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

     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

     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:

     I'm in college again. Sort of.

     A few weeks ago I decided that my life is a void of Starbucks, blogging and watching endless talk shows. I needed something – something that would make me feel like I had a purpose. I needed a class or a job or a life.

     I pondered this idea for a few weeks when I remembered a past occupational love of mine: In another life I worked for the YMCA as a swim instructor. I taught for seven years. I thought why not get re-certified and teach swim lessons this summer? 

     Perfect! I’ll get a good tan, hang out near bodies of water and the exercise will be good for my ass.

     So I started the exhausting task of finding somewhere to take the Red Cross Water Safety Instructor course (or WSI Class). I let my certification lapse and would have to test out or take the class over.

     After two days of calling every pool in the greater Northwest I found out that a community college in Spokane offered the class, but I couldn't test out and it was going to be held two nights a week for five weeks. That’s one hell of a commitment.

     But I checked my schedule, and other than having to miss the American Idol finale, I had no plans. I signed up for the class and even purchased a parking permit. (A lesson I learned in my prior college days: Those parking tickets can add up, in my case, to at least $437 before they tow you.)

     The prospect of going back to school, even for one class, was intoxicating. 

     Would I meet any friends? Would they like to go out for drinks after class? Would I be the annoying old person in class who always raises their hand? Should I go hang out in the SUB and people watch? 

     This was going to be like 1994 all over again, but way better because I can hold my liquor, purchase it myself and I’m not as dumb. 

     I pulled into the school two hours early the first day and tried to find the student union building.

     Um, let me tell you a little something, community college is not like a state college, not in the slightest. The SUB was called the lair. No one hangs out in the lair, except me. The only exception to this is when annoying people decide to stop by to play the piano.

     That is not a joke. There is nothing in the lair except free wireless and a very loud piano. This piano beckons all tone deaf people in a 50-mile radius to come and share their gift with the nonexistent masses.

     However, I would suffer almost any indignity for a fast wireless connection. I'm an Internet ho, what can I say?

     Finally it was time for class. I waltzed into the room, excited at the prospect of seeing new faces. That’s when reality came crushing down: Most of the class was composed of 17-year-olds, a few older grey-haired ladies, many teenagers and me.

     Great. Which way do I go? I'm not ready to eat butterscotch candies and comb my cats on the weekend; but, at the same time, I'm old enough to drink. It wasn't looking promising. I’d have to study my classmates for a few sessions and decide which party I wanted to align myself with.

     In the first few classes I observed a variety of behaviors. It didn't take long for me to realize why high school girls are completely nuts. It has to do with high school boys. They are the strangest creatures on earth: immature, naive and blindly horny.

     The horniest boys of them all are the ones in a swim class with 10 or 12 scantily-clad teenage girls; the ante is upped when the boys have to "demonstrate" their teaching skills. No wonder 16-year-olds like to date men in their 20's (I always thought it had to do with older men's ability to buy beer and cigarettes. The real reason is that they’re only about half as annoying as teenagers.)  

     The older ladies in the class weren't really a mystery, just think of Angela Landsbury in a Speedo and you’ll get the picture.

      In the end, my place in the class was decided because of my intimate knowledge of celebrity gossip and inability to stay quiet. The teenage girls accepted me as the oldest, saggy-boobed member of their tribe the day I remarked on my distaste for a fellow classmate we'll call The Groper.

     The Groper had problems, the most obvious being his uncontrollable urge to molest his female classmates, but less apparent and more insidious was his ability to irritate like a boil.

     On day one, we learned about teaching parent/child classes. The Groper raised his hand about seven thousand times and, thanks to him, none of us old people would be deemed the annoying hand-raisers. On about the 81^st time his hand shot up it was to ask the instructor: "What do we do if the mom's pregnant?" 

     The instructor, confused and annoyed by his constant questions, answered: "We don't really worry about whether or not they are pregnant; it doesn't really affect the class." 

     I fought the urge to turn to him and say: "Oh, you should lecture her on getting pregnant when she already had a baby. I mean seriously, how inconsiderate is that?"   

     Setting him up like that would have been so fun.

      Instead, I started laughing. Laughing so hard my eyes watered and I nearly wet myself. This created mass disruption in the class. The old ladies were laughing, the teacher was laughing, the girls were laughing. I don't even know why it was funny. I can't explain it.

     I tried to apologize but it was too late, the mutiny had begun.

     Now The Groper hates me. He hates me so much he doesn't even grope me anymore. 

I know it’s mean to make fun of the dumb, but come on? 

