I wrote back to back columns for THE READER the last two weeks.  This column was written for the Christmas issue which also happened to be the 5 year anniversary of THE READER.... ROCK ON. 

The Lake

     We have an amazing lake that provides us with unbelievable opportunities for recreation, meditation and maybe – if we’re lucky – even some procreation. If you aren’t out there enjoying this gift at every available moment, you’re really missing out.

Bizarre Sporting Events

     Mud Volleyball at The Klondike, Snowshoe Volleyball at Priest Lake or Dover Bay, Mud Bogs, Polar Bear Swims ... you get the picture. The best way to find out about these events is to play. A wise man once said: “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” An even wiser man said: “If you can join them and BEAT them, even better.”

People Who Dress Badly

     This is truly a gift. It’s satisfying anytime you can look at someone else and wonder why on earth they’re wearing mom-jeans and a crop-top anywhere. But it’s especially satisfying to see one of these ensembles at a company party.  Our proximity to Montana and Canada, combined with the lack of a traditional mall, make unorthodox clothing combinations a daily joy.

Mountain Women

     I can’t get enough of them. From my cousin, who regularly takes her infant on hunting trips, to the lady I saw pull over on the road, get out her gun and put a deer (that had been hit by a car) out of its misery. These ladies are really a geographical treasure.

The Sandpoint Reader

     The Sandpoint Reader has been in print for five years now. It’s pretty amazing to see an alternative newspaper last that long during terrible economic times, and in a town that is notoriously conservative. Cheers to John Reuter, Zach Hagadone, Chris DeCleur and the rest of the staff who work 20 hour shifts to bring us this great paper.

Dive Bars

     The big cities have their "clubs" with the music and the beautiful people; the ones you can't even get into unless your shoes cost $500. Those places serve their purpose, but nothing beats a dive bar. A place where you can come  as you are, get as drunk as you'd like, there’s no dancing, no pick up lines, no soap in the bathroom... just a place to sit down and drink. The real bonus? There isn't a drink on the menu that costs more than $6. 

Schweitzer

     Full disclosure: I don't ski. That’s no secret. I’m mortified by all sports in which it’s hard to stop your body once it’s in motion, I don't like to be cold and it’s physically impossible for me to do anything while wearing a winter jacket. I have dropped at least 11 items in the grocery store due to my inability to control myself while wearing winter gear. It’s just safer for me to stay "off the hill.” However, they have a lovely lodge, a great hotel and the most beautiful view of the lake in the entire county. I hear it’s pretty much “the shit” if you like to ski or snow board. So really, a trip to Schweitzer has something for everyone. 
Bypass Construction

     Where else on earth is it permissible to carry out massive construction efforts during rush hour traffic, nine months out of the year, for four years? I won't even get into the other aspects of this project; suffice to say, spending that much time waiting, well, it’s just a lesson in patience that you can't buy at the store.

The Animal Shelter

     I spend a lot of time at the shelter walking dogs. I've been asked a time or two if I’m “doing community service.” Nope. I do it because I like dogs. They’re easy to talk to and I love any activity that allows me to wear t-shirts and tennis shoes.  I’m so grateful that we have a no-kill facility; that way it’s easy for me to make friends with the dogs without worrying about who will be there the next time I come in. I know that if a dog is gone, it’s probably in a GREAT new home.

Local Musicians

     We have some really talented local musicians: Miah Kohal, Marty Perron, Black Ice, Illusion 33, just to name a few. It’s so awesome to be able to enjoy live music while drinking. Truly one of my favorite pastimes. 

The Bowling Alley

     The bowling alley is placed here to remind us just how small Sandpoint really is. I've never been to anywhere on earth where you can get a tan, eat at a secret Thai restaurant and bowl all in the same location. It's practically legendary. 

Four Seasons

     Even though being cold and wet sucks, I have to admit that I look forward to certain aspects of every season. I wouldn't enjoy the summer half as much if I didn't have to survive through the cold and the mud. I like having a fully stocked closet with a wardrobe for every season. I never get bored of my clothes or my shoes, or the ever-changing scenery! It’s amazing to think that the lake can be frozen solid and then a few months later we can swim naked in it. 

