As we edge closer and closer to the most beautiful and holy holiday of all – Halloween – I am reminded that fall does have its redeeming qualities; I just tend to overlook them.

     I don't really want to get to know a season that's main purpose is to usher in its horrendously cold, brutal, monotonous successor: winter. Fall just fades off into nothing when winter decides to show up, putting up no fight at all. 

     Is there such a thing as an “Indian Fall?” Does fall have a sweet PR agent, like a groundhog, to tell us just when it’s going to take off for its vacation in Italy? No. Fall is totally passive.

     However, like many of the wimps I know, fall does have its strong points. One of which is homecoming.

     Now, I’ve never understood “homecoming.” This may be due to the fact that in my entire four years of high school our football team won maybe five games – and NONE of them were “homecoming” games.

     By the time I was a junior it was readily understood that we celebrated homecoming simply because it meant the embarrassing ass-kickings we’d been suffering were almost over. In fact, when our volleyball team just killed Coeur d’Alene High School at a regional game my sophomore year, their crowd started chanting, “football… football…” 

     Their essential message: “So what? You beat us at volleyball, everyone knows that football is the sport of champions, and schools with losing football teams are chock full of impotent losers.”

     In retaliation, our athletic director decided to boost morale by packing our schedule with teams from small rural schools, expecting we would crush them. One of these teams was "The Libby Loggers" from Libby, Montana.

     I think there were, like, 400 hundred kids at their entire school or something, and we were expected to beat the Carharts off them. Well, I guess no one informed our athletic director that the "Libby Logger's" were actual LOGGERS (even the girls) and they were big and mean (especially the girls).

     Their football team only had about 20 players and most played both ways. A great portion of them already had kids and an ex-wife.

     This wasn't the intimidating part though. The fear flowed from the bleachers. Libby Logger fans are famous for wielding real chainsaws. I’M NOT MAKING THAT UP. The whole town of Libby showed up for their football games and revved up those saws whenever they scored. Lucky for them, that happened about every 10 minutes when they played us. 

2. Homecoming isn't really about football, it’s about beer.

3. Every time a man participates in a homecoming game and comes out the loser, his penis shrinks a bit (even if it’s just in his mind).

     Flash forward to a couple of weekends ago (and to the point of this column), and you'll find me sitting at a bar in Missoula. It’s homecoming for the Grizzlies and I'm not at the stadium.

     Oh, sure I could have frozen my ass off and pretended to watch the game, but that kind of thing is for ex-football players and team-moms. Instead I hung out with a girlfriend at the bar.   

     Also in the bar with us were some members of the track and field team, with whom we became good friends. From one of them we learned there’s some sort of “sexology” clinic in Missoula, and that certain classes are required to attend it. I'm not sure why this certain young decathlete decided to fill us in on the intricacies, but I can say it was “eye opening,” and a little weird.

     Anyway, to this day I can't tell you who won, or why I trucked all the way to Montana in the first place. What I can tell you is that Missoula is a fun town to drink in.

     And I witnessed a girl fight, but never mind that.

     What’s important is that I was also able to pull out some of my best intoxicated dance moves. You see, I have a new theme song: “Shewolf,” by Shakira. I've been working on my moves for a couple of weeks now; and, judging by the fact that my husband had to drag me out of there and I found a twenty in my cleavage later, I think my moves were spot on.

     I’ll admit it, even though I graduated from college, like, eight years ago, I still get caught up in the energy of young people maxing out their credit cards and pickling their livers.

     The moral of the story? Homecoming is a state of mind. One doesn't need to be enrolled in school or on a football team to enjoy it.

     Why not make the most of the season?

Kind of bummed that not one person had a chainsaw,

Scarlette Quille

Single in Sandpoint: Scarlette sits ‘Those People’ down for a little talk

     OK, I’m just going to say it loud and clear, right here and right now: People need to un-bunch the panties that are firmly wedged between their cheeks and chill the hell out. 

    I’ve lived in Sandpoint for the vast majority of my life, and never, I say NEVER, has this town been so inundated with people who think their sh*t is rose-scented potpourri sent straight from Jesus Himself. I'm not sure who to blame this on the locals or transplants? One thing is for certain:  the whole town is percolating with assholes lately.

I'm probably as guilty as the next person, but here I go anyway...

     I will never understand how adults willingly move here and then spend the next five, 10, 20 years of their lives complaining about the “redneck country smallness” of Sandpoint. 

     It’s insulting, ridiculous and pointless.
     Not sure how to define “those” people? Well let me help you. Those People are the ones who constantly complain about the lack of interesting things to do, places to shop, etc. They never spend their money locally – due to the fact that Sandpoint is obviously too small to be competent at providing any sort of quality leisure activities. 