     Maybe this whole class thing was a good idea, I'm having fun. It doesn't qualify as a bona fide college experience (because of the sobriety), but it’s certainly better than singing Katy Perry to my cat.

     When I graduate from my class next week I’ll shed a solitary tear when I take my parking permit off my rearview mirror. Then I'll drive to a bar and have a graduation party. You’re all invited.

Going to kick The Groper's ass if he ever tries to teach me the breaststroke again,

Scarlette Quille

But there are ways that you can insure that you make the most of your summer here. Having a kick ass summer is going to be a critical factor in how depressed you get in the never ending winter. You don't want to be digging your house out of the snow for the eightieth time wondering why you never went to The Festival. Ok? I've been there, and its just a bucket full of fried chicken away from complete insanity.

Anyway, because I care about you, and want you to be happy I've created a list for you to cut out and tape to your fridge. 

Scarlette's Guide to A Successful Sandpoint Summer:

1. Never, ever drink any alcoholic beverage indoors. There are several restaurants with patios and lake views, there are docks to sit on, and yards with lawn chairs. The idea of drinking indoors in the summer is as pathetic as drinking alone.  My personal favorite places to drink on the patio at is at "The Bar Formerly Known as The Beach House." The spot is now Cafe Trinity. I am stoked about this because I think Trinity's club sandwich  is like an orgasm on bread, the idea of being able to sit next to the lake eating it and washing it down with a mixed drink is almost pornographic.

2. Go To The Festival. Blues Traveler is going to be there, I've seen them before and the lead singer and his ability to sing and play a million harmonicas is amazing. The Festival is never boring, and there is always tons of people to watch, food to eat, wine to taste, and music to listen to. Some people don't attend the Festival because they think its a pompous tourist trap. Sure you have a little of that, but underneath its shiny wine soaked exterior The Festival is just another excuse to drink with the lake as your back drop. Also Clink Black will be there this year, apparently that's a big deal. I do not like that crazy little man after watching him on Celebrity Apprentice, but I know people love him around here...

3. Enjoy the lake. Take the boat out every weekend. If you don't have a boat: swim. Swim so much that you fingers and toes wrinkle up, and when that happens swim some more. There is quite a few public beaches around here, and a few "private" spots that can be poached. Have you ever skinny dipped in the moonlight? No? You need to put that on your bucket list ASAP.

4. Go camping in the woods in a tent. Make s'mores on the fire, burn some hot dogs. Get bitten by mosquito's, Scare the shit out of your kids with a scary story. Don't have kids? Borrow some.  I usually manage to do all of this in my back yard,  (that is not a joke). This summer I plan on going to a real campsite.  Sadly I was told that a real campsite doesn't have a bar in walking distance....so no Samowens for me. I will have to venture further into the wild to get my girl scout camping patch.

5. Go to the 4th of July Parade. Clap for kids. Wonder why there are so many freaking semi's in the parade. Also make sure that you pay your respects to the pug army, that is always my favorite part. 6. Call in Sick (if you have the luxury of having a job). Inflate your favorite inner tube or floaty and head to pack river. "Floating the Pack" is a lot of fun, unless you don't wear sunscreen. I say this from experience I floated the pack on my stomach and my ass cheeks still have a "tan" line.

7. Barbecue, all the time. Give your oven some time off. Invite your friends over tell them to bring a side dish, then all you will have to worry about is the meat. I realize that some people spend their lives worrying about meat, but honestly throwing some meat on a grill is way less complicated then a pesto quinoa salad...get what I'm saying? Better yet, tell them to bring their own meat, and you'll buy a keg.

8. Stop at every lemonade stand. There is a special place in hell for people who can't spare a quarter to a couple of kids saving their money for Silverwood.

9. Avoid the temptation to act like a hillbilly. The temptation for this is very high in the summer. Make sure that you are fully dressed when you come to the store, shoes included. Also dress your kids, I understand that nudity from small children is perfectly acceptable in certain instances ie: your own backyard. But neither I nor my 8 your old daughter wants to see your son's penis all day at the beach. 

10. Do something green. I know that we don't think about the environment very much because we are surrounded by so much natural beauty. However; if you want to keep enjoying summer in Sandpoint then you will have to change your behavior at some point. Recycle. Ride your bike. Plant a Garden. Use re-usable keg cups. Most of all...stay out of the house. Haven't you spent enough time on your couch this winter?

PLEASE ADD SOME OF YOUR OWN....

xoxo,

SQ

Sound familiar?

