it and she said "TRY to take this pen." I was like OK, what? So I took the pen, we repeated that 3 or 4 times.

Finally I was like "Excuse me, Beautiful Ginger Mind Bender but its not even hard to take that pen from you." She did that annoying therapist head nod and said "Exactly. There is no such thing as trying, you either do or you don't." That peice of advice was the best I have ever gotten. 

I know that saying "I'm trying" is usually just my way of buying more time. 

I was "trying" to be happy, trying to be a perfect Mom, and trying to make things work in my life...with out doing much of anything.

I have started DOING things that make me happy, and slowly but surely it has been working itself out. Therapy may look like pills and couches to some, I've had that kind before. This time my therapy looks a lot like chickens, photography, crochet, car pools,  and a half clothed chubby cheeked 18 month old. OK, and a little bit of Grey Goose here and there because I DESERVE IT.

Lately I've been trying to blog... so today I just did it.  It may not be my funniest post, but its honest. I've promised more posts lately, I'm not going to say I am trying but....

Single in Sandpoint: Scarlette returns… to say goodbye

Hey guys FYI, I am still going to blog...this is just my last column for the paper it is closing up shop!

     The last issue of the Reader, noooooo. My last “Single in Sandpoint”! Tip your Red Solo cups, because it's been quite a ride, and brace yourself because I am all over the map on this one folks.

     In November of 2005, I started writing “Single in Sandpoint.” I had just moved back to Sandpoint after living in Boise for 11 years. I was picking up the pieces after a divorce and starting over. I wasn’t used to living somewhere where everyone knows your name… and what you did last night... and what you bought at Yoke’s yesterday.

     My days of being anonymous were over. I had to be accountable on some level for any "weekend" behavior. I had a hard time with that.

     I had my normal, everyday mother and citizen side; but, I also had a severely repressed wild side that I had to let out. It is a lot like having multiple personalities, I think. I would be one person during the week, and then by the weekend there was a she-wolf in the closet. I had to let her out. And really, if I was going to let her out, I might as well name her and give her a voice.

     That’s how I became Scarlette Quille. I loved to write, but I didn’t want to write about my wild escapades and then sign my legal name to it. I love Sandpoint in many ways, but there are far too many people here that wear the judging pants. Those people are assholes. They need to take those pants off and have a drink once in a while. They are the type of people who ask you if all of your kids have the same dad, and believe that being single is a dangerous epidemic threatening their very livelihood.

     These people are dangerous. They will convince you that you are unhappy, even if you’re having the time of your life. That’s why having a pen name was so crucial; I didn’t want them coming to my home and trying to tar and feather me. Or worse, trying to set me up with their cousin, brother, father, neighbor, whatever.

     This is my parting message to you Married or “Coupled” people, if someone looks like they’re having fun, acts like they’re having fun and even tells you “I am happy,” guess what? They probably are. Please don’t waste your time trying to play matchmaker on someone who is perfectly happy living their sinful, single, exciting life.

     Most people are capable of falling in love with someone completely inappropriate for them – and then figuring out ways to make each other miserable – all on their own. Please concentrate on more important matters like, “Why do people think that getting drunk on wine and microbrews make them better than your garden variety domestic beer and vodka drinker?”

     We’re all drinking for the same reason, right?

     Well maybe not. I for one like to drink because it raises my perceived level of greatness at the performing arts. After I spend a little time with my old friend Grey Goose, I become hilarious, a good dancer and a fantastic singer. But maybe that’s just me. I’m pretty sure that some people drink because they’re really sad, or they’re trying to avoid succumbing to the self-destructive rage spiral that has become their way of life.

     My point is: Everyone has the right to be happy.

     Single people, you are not off the hook here. I could never write the last “Single in Sandpoint,” in the last issue of the Reader (saddest thing ever, ahem) without giving you some last words of wisdom. We come into this world as one whole person; we are that person no matter who we marry, what we wear, where we work or how fabulous or fat we look in jeans. At the end of the day nothing really matters if you look into the mirror and hate the person looking back at you.

     Make any changes you need to make for yourself or stay the same because you like who you are. Never pretend that you are a meek domestic homemaker when on the inside you’re really a Honey Badger and you just don’t give a shit...

     There are a lot of things you can hide about yourself, but that inner honey badger is going to claw its way out and show up at the in-laws, ready to stain the furniture.

     Don't beat yourself up over it. Your single – so what? Go home, eat salami in your underwear and watch a "what not to wear" marathon, cry at commercials, leave dirty dishes in your sink, enjoy doing whatever the hell you want to. It’s the best perk of being single.