There I go with my list... now you make one too! 

Merry Christmas!

XOXO 

Scarlette Quille

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Single in Sandpoint 

Scarlette at the rodeo: Of stripper poles and bulls

     A rodeo is like a strip club for women. It really is, and I say this now with a firm conviction after last weekend. 

     My cousin – who knows how to shoot a rifle and owns functional camouflage clothing – asked me to go with her to a rodeo.  Now I don’t know a thing about rodeos. My cowboy boots have danced all around the clubs in Vegas, but they’ve never once kicked a pile of horse crap. (Basically, I own cowboy boots because Jessica Simpson looked cute in them on “The Dukes of Hazzard,” and I made an impulse purchase. I’m not going to justify myself.) 

     There is also the fact that I don’t love horses. I think they’re cute, but the fact that they routinely mistake fingers for carrots and bite them off makes me nervous. I also feel it’s important to mention that this very cousin has tried to introduce me to her equestrian ways before. 

     When we were about 6-years-old she had two horses; a nice pony named Smurfette, and a scarier version of the black stallion named “Darky” (ouch). We would play “Show Horses” with Smurfette and Darky for hours. (Show Horses was a game that consisted of several of my cousins taking turns leading the horses around in their corral, and afterwards bowing to the judges. The judges consisted of several more of my cousins, my 3-year-old brother and some neighbor kids.) 

     Aside from that, my interaction with animals had always been restricted to my cats; and, as such, being in charge of a horse was daunting to say the least. 

     But I aint no punk and never was; I was assigned to Darky, and I tried to lead him around the corral. I guess I walked too slowly, because, suddenly, the horse became irritated at my pace. About 45 seconds into our walk he bit my neck and swung me to the side, to clear a path. No major injuries, just some bruises that looked like hickies. Thankfully I was 6-years-old, so instead of looking like the town tramp with hickies all over my neck, people just assumed my parents beat me.

     Naturally, you can imagine my trepidation when this very same cousin was trying to lure me back into the position that created my lifelong fear of horses. In fact, all of my cousins (there are six of them) were going to the rodeo. I agreed to go after being assured of the following things:

     1. There would be a beer garden.

     2. They don’t stab the cows (apparently that’s bull fighting not riding, who knew?).

     3. You never, ever have to enter the corral.

     4.  There would be a beer garden.

     Which I guess brings me back to the rodeo-strip club analogy. Like a strip club, a rodeo consists of sets, and there are women that trot around on horses in between them. They are called “rodeo queens,” but, seriously, they’re basically Heidi Fliess in cowgirl garb. 

     And that's not saying anything about cowboys – they're dressed in the most revealing outfits eve, complete with high heels – you can call them cowboy boots all you want, but only three inches and some patent leather separate them from stripper boots. (Further, everybody knows that your butt looks better in tight jeans if you throw some heels on with them, so stop pretending the boots are about function and not sex appeal. I won’t hear it.)

     In a rodeo, the traditional stripper pole is replaced by an angry, live animal. The longer the cowboy rides it, the more excited the crowd gets and the more money he makes. The strip club-ish experience is further enhanced with the amount of alcohol consumed. (I’ve been in a similar situation at the Spearmint Rhino in Boise; and you don’t have to use your imagination much to figure out what kind of place the “Rhino” is.) 

     Now, you may be wondering what my main squeeze thinks about my cowboy infatuation. Well, to his credit, Board Shorts is no more threatened by cowboys than I am of the garden-variety stripper. Sure, both of them are nice to look at, but there’s nothing left to the imagination.  

     What’s more, neither strippers nor cowboys age well. You can dress like a stripper or a cowboy for many years, but you can’t actually perform those occupations lucratively for a lifetime. I’m sorry if I’ve offended any strippers out there.

     So after the rodeo we were feeling naughty, and decided to cheat on the 219 and go to A&P’s. 