Don’t feel bad kids, Mama Scarlette loves you, muffin top and all. I am here to completely enable you like a good mother does.

 How were you supposed to get skinny with the odds stacked so high against you? 

First there was the weather. It sucked. It was cold and hard to leave the house. A person can only run on a treadmill for so long before they turn to a life of booze and pills.

 Maybe not all people, just the ones I know.

Ok, maybe just me, but you have to admit running indoors isn’t very inspiring.

Then there was this whole “economy” thing. Its all we ever hear about, on the news, in the streets, on Oprah. Every time I hear the words “this economy” my eyes roll back into my head, and I start drooling. I swear to god a serial killer could use the excuse "I just couldn't control my anger, because of the economy. It was unemployment stress that made me hack 14 girls into pieces." The jury half of them laid off, the other half self employed people, would nod their heads in understanding.

 For the record I am not one of those unemployed people who secretly despise people who have jobs.

 I pity them as well.

When I still had a job I went to work everyday with a knot in my stomach. Is this going to be the day? Am I next? You eventually arrive at a point when getting laid off is a relief.  The agony of not knowing is over. You can start your life of poverty right away, instead of waiting for it to catch you off guard after you purchase a new house or boobs.

Then there is the people who hate their jobs, but know they can’t quit because there is no way in hell that they are going to find a suitable replacement in this “economy”. The only way to cure your feelings of fear and inadequacy is to gorge yourself on french fries, ranch and nachos. You can never leave your desk, not even to work out. Doing so may suggest that you aren't busy, and perhaps put you on the chopping block.

If you are laid off, as many of us are, you have plenty of time to work out, but no money for a gym membership.   Half the time its too cold or raining to run outdoors, and the other half you just feel like sitting at home watching Ellen and  eating your feelings.

Maybe you’ve been wearing the same pair of sweat pants for three days and your previously straight caucasion hair has now formed into dreadlocks.  When this becomes the case you have bigger  problems than a fat ass. 

If you got out your spring/summer wardrobe, tried on a t-shirt and looked like you were wearing sausage casing. I'm here to help. I think I've found the answer: you need to cultivate a fictional relationship with a TV personality. 

You are free to chose who ever you want, I’ve chosen Julian Michaels from The Biggest Loser. I watch the show faithfully, and I am always thinking: now if Julian was my trainer I would have discernable abs. 

For those of you who do not know Julian as intimately as I do, she is very hard core. You can't just "phone in your work out"  she will let you know that a body like hers "is not free, you have to work for it." She doesn't accept any excuses. I figure that if she can get a person to lose 150 lbs in 6 months, then why can't she help me shed 15? Hmm?

There is a breaking point for everybody. Mine came when I fantasized about eating  Jack in The Box and Frappucino's every day until I weighed 300lbs, in order to make it onto The Biggest Loser. During the show I would become a fan favorite after shrinking to a size 4. Julian would declare me her favorite contestant ever, and we would be BFF's. 

Realizing almost immediately that I had no job and therefor no money to finance this lofty dream, I decided against it. 

It was about this time when I found out about The Shred.

The Shred is Julian Michael's exercise video, where you do a 30 minute work out with her everyday for 30 days, and you are guaranteed results. People all over the cyberworld were raving about the awesome results they achieved by having Julian as a trainer. I figured that it was worth a shot.

I went onto Amazon ordered a copy, and waited for the day when Julian would show up on my doorstop, drag me off the couch by my dreadlocks and give me the kick in the ass I needed.

 I popped the DVD in and began on level one. Julian yelled at me and told me not to give up at the finish line. She made me feel kind of guilty and anyone who knows me should know that guilt is my biggest motivator. Because there is some part of me that likes abuse, I've started seeing Julian everyday. Some days I hate her.

Its only been a week, and I do believe that I am starting to see results. I will let you know if I become "shredded" what ever that means.

The bottom line here is that I want to greet the sunshine (if it ever comes) wearing shorts and bathing suits. If I am going to have to work as a waitress or janitor then why not look sexy doing it?  Everyone of us has to figure out how they are going to tackle their down times. 

There are a lot of things in the world today that are scary and difficult to deal with, be kind to yourself.

 Like I said, Mama Scarlette will still love your fat broke ass!

xoxox,

Scarlette Quille

SIS: Scarlette discovers an elixir for aging (or at least feeling good about it)

Have you been spending your whole life waiting for the magic to begin?

Do you remember being 18 and counting down the days until your twenty-first birthday? Becoming 21 often marks the day where we can throw our fake IDs in the trash or hand them down to younger college students for a small fee.