     Thanks to this attitude local businesses (even the good ones) suffer and close because they are unable to move inventory or attract a clientele large enough to pay the bills.

     Those People are also the ones who justify moving here because they are “outdoor enthusiasts” but can’t hang when they figure out they’ll have to shovel their own sidewalks and winter isn’t that cute after four or five months. (Though I’ll admit to personally hating winter more than razor burn.)
     Those People are the ones who blather on for hours about how their hairdresser, landlord, sex life, friends, food and  public restrooms were far superior in whatever “perfect” place they moved from. 

     To Those People I have to say this: It’s highly doubtful that you will ever have friends or a date, let alone a sex life, if you don’t stop complaining. Five minutes before you opened your mouth I wanted to be your friend, now I just want to run away because your negative attitude is flattening my cheap haircut. 

     Please don’t tell me that you have to live here. 

     Facts: There are other places on earth that you can work and make as much money as you do here, please tell the truth and say you’re just too lazy to look for work elsewhere. At least that would be respectably honest. Your family is probably sick of your complaining too, so if you moved here to be with them, you might want to rethink that. I’m sure that back in Perfectville they’ll welcome you home with open arms. I'm sorry the people here aren't what you expected, it sucks to be disappointed but its not a life sentence, you are your own warden.
     Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that the behavior of these Anti-Sandpointites is unprovoked. There are a lot of things locals could do to make it easier on the fresh-faced foreigners. The first would be to stop driving around with dead animals in the beds of our trucks. It’s scary and sad. I don't think there are many things freakier than staring into the eyes of a dead deer while ordering McDonalds. I should be used to it. But I'm not. I understand that one needs to transport their kill, but yuck OK, yuck.
     Also, maybe when you take your wife to Starbucks and start complaining about Barack Obama so loudly that the rest of the store has no choice but to listen to your racist bigotry, remember that the store you’re frequenting may not appreciate the loss of business they’re suffering due to your ignorance. 

     You give North Idaho a bad name and I’m embarrassed that we live in the same town. (Oh, and my 10-year-old daughter, who is half African-American, really enjoyed your choice words when referring to the president of the United States.) 

     And lastly, I’m not sure why construction takes so long in Sandpoint, but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with an ordinance that states: Sandpoint road construction can only be performed during peak traffic times, at all major intersections.  

     I side with Those People when it comes to construction it takes longer here than anywhere else on earth, however – and I’m referring to Man in the Big Black Truck – there is no reason to flip off the construction flagger; she deserves a smoke break just as much as the next person.
     Whew, now that that’s out of my system, I’m going to end this column with a little tale. 

     I recently went to a doctor’s appointment in Spokane. Not because I’m a snob, but because we don’t have this particular specialist here in Sandpoint. We don’t have a lot of types of specialists here, that’s just the way it is. I knew this when I moved back here 4 years ago, and so I can't really complain can I?

     Now my Spokane doctor discussed many, many things with me that day, but he mentioned no less than six times that I wouldn’t be able get any tests done in Sandpoint because most of them require electricity, and since Sandpoint doesn’t have that yet... You get my point.
     Then he took me on a really cool anatomy adventure where he told me that “the ovum is the quiet sister of the testes.” I’m just going to let you digest that little tidbit.  

     Anyway, we got to the super fun part of the exam – where he was sticking a 15-inch Q-Tip straight into my soul – and he decided to start talking about how he’s thinking about buying a house out in Dover Bay. You know, just for a little vacation place. 

     He went on to say that there was no way he and his wife could permanently live in Sandpoint because of the fact that most people in Sandpoint drink domestic beer and there’s no Trader Joe's (OK, I might be exaggerating a bit there). 

     Anyway, I listened, because that’s what a half-naked person wrapped in a paper sheet does at the doctor. But it got me thinking: Does Sandpoint have an unfair stereotype, or do we deserve it?

Hoping that someday we get automobiles, the Internet and cell phones,

Scarlette Quille

     To celebrate our one year anniversary, my significant took me to an AC/DC concert in Tacoma. For some reason, many people don’t see an AC/DC concert for the romantic gesture that it is. For some reason when I tell people about our anniversary trip, many snort a laugh and then look deep into my eyes to see if I’m joking.  

     The snort always irritates me, so I offer no explanation. But since I can’t hear you snorting, gentle readers, give you a chance. Though be warned: If you’re not the kind of person who can find romance in the pounding, ear-splitting, breast-baring, bacchanal that is an AC/DC concert,  I’m not sure why you would read my column, much less ask me what I did for my anniversary.