     That said, I never go to A&P’s. At the time I didn’t really know why, but now I remember. We were sitting in the bar, neck-deep in cowboys and their groupies. When all of the sudden the song “Don’t Cha” by the Pussycat Dolls came on the jukebox. That song plays about three times a night at A&P’s, and is usually sandwiched between some country songs and maybe a few Skynard tunes. The point is, “Don’t Cha” is an A&P’s staple. 

     I had been singing along happily when I noticed Board Shorts arguing with a shrill little hag at the table next to us. Apparently she didn’t like my singing. She suggested to Board Shorts that I should go to the Long Bridge Grill, where they have karaoke all the time. 

     I would like to address this type of situation with a simple observation: If you have a problem with loud music, intoxication and people engaging in their after-rodeo partying on a Friday night, you probably shouldn’t go to A&P’s. There are places to quietly pretend like you’re having a good time; they’re called wine bars. 

     Seriously, I wish A&P’s could kick people out for being boring and angry, just like wine bars kick people out for being loud and crazy. Just a suggestion.

     Anyway, the night was fun. The cowboys were great entertainment both during and after the rodeo. Seriously, those pants are wickedly indecent. I definitely suggest going to a rodeo for your next bachelorette party or if you just need to pick your spirits up by watching a little beefcake-on-beef action.

     Till our next ride.

     Lose the pole and get a bull,

     Scarlette Quille

One of my high school good friends  is squeezing a baby out of her birth canal as I type this post... Last year on February 8 she married her dream man, today she is having their baby....here is my column from her wedding!! This column appeared in the Sandpoint Reader February 28, 08. What a difference a year makes!!

Words: 1,271

Single in Sandpoint: On wedded bliss

     I’m back. I spent a week in paradise sipping Mai Tais, soaking up the sun and watching whales. It wasn’t all fun and games though; I was there to witness the nuptials of one of my best friends. Which you know, was great for her, and everything, but a little bittersweet for me.

     You see, we were the last of a dying breed. We were the hot divorcees in the dusk of our twenties. Now she’s a glowing, gushing, newlywed, and I’m a 31-year-old divorcee living somewhere between a cold version of Hell and Timbuktu. I have a great boyfriend, yes, that much is true; but as far as “life success” goes, having a husband and/or the ownership of real estate always trumps boyfriend. (No matter how hot, rich or physically gifted he is.) 

     To her credit my friend picked a real competitor. I don’t know how any other guy was ever going to challenge him for her affections.  He’s cute, he’s employed, he’s fun and he even held her hand when her dog died. I didn’t even know there were real live men like that running around amongst us.  

     To put this in perspective, he bought her a horse for Christmas, a real horse. This girl, who loves horses more than anything and has been saving up for one, even paying rent on an empty stable so she’ll have a good place to board it when she buys it, gets surprised with a horse. I mean, most single girls I know can’t get a guy to buy them dinner; she gets a horse, a ring and a tropical wedding.  I’m telling you, her karma must be on track.

     Back to the wedding: First, there were tons of freshly married people in attendance. And they brought their flashy little babies with them. (Note to self: Babies are the new handbags, no wonder all those celebrities are getting knocked up.) 

     In fact, when it came time to throw the bouquet, there were only two, I’m frickin’ serious, two single women (besides the flower girls) at the entire wedding. And, since the bride has some apparent hatred (or sympathy) for me, she turned around and threw the bouquet so hard at me that I dropped my drink. (You see, I was holding a drink because I had no intention whatsoever of trying to catch the thing. I’ve caught one before, I will no doubt catch one again, and it never works. I’m still filing single on my W-2’s.)

     I feel it necessary to interject something here. I wasn’t completely in my right mind at this wedding. Yes, I was buzzed, but that’s nothing new. A week before I went on the trip a very young and loved relative of mine passed away. I’d been trying to make sense of it, deal with it and file it in my to-do box so that I could enjoy the trip without worrying about his mother and the rest of my family. 

     I was emotionally volatile; and, therefore, uncharacteristically emotional. I had to wear giant sunglasses to protect the world from my inconvenient tears.

