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

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

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 

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

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

SIS: Scarlette shares the secret to being a bad girlfriend

     I write this column in order to expose the dating difficulties in a very rural area, but sometimes I wonder if people are single because they have walked down the relationship path one too many times and they aren’t willing to sacrifice their sanity again. 

     In most realms of my life I am at least rational. So why is it that whenever I am “in a relationship” I resort to the most primitive behaviors? 

     I try to resist the basic call of my kind, but occasionally I resort to the handbook of Bad Girlfriend Antics.

     I went about 3 years without having a “real” boyfriend. When I say real, I mean one who lives in the same zip code as I do and that has regular access not only to me, but my domain. 

     Until I started dating Board Shorts, I had forgotten what it was like to have another person in my life on a regular basis – which isn’t a bad thing, except I lack a lot in the domestic department. Meaning I do dishes when there isn’t room in the sink to fill a vessel with water and I do laundry when I have no more clothes that are clean. 

     These activities normally take place sometime on the weekend, while I am wearing some sort of outfit from my high school athletic days. 

     I am busy and the last thing that I want to do after working 9 or 10 hours is more work. I just want to go home, have some snacks and watch reality TV. I don’t think it’s a crime, but it’s not very sexy either.

     It was last Friday when Board Shorts and I had our first tiff. He was planning some sort of Man Extravaganza out of town that weekend and I was staying in Sandpoint planning on catching up on some of the cleaning that I’ve been putting off for at least 4 or 5 months. Our plans were to go to dinner after he packed.

     I was fine with the Man Extravaganza and staying home. My plans involved Starbucks, wine and an “I Love New York” marathon – all activities that Board Shorts doesn’t really enjoy. 

     So Friday night rolls around and I start waiting and waiting – and waiting. 

     Apparently the packing of man paraphernalia rivals any packing that I have done for a one night excursion. I guess packing 4 or 5 pairs of shoes and some coordinating outfits takes considerably less time than motorized vehicles and coolers. 

     By 6 o’clock I decided to go get some drinks with friends and meet him downtown when he was done packing. 

     I was still fine with our plans. In fact, I was secretly congratulating myself on being Girlfriend of the Year because I wasn’t freaking out over his lateness. My flexibility and grace were admirable. 

     But by 8:30 I was drunk, hungry and starting to feel neglected – and he was still packing.

     In my starvation fueled haze I started to stew. Bad Girlfriend antic number one. In my mind I was sure that he was making secret plans for his trip. And when he left (which was only going to be for 24 hours) he wouldn’t even miss me. In fact, he probably didn’t even care about me at all. I mean why the hell else would he let me starve like that? He probably thinks I’m fat and that I could stand to miss a meal or two – what an ass!

     By the time Board Shorts met me, I was in no mood to eat or anything else for that matter. I was ready for a good old-fashioned showdown. So we finished our drinks and went to my house – where normally we could have had a few words, made up and the rest would be history. 

     But as the relationship gods would have it, that wasn’t in the cards.

     We got to my house and, in my mind, I said something really profound, like: you broke plans with me, now I’m going to die of starvation, because you don’t even care about me. 

     In his mind, I think he heard me attack him and, as he was sober, my genius statement made no sense. In his rebuttal – this is not a joke – he asked me if I got my laundry done. 

     OK. There you have it. The number one and two ways of making Scarlette go careening off the deep end. 

     One: Break plans, especially ones involving food. 

     And two: Acknowledge her ineptitude at all things domestic. 

     He may as well have pissed on my favorite shoes because now I wasn’t just moping and feeling sorry for myself, I was angry – drunk angry, the worst kind.

     That’s when I engaged in Bad Girlfriend antic number two – which is cry, cry, cry. 

     Let me let all of you men out there in on a little secret: when your girlfriend starts bawling her eyes out over an argument that didn’t involve you sleeping with another woman, a physical altercation or spending all your money on your drug habit, then she is out of ammunition. 

     Pure and simple, she knows that she is being a ridiculous freak and that she doesn’t have a leg to stand on. What she is hoping is that when she cries, you will feel bad and then forget what an ass she’s being. 