Between all the shots and subsequent vomiting we don't even realize that our twenty-first birthday will be the last birthday we ever look forward to with great anticipation. After that each birthday just becomes more and more disturbing. (There are exceptions to every rule so don't get your panties in a bunch when you read this. Maybe you are one of those people who have had a perfect life, please understand  Remember I do not represent your kind.)

At 22 you will look around and everyone else will be graduated from college and going to grad school or shopping for rings with their fiancées. Subsequently you will feel like a loser and decide to move back to your home town, where at least you can feel superior to all the people who never went to college.

You'll get to your home town and then realize that all of those “idiots” who never went to college are making like $25 bucks an hour and own their own businesses. You work at a gas station and live with your parents.

At 23 you'll have to make a choice between starting to pay off your student loans or going back to school. It’s at this point where many people get married for the first time. It will take a few years, but you will eventually realize that this was a bad idea.

At 24, you wonder why the hell you are back in school. Or worse yet, why the hell did you marry this person? You are still poor and for the first time in your life you realize that drinking tons of beer and eating good food turns you fat. The depression will last for quite a while.

At 25, you realize that with everyday that passes you are now closer to 30 than 20, and you wonder why you didn't backpack in Europe when you had the chance.

At 26, at least 50 percent of you who did get married will be getting divorced or already be divorced. You realize that you only have 2 years to become amazing before your 10-year high school reunion. You wonder if everyone will talk about the 35 pounds you've gained since high school. FYI: They will.

Ages 27 to 30 will mark the slow sad journey to age 30, when you will experience for the first time what a “quarter-life crisis” is. If you don't have kids you will be plagued with the idea that maybe you will never have them. If you've never been married, you are already drafting a will leaving all your earthly possessions to your cat.

Those of you who have kids will realize why your parents were such pricks. And those of you who were divorced start shopping in the junior section and researching Botox.

I have to stop here, because I am only 32. And something magical has happened since I turned 30. What is this you might ask? 

The resurgence of the popularity of “The Cougar” (simply defined as a hot older lady).

There comes a time in every woman's life when she has to decide whether she is going to continue to shop at Forever 21 or embrace her inner cougar.  If you find yourself sitting in that awkward place between 30 and 35, you know exactly what I mean.

It’s funny because this stage occurs simultaneously with men around the age of 25 (give or take a few years) realizing that women their age and younger aren't that great in the sack. The older broads know what they want and aren't afraid to go for it.

Being a cougar has its perks. For example my boy-toy/new-husband is 5 years younger than me. Score!

And here is the best part: you aren't even considered a full-fledged cougar until you hit the age of 35. I have 3 more years until I even reach my full cougar potential. 

There is one problem though: because of their beauty, sexual prowess, and fiscal assets, cougars are often over hunted. When a cougar enters a bar full of younger perkier women, she will often become overwhelmed.

Young women will insist on asking her for advice, and the young men will keep trying to hump the cougar's legs. The natural response of the cougar is to drink too much alcohol and insist that the DJ play some “Salt N Peppa.” Her superior dance moves and vivacity will inevitably get her in a fight or in bed with a 21-year-old, possible-virgin –neither one of these scenarios is ideal for such a majestic creature.

My friend had this experience the other night. She went to a young college person hang out and a fight ensued when a gang of Chola's became envious of her dance moves. Out of this traumatic experience a wonderful idea was born.

She called me the next day with this brilliant business idea:

Let’s open a bar and call it: The Cougar Den – A safe haven for ladies over 30. 

If you would like to see this dream become a reality, please send your fund raising ideas in to The Reader. Also please forward this link on to the cougar or cougar lovers in your life. We need to keep the dream alive.

My next birthday won't be so bad after all,

Scarlette Quille

Please excuse the image quality, I was hiding from him when I filmed it with a very small digital camera...

     A few mornings ago I was lying in bed at 6 a.m. when I heard a rap-rap-rapping sound coming from another room. My first inclination was that it was a member of our vast menagerie of animals (three dogs, a cat, two giant flesh eating fish and three African Hissing Cockroaches). I screamed a menacing “NOOOOO!” and rolled over for a few more hours of sleep.  

     The rapping became more intense. This eliminated the possibility of it being a dog because dogs generally listen. (The only exception to this rule is when dogs are trying to kill each other or chase a jogger. In those instances they do not give a frickety frack what you say.)

     Therefore, by process of elimination, the most likely source of the noise was a cat. Combine that with the fact that my cat is the biggest asshole ever, and I wouldn't have put it past him.