     Anyway, I held the bouquet in my hand and forced a smile for my adoring audience of married women nursing their babies. It was scary. I saw my life flash before my eyes. Pretty soon I’d be designing centerpieces and asking for crème of tartar (whatever that is). I’d be wearing khakis and Crocs. 

     A cold shiver ran down my spine. The bouquet is a gateway into their world, that’s why they were smiling. My boyfriend was probably in the bathroom in a cold sweat, because I didn’t see him anywhere. Actually, I didn’t look, it would be waaaaaaaay to weird to look at him, raise the bouquet high in the air and scream out “Where’s my ring bitch?” That’s what you’re supposed to do right?

     I needed a familiar, yet safe, face. I looked around for my newlywed friend. Even if we didn’t make contact it would have been perfectly acceptable to stare at her, she’s The Bride and you’re supposed to stare at her. 

     When I saw her I truly understood why I subjected myself to yet another wedding. She was smiling with her entire being. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen someone smile like that, at any wedding. Ever.  I mean she was really happy, she was sucking the happiness out of the air and putting it in a to-go box. 

     I don’t know, maybe there is such a thing as “the one.” I’m not going soft on ya’ll but she was pretty convincing. I couldn’t hold a grudge; she wanted me to be happy too. That’s why she pelted me with flowers. 

     Which leads me to the philosophical portion of this week’s column: There is a reason that humans have weddings and funerals. In a world in which we see images of death and deprivation every day, we want to be reminded of our ability to be moved to tears – whether they be joyous or sad.  

     No person can keep that much joy or that much sadness to themselves, they need to have the people they love by their side to help soak it up. You can say sorry to someone a million times when they lose a loved one, but the only solace you can really give them isn’t in your words it’s in your presence.

      I flew something like 3,000 miles not for the free booze and tan (honestly), I made the trip to Hawaii to see her amazingly happy, and experience joy on her behalf. I’m thinking that is a better present than a gift card to Target (my second choice).  

     I’ll have to bear witness so that when she calls me one day to tell me how her “husband is a selfish ass and went out with the boys on American Idol night.” I can remind her of how she was smiling on her wedding day. And if she needs sympathy she will have to call the nursers. (I’m only good for advice on food, outfits, the backstabbing office mate, the perfect sister and up-to-date celebrity gossip. Marriage is not my specialty.)

     So she’s crossed over. She’s married now. We’ll never do body shots in Vegas again. (Insert moment of silence here.) The next time I see her we’ll probably have to go to Build-a-Bear and the Home Depot.  

     I’m going to have to be okay with that. 

     I’ll keep reminding myself that she’s still the same person I knew in kindergarten; only this time, her dress was so big I had to hold it up so she could pee behind a tree. You celebrate your way, and we’ll celebrate ours. 

Holding onto my tan with all my might,

Scarlette Quille 

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Single in Sandpoint

Of mud and men: Scarlette does The Bog

     It’s finally warm. In other parts of the country that means BBQs, bike rides, bikinis and tans. In North Idaho, however, nothing officially kicks of summer like the Mud Bogs at Moyie Springs.

     This year my curiosity got the better of me and I decided finally to attend the area’s premiere mud-loving event. I’ve been hearing about this legendary party since I moved to Sandpoint nearly two years ago, but never attended because I was always doing something else (and I don’t exactly love mud or male-centric vehicle-based sporting events). However, I do love spectacle, and I do love a party – I was assured that the Mud Bogs would provide both in ample quantities. 

     But before I go on, for those of you who don’t know what Mud Bogging is, I’ll give you a brief definition: Mud Bogging is when people (mostly men, but there are a few women who participate) take their 4-wheel-drive vehicles and drive them through large muddy pits.  

     The Moyie Springs Mud Bogs is a giant party of about 7,000 people who come from near and far to the outskirts of Bonners Ferry, Idaho to drink truckloads of alcohol and watch people drive their vehicles through the mud.

     Obviously, as a professional observer of people, I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to view that kind of spectacle. I was pretty stoked to see all the mullets, custom-made 4-wheel-drives and mud. 

