Skinny Dipping With High School Friends
Monday, March 9, 2009 Words: 1,496
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
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