     I’m sure there are some variations to this “move,” but I assure you when an animal is cornered (a female human) she will fight with her most deadliest of all weapons: tears.

     I wish that I could say that it ended there, but in fact it did not. 

     Though we made up that evening that did not stop me from going straight to Bad Girlfriend antic number three, which is pretend like you are not mad when in fact you are truly pissed.

    He left the next morning and I spent the rest of the weekend pissed that he broke plans with me – convinced that he didn’t care about me at all.  

     I ate myself into a flaming hot cheeto-coma and then I shopped like I didn’t have a care. And to top it all off: I didn’t finish my laundry. Ha. 

     Well, to make a long story short, by Monday morning I was wearing clothes from 1998 (no clean clothes), bloated from the cheetos and my boyfriend wasn’t speaking to me. Happy FREAKING Monday. 

     Now I was crying and there was no one there to observe the water works, except his picture on my screen saver.

     Damn it. 

     He is so cute, and we have so much fun together.

     I spent the day moping one minute and being hopping mad the next. Needless to say I wasn’t in my right mind. In fact, I might have been experiencing some rare form of relationship psychosis. 

     Sad. Pathetic. Ridiculous. I could go on, but alas there is a lesson in every story – right? 

     The fact is that relationships are a lot of work and the golden rule in relationships is that “sometimes you have to be sorry, even when you don’t know why.” Oh and there’s all that stuff about communicating and sharing your feelings, blah, blah, blah. 

     Regardless, I didn’t want to fight anymore and if that involved apologizing, well, so be it. In all honesty I was sorry, not for being mad per se, but definitely for the fiasco that followed the initial anger.

     We made up. It was a learning experience. I learned amongst many things that you really can’t fake your way out of being mad, and hopefully he learned not to engage in arguments with an inebriated woman on the brink of starvation.

Waiting to Frolic in The Green Pastures,

Scarlette Quille

SIS: Scarlette relates her early connection between weddings and jumping off of cliffs

     I know that I am a female anatomically, and my desire to wear the most uncomfortable shoes possible to every activity I can, basically cements this fact.

     I engage in several stereotypical female activities, such as turning on the water works when I get pulled over, passing over the Wall Street Journal for US Weekly, and I have at least 23 different kinds of lip-gloss with more than that many purses to house my gloss in. 

     HOWEVER; I am deeply offended, insulted, and actually downright pissed off about the nasty rumor that is floating around about “women planning their weddings” since the day they learned how to make their Barbies say, “I do.”

     I came face to face with this commonly used insult last weekend. Board Short’s (my lovable little cupcake) college roommate had a wedding. We decided to take a road trip to southern Idaho to witness “his union.” 

     Sounds like a pleasant, even romantic trip. And for the most part it was.

     I hadn’t met very many of Board Short’s college friends, and, you know, it’s some kind of “big test” when you meet your significant other’s kin. 

     In theory I thought that I’d dress rather conservatively, laugh at their jokes, lift my glass when everyone else did and generally avoid any deep conversation. 

     Basically, I’d be a perfect girlfriend, therefore insuring that he wouldn’t be embarrassed and I would fit seamlessly into “the gang.”

     I probably could have pulled it off. I could have tried harder, drank less, conjured up some fake emotion. I could have. 

     But as many of you who read this column know, the real me always seems to awkwardly show up at the party without an invite. This instance was no different.

     Picture this: I’m sitting in a modified amphitheatre drinking keg beer from a plastic cup, dressed in an outfit that took only about 6 weeks to choose. 

     I’m thinking that it’s possible that I might be going to hell for drinking during a sacred ceremony, but everyone else is (and remember the goal was to fit in) so hopefully The Lord in all her mercy will take this into consideration. 

     Anyhow, on one side of me is Board Shorts, on the other is his friends and their chicks – I don’t know how else to say it: some are wives, some are girlfriends and others are just referred to as so-n-so’s chick. 

     The ceremony starts and it soon becomes very obvious that this is no ordinary cookie cutter type of deal. 

     The Bride turns to the crowd, tilts her head back, waves her bouquet in the air and shouts, “Can I get a hell yeah?”  