     I had so many questions that needed answering: “Is it an actual competition? Do people get naked and wrestle in the pits? Is there dancing? Where does the mud come from? Is it a secret society? Do I need to know a handshake or code word in order to get in? Where is Moyie Springs?”

     I begged Board Shorts to take me. He didn’t want to go – apparently he had some deep dark incident at the Mud Bogs a few years ago, and has since retired. I was insistent. I’d never been to a mud bog, and I needed to check this off on my “list of things to do before I die”    

     “You don’t want me to die incomplete do you? Please there will be lots of cool trucks there.” 

     As a man, he could not resist the temptation of a lawless place where the vehicles are big, muddy and angry, and the only way to watch them ear-splittingly scream by is with a beer in one hand and your fist in the air. All good, red-blooded American men can appreciate a big truck and beer. It takes them right back to the days when they trashed their Tonka trucks and shotgunned Kool-Aid. Seriously, even the most metrosexual, white-collared CEO will whistle in appreciation at a classic Chevy truck. It’s like death and taxes, you know? Dependable. 

     Which leads to a natural question: What kind of women attend these events? My answer: smart ones. 

     Yeah, maybe when you hear “monster trucks and mud” you think “white trash,” but look past your preconceived notions – dig deep – it’s raining MEN, at the Mud Bogs in Moyie Spring, and most of them are between the ages of 21 and 40 and they’re shirtless. 

     The women at the mud bogs are geniuses – they understand the law of supply and demand. Armed in star spangled bikinis and shirts that said “Got Balls,” the female bogger is a sophisticated connoisseur of the young American male.

     Single in Sandpoint Ladies, you better get your asses up there next year – I’m not going to listen to you complain about there being no opportunities to date if you’re sitting at the edge of a fresh water spring and refuse to drink. Okay: The ratio was about 5 to 1 in the favor of women, and in a crowd of 7,000 you could have found love. If only for one night.

     I’m not saying they were the cream of the crop, but there were more men at the bogs than are actually residing in Sandpoint – you do the math.

     I however, have a boyfriend, and wasn’t there to shop for a mate, just taking notes for my faithful readers. For those of you who do have a boyfriend, take him to the bogs, chances are you’ll have fun and he’ll have to take you to a chick flick or shopping for repayment (it’s a win-win).

     Which reminds me: You can actually shop at the bogs, if you so desire. They have a little store that slings various apparel items with Mud Bog themes on them. One such T-shirt proclaimed “Moyie Mud Bogs – Go in Faster Come out Harder”. I think that’s what it said, the verbiage my have varied slightly (I was a few beers into it when I took my shopping trip). Now that I think of it, you could also purchase a pair of “G-Cut Panties” with the same phrase on them. I didn’t buy any though – not for lack of wanting them – it’s just that I blew all my money on the $20 cover charge. (Which I’m told goes to paying the water bill and, of course, for the fleet of port-a-potties.)

Now, since there are no official awards given out at the bogs, I’ll hand out my own. 

Best Presentation

     That award goes to the vehicle driven by Sandpoint’s own Ben Spinney. Spinney and his collaborators (all Sandpoint boys themselves) brought the giant beast up to Moyie and it was a magnificent work of art, complete with elk racks and complete elk spines zip-tied to the roll bar. 

     I don’t know what kind of truck it was – it was big and, in my opinion, vintage. The general design was set off by some Pabst Blue Ribbon Stickers – very “Mad Max” meets North Idaho. I’m not going to lie, that thing was sweet. (I would tell you what the name was, but it was covered in mud so I couldn’t read it. I thought about wiping it away but I wasn’t sure what would happen if I touched it. It thing looked like an off-road vehicular version of Darth Vader. I mean, it was half-beast half-machine. I’ll just keep my spine thanks.) 

Best Vehicle Name

     “Mudalica,” which was painted as an exact replica of the band Metalica’s logo. It was clever, futuristic even. A close second goes to Hell Burbon, and the Taminator (driven by a female, who must be named Tammi?). Honestly there may have been some better names out there, but the mud made them hard to read.