     Now that we’ve got that out of the way, on with the explanation.

     To begin with, I have an interesting and complex relationship with Rock N Roll. There are many reasons for this. The main reason being that my mom is a closet rock ‘n’ roll groupie, though she’s always been very strict about her double life.

     She’d never be caught dead in public with out mascara and a proper outfit; but behind those sensible shoes and collared shirts she’s a hellcat. Her patented go-to parenting tactic was drowning out my brother and me with blasted doses of Black Sabbath or Aerosmith.

     I remember the music being so loud at times my nose would run. (To this day the sound of my ears ringing is inexplicably therapeutic to me.)

     Mother Dear started me on rock at an early age. She took me to my first concert when I was in sixth grade – David Lee Roth and Poison. She bought me a sweet black t-shirt, and for the following two years I looked like I stepped right out of a trailer park: permed hair, ripped jeans, eyeliner and Converse shoes.

     Granted it was an outfit I wasn’t allowed to wear to school, but I rocked the hell out of it on evenings and weekends. 

     I’ll admit there came a time in college when I turned my back on my Rock N Roll roots.  However, it didn't take me long to realize that there is no R&B or pop song that can deliver me from a bad break up or get me through a long car ride like a rock power ballad. So I returned.

     So, you see, when my husband took me to an AC/DC concert as an anniversary gift it actually made perfect sense. I shouldn’t have to explain it. I consider attending rock concerts an American duty, right up there with eating McDonalds to cure a hangover. 

     But back to romance and AC/DC.

     AC/DC is his favorite band, not mine. Sure, I like them, but I feel like honesty is the best policy when discussing music. Still, I wholeheartedly believe that there isn’t a (white) American who doesn’t know all the words to “You Shook Me, All Night Long”. What other song has the power to make CEO’s play air guitar, women bare their breasts and strippers make the rent? 

     After my anniversary experience I now know that seeing AC/DC play that song live is like seeing the Louvre, or petting a chinchilla. If it’s not on your “bucket list” then add it.

     Even better, experiencing AC/DC live sort of made up for the fact that our hotel was obviously the hub for a major drug cartel.

    Yes, this is the part when I tell you what went WRONG on the trip, because OF COURSE something HAD to go wrong. It’s me, after all. At some point in my life I angered the Travel Gods, and I haven’t figured out how to make amends.

     Our troubles first started when we decided to save a few bucks by getting a room at the cheapest motel we could find in Tacoma. Tacoma, Washington.

     Our plan was to cab to and from our motel and the Tacoma Dome Arena. So the cab driver comes to pick us up a few hours early so that we can go to the “pre-party.” As we get into the cab, Husband decides to make sure his truck – parked in the motel’s lot – was securely locked.       

     The cab driver looks back at me and asks: “Is that your truck?”

 I thought the answer was obvious, but I answered anyway: “Yes.”

     I was like: “What? Is this a bad place to park?”

 He just mumbled something under his breath, and mentioned that the neighborhood was known for car theft.

    SERIOUSLY, he said that.

     When Husband got into the cab I started relaying the story bit by bit for him.

     By the time we showed up at the concert venue he was a hot mess. Just so you don’t take us for a couple of country rubes scared by the Big City, I’ll explain: His feelings for his truck rank somewhere between obsession and unconditional love. How could he have just abandoned his truck there to be ransacked and stolen – just to get drunk, with his wife, at a rock concert? HOW?

     Finally I suggested we just take a cab back and get his big fuel-injected mistress. Needless to say, we got back into a cab and turned right around to rescue the truck.

     On the way back, our driver was just as comforting as he’d been when I first got into his car. He made several wrong turns and interrogated us on everything from why we were leaving the concert so soon, to where we were from. I answered politely because I hadn’t put on my hardcore rock ‘n’ roll bitch-face yet, but the man next to me was a ticking time bomb.

     Then the cabbie did it.

     He slowed down real nice and deliberate, and pointed across a bridge at a tall building.

     “Do you guys recognize that?” he asked. 

     “NO,” we answered in unison. 

     “Well you should, that’s the Mormon Church,” he said, forming the sign of the cross on his chest and shuddering in fear.

     Clearly this man was bat-sh*t crazy. He was moments from taking us to his lair and chopping our bodies into pieces.

     “We’re not Mormons,” I whispered.

He informed us that this was new information to him, because “everyone in Sandpoint is Mormon.

 We sat in silence. When he dropped us off we instantly regretted telling him where we were staying. THE MAN WAS INSANE.