     The “reverend” that was his title, belonged to a congregation that celebrates love, unity, individuality and non-denominational spirituality. For our pleasure, and obviously because the bride and groom’s grandparents were there the Reverend decided to share with us a poem called “Life’s a Bitch.” 

     I have never, even on TV seen both the bride and the reverend use profanity during the ceremony. That was a first.

     I found out more about The Reverend’s church later on. I decided to interview him while I sent my sister emergency text messages, and he smoked Marlboro reds. 

     For now, though, I will tell you what the conversation at the dinner table was like. It was I and three other women. And the first of many disastrous conversations went about like this.

     Wife: Look at Husband, omigod, he is crying again; he cried during the whole ceremony. He just gets so emotional.

     Me: Hahahaha.

     Girlfriend: What do you think of these flower arrangements? I have been keeping a notebook of all the special things that boyfriend and me see at weddings, so that our wedding will be the best ever. Go Kappa’s, I love Prada!!!!

     Chick: What? What are you talking about? 

     Me: I love mashed potatoes.

     Wife: Weren’t you married before??

     Me: Yes, I love it when people bring that up! We didn’t have a wedding, and it was a disastrous marriage. Would you like my therapist’s number so you can discuss it with her?

     Girlfriend: You are kidding me, how sad, I am going to cry, I feel so bad for you. Haven’t you been planning your wedding forever? I wear a size 00.

     Me: I’m going to go contemplate my worthless existence at the buffet line. 

     Chick: Me too.

     Wife: He’s crying again. He always cries during the speeches.

     After that I felt really good about myself, and decided to free-base mashed potatoes and wash them down with wine. 

     I tried to recall my childhood-based wedding plans, and the realization hit me that I did have a plan. I used to tell my parents about it all the time. 

     I was going to get married on a cliff, and after the “kiss the bride” part of the wedding, I was going to strip off the dress to reveal my tiny white bikini and jump off the cliff. That was about it, there weren’t any bridesmaids or centerpieces involved.

     Generally I tend to keep my opinions on marriage to myself, but being served annoyance and generous amounts of free alcohol was really loosening me up.

     The next time I was asked about what I would do/not do at my imaginary wedding I started speaking like a prophet: “I don’t know what I would give my bridesmaids as gifts, but I can tell you this:  marriage is a lot easier to get into than out of.”

     I pretty much started telling everyone that. I was getting annoyed you see. I have a habit of loosing it when I get annoyed. I made it through the rest of the pageantry with out any major issue – until the dance floor.

     I was ready to dance all my problems and inadequacies away – naturally, though, Board Shorts “doesn’t like to dance.” 

     So everyone in our group was dancing it up, singing and having a grand old time, while I was squirming around like a damn jack russel terrier begging Board Shorts to dance. 

     In an act of sheer defiance he walked over to the wall and leaned up against it. WTF? Was I supposed to go pretend like I was a wallflower too? Was I supposed to awkwardly dance by myself?

     Perhaps the only fun part of the night was occurring right at that second, and he was denying me the right to participate.

     One of his friends shouted out “Scarlette, you should go freak Board Shorts, that will get him off the wall.” 

     In my wine and carbohydrate-induced psychedelic trip I had a vague notion of what “freaking” was. I conjured up some images of Soul Train and a Shakira video and sauntered over to Board Shorts, whose eyes lit up in horror. He definitely would have backed away, but the wall was preventing his smooth getaway. 

     In my attempt to freak, I kicked my foot up to the wall behind him (in order to brace myself for the severe pelvic thrusting that was about to take place).

     Unfortunately on the way up, my foot hit his glass, and instead of getting the freaking that he deserved, he got a beer shower. 

     He was in a word: pissed. And there was no amount of apologizing that was going to fix it. Board Shorts is a tidy man, and that just pushed him over the edge.

     So when he hastily left the scene to dry off, I ditched the party and went outside. 

     My sister conveniently lived in town, and I started frantically texting her: “pick me up now.” 