Best Sportsmanship

     This one goes to the little old man driving the tractor. He worked tirelessly rescuing people who got stuck in the mud, and managed to keep clean and smiling through the entire day. This man was a saint as he had his work cut out for him – people just couldn’t control their desire to take part in the action, so you’d see a stock minivan or blazer full of kids flying through the mud, and inevitably get stuck. 

     It was like the drivers had sat there all day and, under the combined influence of their begging kids and beer, become convinced that the reason they bought their 4-wheel drive SUV wasn’t to take the kids to soccer, burn fuel and look pretentious, it was actually for boggin!

     I would have loved to be a fly on the wall when those guys brought their vehicles back home. “How did you manage to get mud on our Eddie Bower Limited Edition leather seats, I thought you took the boys to Bonner’s Ferry to look for river rock for my flower bed. It’s Mother’s Day, remember?” I’m sure the conversations went something like that…

     Anyway, I had fun, and I will probably go again next year. It was that entertaining. I may even participate. In fact, I’ve already got a name for my vehicle: BOG BITCH. Now I’m lookin’ for a few smoking hot ladies to be on my pit crew. Send your applications to my MySpace page, www.myspace.com/scarlettequille.

     Whether you live here or are just passing through: you are in North Idaho now, and if you can’t beat ‘em you might as well bog with ‘em.

XOXO

Scarlette Quille

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Single in Sandpoint: 

Jello shots, sweat lodges and skinny dipping: Scarlette and friends do the Fourth

     There’s a saying that goes something like: “You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.” For those of us who were born in northern Idaho we understand far too well what that means. 

     I’ve lived in a city, worked in a corporate environment, enjoyed luxury and I’ve never hunted an animal. In fact, I spent at least 11 years of my life trying to make sure that no one could tell that I was a small town girl. 

     That said, though Sandpoint may not be the best place in the world to meet other singles, I’ll tell you for a fact that some of the best friends I have now were also my best friends when I was 7-years-old, and they’re all from here.

     In fact, most of my childhood friends have moved away, had families and careers. Now, when you look at them, you’d never guess that at one time in their life they all drank Milwaukee’s Best around an impromptu bonfire. 

     But, as we all know, looks can be deceiving; I had my reasons for moving back to Sandpoint. In the end there was an offer that I couldn’t refuse in a beautiful place where most of my family lives. There are times when I miss the city, I’m not going to lie, but when summer rolls around there’s no place I’d rather be then floating on the lake with some friends and a frosty beverage. 

     Which brings me to this Fourth of July.

     I decided it would be fun to get the gang back together for a little July Fourth revelry. Why not?  Anyone who grew up in Sandpoint loves to come back for the Fourth. It’s like a native migratory instinct. I know several people who regularly don’t make it home for Christmas, but they have never missed a Fourth of July.  

     I decided to throw a Third of July barbecue and invite my friends. 

     Sometimes I don’t know what I’m thinking. Really, I don’t. I have a 900 square foot house. I cook like a frat boy and I detest cleaning. I’m not exactly Mrs. Suzie Homemaker. To top that off, I’ll be damned if I let my high school friends in on my inadequacies. 

     I mean seriously, how hard can it be to clean your house and make some dip? Also, Board Shorts (for those of you who don’t follow the column that is the name of my beau) has never met my high school friends; and, naturally, I’d like to protect him from any stories they’d be likely to make up. (Especially, that vile rumor about me and a bush in front of the Edgewater, or Beach House, whatever they’re calling it these days. For the record I was napping. And you’ll never, ever get me to admit otherwise.) 

     In short, I opened Pandora’s Box. I had one week and 13 loads of laundry to get done before I even could see my carpet. Obviously, I also needed to lose 10 pounds, attend a gourmet cooking class and get Botox, on top of all that. 

     I knew they were coming for at least a month before, and yet I was still loafing around with my boyfriend taking body shots of ranch. Damn. The funny thing about this is that I am notoriously messy, I have been since birth, most of my friends have spent the night on a pile of my laundry, and so my paranoia was really unfounded.