Now to tie up the loose ends: The truck was just fine (of course). When we finally got around to attending the concert, it was great. Asleep at the motel, I fell deep into one of those half-waking dreams in which my mother beats a cab driver’s ass with a guitar. When the car alarms started going off I was jolted awake. By the fourth round alarms neither of us could sleep.

      Life is a cruel, cruel mistress.

     I hate when good things have to come to an end, and this year has got to be the worse in the history of mankind for good things coming to an end.

     Circus Cookies? Done. Zima? Done. Employment? Nope, not for me. Farrah, John Hughes, Michael Jackson and half the Golden Girls? All gone forever. 

     The list goes on and on; but, quite frankly, it’s too depressing to blather on about all of the great runs that ended in 2009.

     But just when you thought a year couldn't be any crueler, the final slap in the face comes with a little season known as Fall.

     The end of summer, with its glorious days floating on the lake while washing down barbequed wieners with a cold glass of vodka, is near. Trust me. One day this September Sandpoint residents will fall asleep cozied up under a single sheet with their little sun-tanned asses, and their snugly summer siestas will screech to a halt in the morning when they realize the sun has packed its bags and taken off for the equator.

     Just like having your grandma show up in the middle of a full-on Roman-style orgy, fall has busted in with its knitted sweaters, hot cocoa and back to school agenda. The revelers leave and you’re left to deal with the uninvited buzz-kill.

     Blah.

     The presence of fall is further compounded by the fact that it forces you to face what you’ve done all summer: a couple months of boozing, chips, dips, ice cream and absolutely no consistent schedule and – oh my – is that really my ass? No it can’t be.

     I don’t know if I should go to fat camp or rehab. 

     Something has to give. I don’t have the luxury of permanent employment so I’m going to have to fill my jeans with KY jelly and ease my way into them, since replacing them is not a fiscal option. Then again, there’s always the old wear-sweat-pants-every-day strategy. We unemployed are afforded that luxury.

     To make matters worse, my birthday is also in the fall. And, while you might think that my birthday would cause me to carry at least a small torch for the season, you’d be wrong. My birthday has always sucked. Try 12 years of only getting school clothes on your birthday followed by five- to six-ish years of getting “my books” paid for in college. Nowadays the birthday is just a reminder that my boobs have lowered a few more centimeters and soon I’ll need Botox.

     Poor me.

     Seriously, I live in one of the most beautiful towns on the planet, surrounded by family and friends. I don’t have a 9-to-5 sucking the life out of me, and I’m celebrating my one year anniversary. So what gives? Here I am complaining about cold weather when summer just came and had its way with me, leaving me fat and hung-over, doing a strange walk of shame to the gym in some ill-fitting sweats. I’m a hot mess and kind of a whiney asshole.

     In fact, I’m exactly like that freshman in the college dorms who didn’t date or go out because she had a boyfriend somewhere. No one ever met him because he was actually a summer fling,but she called him her "boyfriend" in order to feel better about all of that hot sex they were having during the summer.

     The truth? He had a real girlfriend somewhere else.

     The hours that freshman didn't spend in denial were spent cleaning up the vomit from her "single" fellow dormies. If you've spent any time in a college dorm or sorority you know the type.

     Yep, I’ve pretty much turned into that girl. It’s probably karma. Really. Because Lord knows I used the heck out of my boring dorm friends. Sorry.

     I need to emerge from this funk, and there’s really only one way.

     I’m going to follow the cardinal rule of summer flings: I’m not going to think about what will happen after Labor Day. I’m going to enjoy the time Summer and I have left together. We'll skip around the beach together, roll around in the hay, sneak out at night and when it’s time for it to end I’ll try not to let anyone see me cry.

     Better yet?  When Fall comes poking around I’ll be honest but firm. I’ll acknowledge that Fall is not as “hot” as Summer, but we could possibly be friends with benefits. Thank God for a college education.

Remember the best flings always leave you hot and wanting more,

Scarlette Quille

     People need to relax. Live a little. Enjoy themselves. I've never seen so many people so uptight in my life. The economy is a hot mess, OK I get it. We all get it. Many people are desperately wondering “How did this happen to me?” The real question should be “How am I going to make it through this sh*tastic economic situation with my sanity?”

     I've asked myself this very question many times in the last few months. Today, I'm going to share my secret: The answer my friends, is blowing in the wind. You need to get in touch with your inner hippie. I mean it.

     Now, before I go on with this story I'm going to tell you, I'm not talking about the “modern hippies.” They suck. You know the type; they drive a hybrid, slather their bodies in patchouli oil and use their $10 recycled grocery bags while glaring at a teenage mom for buying disposable diapers. 