     The truth is, people, whether you like it or not you’re truly stuck with one person for the rest of your life: YOU. It may sound hippy dippy and therapeutic, but if you’re turning into a person who you hate in order to preserve your relationship with your significant other, you better drink a tall glass of “wake the funk up.” Life is short.

     Oh, wait, you wanted practical advice for dating in Sandpoint and not an annoying self-help rant? Fine.

     DISCLAIMER:  My advice probably will not get you a spouse. However, if you follow it faithfully your chances of finding love for at least one night will raise significantly.

     The best advice for those of you looking to get some dates in Sandpoint is: take a chance, try something new sometimes. Redneck activities are surprisingly fun. People here like big fires, big trucks, big drinks and they thrive in crisp air and worship the lake. If you’re not into those things, this isn’t going to be a good experience for you.

     Make sure you remove the stick in your arse and always refrain from talking about how much it sucks “here.” You are (presumably) an adult and have freewill. Move if you don’t like the town, the weather, or the lack of retail chains. Or you can attempt to fake it ‘til you make it.

     The choice is yours.

     As I write this very last “Single in Sandpoint,” it is bittersweet. I have sincerely appreciated all my fans and all the compliments I’ve received about the column over the last six years.

     The ride was long, hysterically funny at times and heartbreaking at others; but, like all epic road trips, it was made so much better by having all of you with me. I’m sorry that I spent the last six months unable to write. It wasn’t my intention to desert you or the Reader; it's just that sometimes things happen in our life that hurt so deeply, that we don’t care to share with others.

     I know it's hard to believe but there are some things even I won't write about. Believe it though, because I have no other explanation.

     I lost Scarlette for a while, and without her I had nothing good to write about. I’m getting better now. Depression can be a scary thing. I was living life with my head underwater, I could hear the muffled sound of people on the surface but I wasn’t ready to come up for air.

     The good news is that now Scarlette is sitting on the shore, telling me to get my ass out of the water. I’m listening.  I’m sort of ready for her... I think. I mean, I might still be in the water but I’m nude and I have a drink in my hand.

     Thank you for all the laughs – and tears – and if you want to check in on Scarlette’s return, please feel free to check in on my blog:www.corporatewhoracle.com.

     This last column for the Reader is actually the first chapter in a new book for Scarlette!

XOXOXO

Darcy

– aka –

SCARLETTE QUILLE

Believe it.

I've have spent too much time not being able to sleep when I get home from work at 11, at night. That means that I have pissed some of my life away on social networking sites. This activity has made me realize something: Anything important you have to say should be posted in a colorful square with some sort of typography treatment.

How did I do?

Single in Sandpoint: Scarlette puts on her pre-midlife big girl panties

      I started having a pre-midlife crisis about two months ago. I'm calling it "pre" midlife because I'm pretty sure 34 isn't middle aged.

     I'm not sure how common these occurrences are. All I know is that about a month ago I looked into the mirror and didn't recognize the person looking back at me. She was tired, miserable, deflated and – perhaps most disturbing – defeated.

     I had stopped doing the things that I enjoy and life had become a series of disappointments. I couldn't seem to lose that last 20 pounds of "baby" weight even though the "baby” is now 10 months old. I hadn't gone to an exercise class, vacation, concert or anything else remotely inspirational in over two years. I was avoiding social situations and eating cinnamon gummy bears by the pound. 

     I was pathetic. I needed my ass kicked. Hard.

     I've had moments in life like this before, I know how hard it is to recognize when you've become a run-of-the-mill loser and how much harder it is to do something about it.

     At my core I’m a doer – a mover, a shaker, a social creature. The problem with pretending that you are something you’re not is that eventually the real you shows up. In my case she shows up with a bottle of Grey Goose and a plan.

     The Plan is ever-evolving, but it started with a few key ingredients – the first being a really LONG swim, the second being Motley Crue and the third being a vacation.

     Time to get your big girl panties on, Scarlette, time to evict that freak in the mirror.

Baby steps, first we need to remember what it feels like to accomplish something...

     For those of you in the know, there is a very large outdoor swim in Sandpoint the first weekend of August. It’s called the Long Bridge Swim, it’s 1.76 miles long and in the fresh water of Lake Pend Oreille.

     I’d been thinking about doing this swim for years, though I’d never participated as a swimmer and always regretted this fact.

     No more regrets. I needed to accomplish something. Never mind that I had only done cardio four times since January, I hadn't swum more than 500 yards in 10 years and I didn't own a wetsuit or functioning abs.

     None of this really mattered. What mattered was that I got into the water and made it to the other side. I was on a mission.