     These girls are like my sisters and they’re more than aware of my domestic shortcomings. To say that they expected anything else would be completely disregarding our history. So when they arrived at the barbecue we drank and caught up; admired each other’s kids and dogs. One of my friends has three dogs and she brought them to visit my dog. As you might imagine, she’s a full time dog mom, and has been trying to figure out for the last year or so how she can be a stay-at-home dog mom. Two of my other friends are new moms to human babies, and another, our “scholarly friend,” is working on her Master’s.

     Then there’s me.

     When you’re the “single friend” your job is really to let your married friends live vicariously through you, and make sure you let them get into a little bit of trouble without overdoing it. The Moms really needed to get drunk, and they weren’t afraid to admit it.  For one night, they didn’t want to worry about kids, houses, bills and all those responsibilities. 

     Showing The Moms a good time is like a gift. And I took it seriously.

     If drunken Sandpoint fun is what you want, be careful what you ask for. So instead of wasting my time making good food – all of us were going to pretend like we never eat anyway – I spent my time making JELLO shots and going to the liquor store. Job done, they had a good buzz within 45 minutes. Then I served the “food,” which obviously was delicious (mostly because they brought it), and we headed downtown. 

     For some reason none of them wanted to speak to me for the next 24 hours – something about hugging the toilet, and how headaches, hiking, dogs, fireworks and kids don’t mix. Whatever, by Friday they were ready to go out again.

     Board Shorts and I were sitting on a bench in downtown Sandpoint, wondering if we should just go home. The Fourth of July being on a Wednesday was just weird, and it made going out on the weekend seem frivolous. Also it was so hot my face was melting and I had four margaritas for dinner. It seemed like it was time to call it a night. 

     Just as I was deciding to call it an early night I heard a familiar voice from the past.  

     “Scarlette, I knew if I just walked around downtown, I’d find you.”  

     Ouch. That hurt. Am I that transparent? Note to self: Google the Betty Ford Clinic on Monday. 

     It was one of The Moms. But she’s no ordinary mom. She has two kids (the youngest is only a year old), she wears a size 4, and seriously, you could bounce a quarter off her buns. 

     I could see in her eyes that she meant business; she was wearing designer jeans and toting a fabulous purse. Straight out of suburbia she let us know that she ditched her husband and kids and wanted – no, needed – a night to herself.  

     Board Shorts looked somewhat terrified. As pretty much the only male around for our weekend, he imagined that he’d get stuck going to a wine bar (which he loathes) with Super Mom. As it turned out, Super Mom wanted an ice-cold schooner at the Tam, and she had a few people to pick up on the way. We hijacked The Scholar from a dinner with her parents; and, after that, my memory gets a bit fuzzy. 

     In some ways I’m not positive it really happened. 

     It was at least 300 degrees in the Tam. It felt like Hell, or, probably more accurate, a sweat lodge. Everyone there was sweating out his or her issues. After a few minutes in that heat I’m pretty sure I transcended space and time, to a desert with Jim Morrison and my ninth grade biology teacher.

     At that point, The Scholar suggested we go swimming. 

     Naked, of course. 

     At this point in the evening Board Shorts recognized that he may not be ready to entertain a bunch of nude 30-year-old women, and he left, stating the obvious: “I won’t be able to pick you up.” 

     Which worked out; after all, I wasn’t going to beg him to join us, how weird would that be? And I couldn’t say no. I mean, I’m not a chicken. If they weren’t afraid to swim naked at the beach than neither was I. 

     The next thing I knew Super Mom was pitching of her clothes and frolicking in the nude (on public property). Afterward, we all stood around chatting about the good times, as though it was a perfectly normal activity to reminisce naked in the park. 

     As I said, I’m pretty sure this was all a dream I had, and had I not woken up the next day with missing skivvies and wet hair, I may not be inclined to believe it actually happened. 

     So there you have it. As a group we’ve all graduated college, been married, some divorced, had children, had heartache and more success and failures than could ever be written, but we all have one thing in common: Sandpoint.  

     And when you’re lucky enough to call Sandpoint home, you realize that it’s more than a geographical location or a cool place to party, its part of your DNA.

Not embarrassed to say that I hang out in the nude with my high school friends,

Scarlette Quille