     She called me back and tried to talk me down, it would be at least another hour till she could come get me. So I thought about walking, but just as fate would have it, I had on a pair of ridiculously cute shoes, and nowhere to really walk to except the hotel room, which I didn’t have the key for.

     Then just like a sign from I’m not sure where, the Reverend showed up and asked me if I minded if he smoked. 

     I didn’t care I had been shunned from the party; I didn’t give a damn if he wanted to snort illegal drugs off a nun’s habit.

     He told me about his church and I told him about the freaking incident. When we had both sufficiently vented, I felt better. 

     So what I don’t run around planning weddings, who cares if I like mashed potatoes, I’m sorry that I was married. I am a pretty F-ing nice girlfriend and sometimes as my boyfriend you’re just going to have to dance. 

     Thank you, Reverend, wherever you are. I bet your daughter will never run away like the girl in Footloose. 

     Board Shorts found me, and apologized sort of – at that point I didn’t actually care much, I saw his anger as a sign that he must not like me and if he preferred someone else than that’s the way the wedding cake crumbled.

     The problem with being me is that wherever I go there I am. I could try to turn myself into more of a docile servant. But eventually Scarlette would come out and we’d both be disappointed. 

     I’ve lived just a little bit too much life to go around pretending.

     I was pretty much terrified about how the rest of the conversation was going to go, but just then Board Shorts surprised me. He asked me if I wanted to dance. 

     Seriously, I think he might be perfect!

     Watch for the Drink when you go to freak!

XOXO

Scarlette Quille

Single in Sandpoint: Scarlette’s Christmas wish list

Dear Santa,

     I would like to start off by saying that I have been a very – okay, I mean pretty – well, compared to a lot of other people – good girl this year.

     For one thing, I always wear underwear when dressed in a skirt/mini dress. I don’t drink and drive, I limit my usage of the F-word, I call my mother regularly and I don’t date other people’s husbands. In some circles I could be considered a saint.
     I know you think that I ask for the same thing every year, so this year I won’t bother with the same old request. I swear.

     But I wonder, are you afraid I’m not responsible enough to have one? Do you think I won’t let it outside enough or give it food and water? I mean that’s why I wanted an older one that has a job and all its shots.

     Well, anyway, since you’ve refused to grant me my Christmas wish for the last decade, I’ll assume this year’s no different. Thanks for putting me in the same category as all those city kids who ask for ponies every year. (I could insert an obvious comparison here, but this is a letter to Santa.)

     But I digress; I’m just here to give you some gift-giving ideas not only for myself, but for all the single people of Bonner County. In case you didn’t know, I’m speaking on their behalf. That’s how good of a girl I am. (Not completely selfish, basically a public servant to an underprivileged sect of society.)

     You see those of us single in Sandpoint are not lazy, per say, we don’t expect you to hand deliver us a member of the opposite sex; we’re more than happy to do our own leg work. Unfortunately because of our geographical misfortune (in terms of population), we lack opportunities. So this year, on behalf of my single compatriots, I’m asking for a decent opportunity to socialize with one another.

     The following is a list of gift suggestions that could help bring that about, just in case you were wondering what to get the good Single in Sandpoint boys and girls this year:

1. A professional sports team.

     I’m thinking football or Hockey. I’m not really picky, but the team needs to be big in order to provide the local women with more opportunities. This would be good for the single men, too, as a little competition would perhaps get them to step up their game. No more camouflage or Carhart evening wear.

2. A Hooters.

     Just to be fair, I suggest this to go with the pro team. I’m not going to lie; it’s not completely unselfish, I haven’t had good hot wings in months and I don’t care if a half-naked, big-haired harlot serves them to me or not. In fact, I think downtown Sandpoint needs a good sports bar. Really bad. That’s one thing I truly miss from the big city.  Surprisingly, I don’t miss wine bars, maybe that’s because we have about 900 of them. Seriously, I don’t know how they all stay in business. Oh wait, yes I do; by charging $12 a glass. That’s how.

3. A (real) mall.

     It doesn’t have to be a giant, modern glass-encased hub of consumerism (though I’m not against that). Actually, if you could just fill the nearly empty mall that already exists with some more stores – let’s say a couple more that someone under 50 would shop in – that would work. Such as the GAP; I mean, they cater to men, women and children. Just because we live in North Idaho doesn’t mean that we don’t like to shop. I don’t know how many times I can repeat this.

4. A YMCA or 24 Hour Fitness.

     People shouldn’t have their opportunities to seek co-ed fitness limited to one place. I mean, I’m glad there are a lot of “women’s fitness” centers here, but if I’m paying hundreds of dollars to work out somewhere, I want more bang for my buck. I want the opportunity to meet other people (read: men) who are active, and if I want to take basket weaving, snorkeling and modern dance, it would be nice to be able to do it all in one place. We’re definitely lacking a community center. And quite frankly, the fairgrounds don’t cut it for a gymnasium. We need a city rec. center equipped with a pool and a gym. Please Santa, I know a lot of people who would be stoked about this.

     I’m leaving my list fairly small this year, in hopes that you will consider each item carefully.

     Meanwhile, if you have any cute, house-trained and well behaved you-know-whats in your sleigh, you know my address.

     Hope You Have the Best Holiday Season Ever!

The Hardly Ever Naughty,

Scarlette Quille

Single in Sandpoint: love loss in Wally World, choir boy shirts and roughing off the information highway

     I went on a date with the guy who asked me out at Wal-Mart, in fact, I went on a few of them. I would describe these dates as pleasant. I mean, what can I say; there was a point when things were going so well I thought that the budding relationship might be detrimental to my writing career.

     Nothing spells romance like two lonely souls shopping in bulk on a Saturday night – it’s how Brad and Angelina met, right? Angelina was stocking up on economy-sized boxes of diapers for Maddox and Zahara and Brad was buying tampons for his wife. Before you knew it, there was an uncontrollable desire to mate there in the sanitary napkin aisle.

     Call it what you will: romance, true love, taking a hit off consumer ecstasy; it’s the beginning of a modern-day “Gone With the Wind.”

     Back to the Wal-Mart guy. He is nice, he is cute and he calls me a lot. He has no major red-flag issues to point out.

     You’re waiting for the “but,” right? A “but” so big that J-lo would want to tear my eyes out with jealousy.

     Here it comes, the “but:” the Wal-Mart guy has decided to start calling me at 6 o’clock a.m., just to say “good morning.”

     During the most recent, chipper, wake up call I felt a sensation that I haven’t felt too many times before. It felt as though I was wearing a six-year old choir boy’s button up shirt. I started sweating and trying to peel away at the offending (imaginary) article of clothing. I put down the phone.

     What the…?

     I walked to the mirror and there were actual beads of sweat on my forehead. I hadn’t even stepped into the shower yet and my hair was already damp.

     Was I sick, did I have the bird flu? No. I was experiencing a relapse of commitment- phobia. He wanted one. I knew it.

     Never mind that we had been dating for about a week, never mind that I don’t even like committing to an outfit without proper research and, an even more irritating “never mind” – one that I’d already stated several times, never mind that I wasn’t interested in a serious relationship.

     For the love of Pete I was so freaking honest I deserved a damn award. Instead, I have a mild case of the hives and an empty bottle of Xanax.

      I will admit that my aversion to commitment is somewhat legendary. I made the ultimate sacrifice (I mean, I committed to a man who made Diego Rivera look like Ward Cleaver) and after pissing away some of the best years of my life I finally divorced his unemployed ass.

     So shoot me if I’m not picking out China with the Wal-Mart guy.

     I like to shop around, make sure I am getting the best deal – so to speak. The dating scene in Sandpoint is bleak at best, I’ll admit it; and, if I had problems making a commitment in a city with an inventory about 10 times larger than Sandpoint, chances are I won’t be waving to you from behind a picket fence any time soon.

      Dating is a multi-million dollar business. From online dating services, to singles vacations, to “night clubs,” there are so many layers to the dating onion it’s no wonder so many of us are left with our eyes watering.

     If you take dating seriously, let’s say take it up as a second job – then there are ways to meet people, and go on many dates even in Sandpoint. If you took it as seriously as your reality TV habit then you could have a full dating schedule.

     In fact, I have a friend who literally meets men on the Internet, invites them to her lair and then gets all “black widow” like and either devours them or makes up a reason why the date needs to end ASAP. 

     She has a “date” at least every weekend – sometimes more often. All this despite the fact that I seriously wouldn’t set my coffee cup down in her house let alone use the bathroom.

     The girl’s not bored, or out of double-A batteries. Something to think about while you watch “Law and Order SVU” on a Friday night.

     Personally, I tried to sign up for one of those dating website things. Let me tell you how this went down. I put “north Idaho singles” in the search engine and I got about 20 + websites that I could subscribe to.

     I clicked on the first one. I completed a psychological profile: “Do you like coffee, music, and movies? Do you brush your hair 100 times before you go to sleep at night? Did your parents give you a pony for your 6th birthday?”

     After the psych evaluation I was allowed to “shop” around.

    I looked at pictures and profiles of men, who were supposedly in my demographic, and went from there.

     Then I woke up the next day, and had about 90 embarrassing emails in my inbox. These will never stop. Think Lucy and the Chocolate factory. Word to the wise: do not use your work email account.

     I decided to open one such email. When I clicked on the message, and then had to actually log into the website to read it, I became seriously freaked out.

     What if the guy who wrote this email was wearing a chiffon moo-moo and standing in front of a mirror right now? What if he was saying, “It puts the lotion on the skin or it gets the hose again?”

     Oh yeah, I’ve seen “Silence of the Lambs,” and read the book, and hell no I am not going to rub the lotion on the skin. Delete. Delete.

     For now I will take my chances, the old-fashioned ways: going to a bar, getting drunk and passing out my phone number; being set up by friends; being seduced by the fireman who saved my cat from the sinister snow-covered elm. All the while I will do this waiting for the grand uni-sexed Deity of Dating to take pity on my soul.

     While I wait I will indulge in a rich fantasy life in which the operator for the phone company looks like “The Rock,” secretly has Donald Trump’s job and has a sexy bad boy Colin Farrell-esque side.

     “I need a new jack, can you come install it for me?” I’ll say. Colin Rock-Trump will answer: “Sure, I’ll be right over.”

Yours every other week, unless it starts feeling like a commitment,

Scarlette Quille

Single in Sandpoint: On settling

     I’ve had a boyfriend for about a year now. When I started writing this column two years ago, I was convinced I’d never find a remotely suitable date (let alone boyfriend) in this area. As a single person, your options are naturally limited by population; if you grew up in Sandpoint you either date people you went to high school with or transplants that have been suckered into moving here for work, snow, or peace and quiet. I’m not saying that Sandpoint is a horrible place to live, but if you’re single and between the ages of 20 and 45, it may take a lot longer than the national average to land a decent date.

     I mention the word decent because it’s pretty easy to find an inappropriate match, and “date” them because you’re sick of watching “Law and Order” with your cats on Friday night. Boredom is the Devil’s playground in the dating world. About a year ago, before I started dating the object of my affections, Board Shorts, my faithful readers may remember that I had a long distance relationship.

     Most people hate the long distance relationship. I do not. I can work with it, mostly because I really like being alone. In fact, I occasionally take a day off work to lie on my couch, eat salami and watch “The Today Show.” Try it yourself – it’s the poor man’s spa.    

     I admit it’s not a very attractive activity and if you reach relationship status you can kiss salami and Regis goodbye. This is due to the fact when you’re dating locally you must be prepared for the chance that he or she will drop in at any moment – just trying to catch you in your high school sweats with the tight ankles, lounging, with a sink full of dishes.

     I’m just throwing this out there, but don’t be too quick to curse your single status. It does come with perks.

     But I digress. The real theme of this article is about the phenomenon that commonly occurs when you have few options: otherwise known as settling. Take it from me; you don’t have to settle for a man in his ninth year of college, with hair prettier than yours, eager to bust out in a 15-minute speech about legalizing marijuana, unless you want to.

     I, for one, was embarrassingly desperate at that point (obviously). I am liberal, but by no means a “hippy.” In fact, I love shaving, bathing, eating processed food, drinking domestic beer and owning a vehicle. Why on earth would I choose someone whose values were clearly in direct opposition to my own?