     I tried not to let all the perfectly sculpted tri-athletes scare me. Maybe the normal thing to do would be to join a race to win or beat your personal best; my motivation for entering this race was purely to finish. And I did.

     Was it hard? Yes. Did I come in last? No. 

     I felt a strange sensation when I crossed the finish line – a tiny little bit of confidence started pumping through my veins. Part of me wanted to cry, part of me wanted a Bloody Mary.

Then enlist the help of a friend...

     My mother had sensed that something was wrong a few weeks before all of this. Mothers always know when one of their cubs is in distress (even if that cub is 34 and prefers mixed drinks to warm milk).

     She bought tickets to the Motley Crue and Poison concert in Boise, then she called to inform me that I either take the weekend of the concert off or call in sick to work. The choice was mine. Following that, she subtly suggested that maybe I take a few extra days off and make it a vacation.

     This created a vortex of stress for me. First of all, I lived in Boise for 11 years and hadn't been back to see all of my friends there in almost three years. I’ll admit it: I’d been avoiding them. There was always an excuse to not go visit, namely: I was fatter and possibly less interesting then the last time I had visited.

     I loved the idea of the concert but was paralyzed by fear. What would I wear? What would all my old friends think of me? Would they think, "DAMN SCARLETTE, you really need to get a grip?" Worse yet, would they pity me?

     In fact, the first couple days of my vacation I didn't even venture into the public. I was afraid to face my old friends; perhaps the truth was that I was afraid to let myself have fun. Who the hell was this girl?

Give in, relax, carpe diem...

     About 36 hours into the vacation I cracked. I decided that it was time to get on with my life. A few extra pounds and a tough couple of years don't make a person Quasimodo, right?

     I went to the mall – a real mall – and bought myself a couple of outfits. I got a spray tan and an eyebrow wax and topped it off with a pair of high heels. If I was going to go, I should go big, right?

     I went out with my old friends that very night. We celebrated one of our entourage's new pair of boobs, danced to old school hip-hop and drank an obscene amount of liquor. I saw people that I hadn't seen in years. I saw friends that I didn't even know I missed. It felt a lot like dying and waking up in heaven. I laughed so much. I stayed up so late...

Don't forget the power of Rock ‘n’ Roll...

     The next night I would attend a heavy metal concert with my mother and sister.

     My mother took me to my first concert in 1987. It was Poison and David Lee Roth. She has brought me too many rock concerts since that day way back in the sixth grade, but like so many events in life you always remember the first.

     We were attending this concert out of a mixture of love for the music and nostalgia. And let me tell you folks, if you want to attend a concert of a band that was popular when you were an adolescent, you need to be able to suspend reality.

     The audience must pretend that the aging rockers are still the virile spandex-clad hair band of the ’80s; and, in turn, the band pretends that its fans are still the wide eyed nymphs willing to do ANYTHING for a back stage pass.

     This suspension of reality really works. The smoke, the lights and the deafening music create some sort of time machine.

     I might have been at that concert for four hours, or maybe it was four days. All I know is that I was hit on by men and women of all shapes and sizes, I discovered a place called the "tequila" line, I hung out in the smoking section with some groupies who were at least 40 and, for more than three hours, I was a teenager again – blissfully singing along with the songs that shaped my youth.

     “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” blared out into the crowd and I felt a twinge as I remembered being 14 and dumped. “Girls, Girls, Girls” rolled over the arena and I was 16, drunk on Boone's Farm and head-banging at a school dance.

     I can't say what part of the concert was my favorite because it was all good – even the part where I walked out of the bathroom, hit a wet spot on the floor and ate shit in front of a man wearing a full spandex zebra suit.

     The only disappointment I had was a "small" one. I had been dying to see Tommy Lee play live for several years. There is so much legend surrounding him and a certain body part. Every time I mentioned to someone that I was going to see Motley Crue in concert I would be informed that Tommy can play the drum with his (fill in the blank). So you can image my anticipation on that very night.

     I was planning to report exactly what I saw. I waited and waited. Nothing. Apparently when he plays with that certain body part the divorce rate goes up in whatever town he's playing. So I guess he omitted that part of the show for our benefit. Time will help me get over it I'm sure.

Learn something…

     The next day I drove eight hours back home and to reality. I'm still actively working on The Plan. I'm hoping that I can take some of the things I learned on vacation and apply them to my daily life. I'm hoping that the person in the mirror continues to look more and more like the person I am and less like the depressed freak in ill-fitting sweat pants. I think I'm off to a good start.

     In six weeks I turn 3-5. Wish me luck.

XOXO

Scarlette Quille