     Rap-Rap-Rap. 

     I finally got up to find what kind of toy he was bashing about. As I entered my daughter’s bedroom I heard it again – this time it was apparent that the noise was coming from the direction of the window. I was so confused.

     I approached the window and was peering through it when a cracked-out robin dove into view and flew straight at me, crashing beak-first into the window. It fluttered back, dazed, but drove at the window again. It bashed its head into our window over and over again; attacking it with such ferocity and hatred that I was sure it would break the window and start pecking out my eyes.

     I lost all my faculties, tears sprang to my eyes. There’s nothing in the world that freaks me out as much as birds.  NOTHING. I don’t care if it’s irrational, birds are an abomination. They have beaks, claws and feathers.Exhibit A: Look at the scary claw at the end of his beak. Birds are sick. They also fly around shitting indiscriminately on everything in sight. I hate them.

     This robin was bashing my window so hard it was bleeding. So I did what any normal person would do when their house is under siege: I dropped to the floor and belly crawled to my room. (Then I slithered under the covers and started praying and fingering my imaginary rosary.) 

     Rap-Rap-Rap.

     I begged my big hunk of man-meat to get up and scare it away. Sadly, he’s moved on from his early role of “superhero” to “not needing to impress me anymore.” He wouldn’t budge. My fear of birds irritates him. It doesn’t help that the anxiety always rears its head when we’re on vacation in warm climates. (This is mainly because, when we were in Hawaii, a little flying specimen of vermin swooped by me at an outdoor restaurant. On the way by his feather touched my ear. This incident erased any progress I had made in dealing with this fear. I haven’t been the same since.) 

     Rap-Rap-Rap.

     In an act of self defense I picked up my cat and snuck him out the front door. 

“Go cat, find your purpose. Kill the vermin,” I whispered. The cat immediately found a patch of sunshine on the porch and passed out. (And that, my friends, is how a cat thanks you for taking him in, feeding him and allowing him to sleep on your bed.)

     Rap-Rap-Rap.

     My daughter – apparently braver than I – finally got up and flipped on the light. Ten minutes went by and the rapping had apparently ceased.

     Now safe to get off the floor, I was sitting on the couch, eating my cereal and thinking about how it was going to kill me to walk to the car. That little piece of maniacal filth was out there, waiting. 

     Pow! 

     Rap-Rap-Rap.

     There it was again, this time attacking my front windows. I sat paralyzed for I-don’t-know-how-long. Eventually the robin beat itself senseless and flew off. I’m not going to lie, I hoped it went off and died somewhere. 

     Still, I spent the rest of the day on pins and needles – every time something brushed my leg I imagined his bloody beak. 

     Sadly he didn’t die and was back the next morning. Thinking more clearly, I took a video of his insanity to prove to my friends and family that the end is indeed near. 

     (I’m going to post the video, along with this column, on my blog, www.corporatewhoracle.com. I’ll warn you now: It’s some of the most disturbing footage I’ve ever seen. Even a bird should be able to figure out a less painful form of suicide.)

     On day three of The Visitation I was huddled in a windowless room, whispering in terror to a friend on the phone. She enlightened me on the behavior of robins: Apparently, it’s mating season; when the male of the species loses his mind in a horny rage.  

     My fear was immediately overwhelmed with a sense of pride: I must have some really clean windows. Seriously, are birds attacking your windows because they believe their crystal clear reflection is another male bird?? Hmmm? If not don't worry, some day you might be able to achieve this level of cleanliness, but it doesn't happen overnight. 

      So for the next several days I comforted myself with the knowledge that, along with being vile, robins are also stupid. It’s always good news that your enemies are intellectually incapable of trickery.

     The other good news (which may have gotten lost in this column) is that spring has sprung, and soon, humans will begin their season of horny rage: Summer, the time of year when our species sucks it in, shows more skin and tries to find a hot sweaty mate. 

     In an attempt to woo and “mate” with the females, human males will attempt death-defying feats, such as racing each other in their various toys, flipping their bodies off of docks and starting camp fires with gasoline.

     It’s not just the males, though; females will burn their flesh to a crisp, undergo bizarre diets and wax sensitive parts of their bodies. If you haven’t de-furred yourself completely, there’s no way a girl can compete in this dating scene. 

     Hmmm, maybe we aren’t that much smarter than robins after all.

Here’s to warm weather and hoping you all find a mate, even if it’s just for one night.

Rap. Rap. Rap,

SQ