     Fear. I was convinced that my perfect match didn’t exist; and, even if he did, there was no way in Hell I’d find him in Sandpoint. I would have to date a “fixer upper.” Not nearly as fun, or potentially lucrative, as remodeling a house.

     I was convinced that being single was an illness, and that dating freaks (harsh word, but true description) would alleviate the symptoms. Did it? Not even a little bit. Was my dating life in the big city soooo much more satisfying and plentiful?  No. I met and dated my fair share of freaks there as well.

     The difference between small and large city dating isn’t just a simple math equation; in fact, the freak-to-nice-guy-ratio is probably equal. The real difference is anonyminity. The best part of being single in the city is that you can go anywhere, and chances are no one will remember you.

     For example, let’s say you went out to a club or bar in Seattle. Maybe you drank too much (or maybe it was just enough, depending how you look at it). Regardless, you had just the right combination of liquor and anonyminity to make some bad decisions. Maybe you made out with a random stranger, or a security guard, and you woke up the next day, laughed at your adventure, sighed and smiled to yourself “I guess I’ll never go there again.”

     The only people who will know about your little indiscretion are those you tell. Those who were eyewitnesses didn’t know your name, so no harm no foul.

     Now let’s talk about the same scenario in Sandpoint. For this type of occurrence to happen you will be in one of three places: The 219, Synergy or A&P’s. The same people who were at these places for the last 10 or so weekends will still be there; the only difference will be a smattering of tourists or visiting family members. 

     You will decide to drink hard alcohol – because you’re convinced that it’s the beer, not the trips to The Point that are making you fat. Pretty quick your liquid courage is at an all time high and you decide that life’s to short, walk up to a familiar face (you’ve seen this person before, you just don’t know where), take the chance and engage in a little tonsil hockey. Maybe some dirty dancing.

     The next day will haunt you for months. If your parents are local they’ll be calling you around 8 a.m., to ask about your new-found love. Your “friends” have all been in similar situations and will offer you absolutely no pity. They’re the ones who called your parents.

     You know you won’t be able to go out again for at least six months for fear of seeing that person again. Only time will erase the memories.

     Finally it will be Monday morning. When you get to work everyone will be smiling at you, and you won’t have to ask where he or she heard it, because every single person that you work with saw what you did, arrived at work promptly and gladly filled their married co-workers in on your adventure.

     Married people live for this gossip, it all sounds so exciting (after all, they spent the weekend elbow-deep in baby excrement or fixing the roof).

     Embarrassed and discouraged you will decide to go to The Home Depot to pick up a few home improvement items. Since your weekends will be free for the next few weeks, you might as well make them productive. 

     At this point you will be seriously considering finding out who your tongue-dance partner was. Maybe if you start dating them for real your reputation will be repaired. You might be able to have a social life.

     It is at this point when the Seeds of Settling are being sprinkled into your vulnerable mind. You come to this realization in the lumber aisle. You ring the bell for service and who do you see? It’s a familiar face. The face of your Saturday night revelry. The reason he looked familiar was because he works at Home Depot. Damn you, small town. Damn you, Dating Gods. Now you can never go to Home Depot ever again.

     True story. I swear.

     So there you go: In a small town, one slight dating indiscretion can be social suicide. But you can relax single people; there are opportunities everywhere if you’re willing to take a chance. Your very best, most fantastically perfect match might be right under your nose at this moment. Maybe it’s your neighbor or coworker. Or maybe he or she works at Home Depot. You have to be open to the possibility.

     You have to paint a hundred works before you’re considered a master; dating can be the same way. The patient and studied will prevail. That and a little bit of good karma can go along way. So don’t be an ass to those you leave along the trail to finding your one and only.

     There is hope. I swear. Just think of how much you’ll appreciate it when it does happen. It’s like rain in the desert. Trust me, I know.

     There’ll be all kinds of new faces around this holiday season, if you’re going to stand a chance against the rest of the locals you better get your game face on.

I love you and I mean it,

Scarlette Quille