     I'm all for going green, I am. However, if you’re doing it because it’s trendy or to show much better you are then the next person, then that’s just gross. That’s not the kind of hippie I want to be.

     My kind of hippie burns bras, visits communes, sells homemade wares so she can buy tickets to some sort of concert.

     Some people will deny that they have an inner hippie, but we all have one. It's that part of you that gets out of the shower and dries off, then takes a nude walk to the kitchen and drinks milk straight out of the carton. It’s that part of you that knows that you never get hung-over on vacation. It’s the part of you that knows it’s OK if you talk to your dog.    

     The hippie is within, you just have to dig. And guess what? You can still shower and shave your pits, real hippies don't care about how you manage your personal assets; they celebrate individuality.

     Doesn't that sound peaceful? Are you with me?

     OK, here’s the deal, the first step in reaching your inner hippie is going to be the most painful. You’ll need to unplug – just a little. Seriously, you’re going to the grocery store, no need to update Twitter or Facebook. Trust me, no one will care. All your “friends” in cyberworld are actually vapid whores who’ll find someone else to comment on or “tweet” back to.

     Your cell phone and computer are both lifeless pieces of plastic, wires and metal. They are no substitution for having real friends or real sex (or real fun). You’ll realize this when you detach yourself and find a live human to talk to (or hump).

     The next step is to go somewhere and do something and tell NO ONE ABOUT IT. Don't flick your Twitter, or talk on your cell phone on the way there. Walk out your door and leave those time-sucking addictions at home.

     I realized it was time for me to get a grip when my cell phone broke and I went more than 48 hours without it. I felt like someone had just reached into my skull and removed the part of the brain that controls communicating with others. There was a point when I thought I should just stay at home until the “phone” store was open.

     Why? Because I didn't have a cell phone and the thought of going anywhere without it created mass anxiety. Sick I tell you, sick.

     I can't speak for everyone else, but I feel like that kind of electronic dependency is a problem, and my first step to solving any problem is to make a list. If I was going to find this inner flower child, I was going to have to be proactive about it.

     It was at that point when I made a “Layoff List.” It’s a 10-item list of things to do while I'm floating down the river of unemployment to a distant land called POVERTY. A 10-step “deprogram,” if you will.  (You can read about my list and see pictures of the various activities on my blog: www.corporatewhoracle.com. How’s that for irony?)

     The items on my list are inexpensive and simple. They range from “riding a mechanical bull” to “writing a book.”

     Not every item on my list is about free love and nature, but there are definitely some “hippie approved” activities on there. Take number 6: “Go skinny dipping.” If that isn’t a way to appreciate nature and disregard The Man then I don't know what is. 

     Consequently I had a few problems with crossing skinny dipping off my list. One is that it normally has to be done at night; and two, it’s a lot more fun with others.

     Most of my friends are not enlightened enough (yet) to disrobe and frolic in the chilly waters of Lake Pend Oreille – it was like asking a bunch of nuns to do coke off a stripper's thigh. Not every person is into shedding their false skins.

     When it finally got warm enough to swim I realized I was going to have to do it alone. Just me and that damn inner hippie.

     So, a couple of weeks ago I was invited to a girls’ night. No men? What a perfect time to take off all your clothes and go for a swim. The reason I’d been dragging my feet on the big dip was that I didn't really want a co-ed audience. (Many of you might be wondering what my husband thinks of this. The somewhat simple answer is that he has accepted that I do things like swim naked, but he hasn't found his hippie yet. Have I ever told you guys that he’s a saint?)

     Anyway, I bar hopped all night and the pack of girls dwindled to just two. The more I drank the more I kept talking about skinny dipping. It didn't matter who was saying what, my response was always: “I’m going skinny dipping.”

     It was annoying to others – I'm sure – but necessary for me. Besides, I love the sound of it. Being so rebellious was intoxicating. Remember back in the day when you could split a Boones Farm with a friend, and both of you would get a buzz? Half the buzz was from the drink, and the other was from the adrenaline high that can only be achieved when breaking rules. Sweet memories…

     Finally it was way past closing and we got tossed out of the bar. It was time for me to take the plunge. My friend had her camera ready for documentation. I walked to the nearest body of water, stripped and jumped in. JUST LIKE THAT.

     I did not hesitate, wondering if secret perverts were watching in the bushes. I did not worry about what people would think. I took a nice leisurely swim. AND IT FELT GREAT.

     My inner hippie is so proud.

     Did I really make this list while sober?

Scarlette Quille

The photographic proof: