SIS | Conquering Whitesnake, Grey Goose and The Bull: Scarlette returns
Wednesday, February 9, 2011 My “Layoff List.” Do any of you remember it? It was a list of things, much like a bucket list, that I wanted to do while laid off. I started it two years ago [SPR 08/13/09] with lofty expectations, completed five out of 10 items, got pregnant and the list went on hold, much like the ability to wear my pants and say no to donuts.
Any-babies-make-you-fat-and-neurotic-way, I still have five list items to complete and a problem. Boy, oh boy, do I have a problem. January rolled around this year and I realized that I’m broke. Just flat out, plain and simple broke.
The kind of broke where you only pay your bills when the pink envelope comes and you live in constant fear of the student loan head hunters. Pay your student loan late just once and they will call you every day three times a day until you have to put your phone on vibrate and hide it because the mere sound of an incoming call fills you with so much anxiety and guilt that you sprout three zits and slap your husband simultaneously.
I am a creature of comfort; I like nice shoes and expensive booze. I enjoy being a photographer; but, unfortunately, being a photographer in Sandpoint, Idaho means that you will have a "slow" period every winter. Couple this with the shitstorm of an economy and our small population and, well, I'm sure you see where this is going.
I needed to get a job.
And my job requirements were pretty simple: I would need to become employed somewhere where I didn't have to sit in a cubicle all day and I would never have to utter the words, "Would you like a baked potato, fries or a house salad with that?"
It seemed as impossible as checking off the last five items on my Layoff List: ride a mechanical bull, be a groupie, get another tattoo, take over a dive bar and participate in open mike night.
Who the hell wrote that list? I’d like to find her and kick her ass.
Nonetheless, I started the job hunt and decided to knock something off my list that very week: The Mechanical Bull.
I've been stalking that albatross in The Dive for months now. My initial plan was that I was going to have a baby, recover for a few months, fit into my normal clothes again and then saunter into The Dive, cue the DJ and ride that bull into the pages of history.
Three months post-baby and I still couldn't button my pants, but I needed to make a comeback. I can't just stay on the sidelines, depending on my distant memories of past fun to keep me warm.
Sure I’m a little out of shape and my wardrobe consists of fat pants and "forgiving" sweaters, but I still deserve to have a good time, right? Soon, I would find a job and then my fun times would have to be scheduled.
Then the perfect opportunity came: I was invited to an ’80s party. There was no way in hell that I was going to dress up – as a general rule I don't dress up when over my ideal weight. Call me vain, call me sane, whatever I have set these boundaries for myself, and in the age of digital media one can never be too careful. My plan was to get drunk at the party then head on over to the bull and meet my destiny.
Um, yeah.
Let’s discuss what really happened. I left the kids with my husband then ate a huge guilt sandwich and washed it down with a cup-full of feelings of inadequacy. I met up with my friends and proceeded to wash the pain away with glass after glass of Grey Goose.
When my speech and judgment showed marked signs of impairment, I attacked the dance floor. My moves were so dangerous that people had to give me a 4-foot radius in order to avoid injury.
After working up a sweat, cussing out the DJ and doing a couple of chair dances, I became unbearably hot. Apparently I walked over to a table, grabbed someone's full beer and dumped it on my head while dancing to Whitesnake's "Here I Go Again."
(Fun Fact: That song was not playing. I just wanted to head bang with long, wet, stringy hair, "like Whitesnake.")
It was at this point that I walked over to my cousin and informed her that it was time for me to go. She agreed. What she didn't know was that I was ready to leave the party but had no intention on going home – or to Betty Ford. I was ready to ride the bull.
I walked into the beast's lair. There were maybe six people there. Not much of an audience, but I had worked up the nerve and wasn't going to back out now. I pulled off my boots, climbed into the puffy orange ring and patted the big fellow. He reeked of peanuts and broken dreams. I tried to mount the beast but the first few times I just fell off. BEFORE IT EVEN STARTED.
Luckily, there was no one else in line, so the bull operator allowed me several tries. On about the sixth mount, I rode the bull for about four seconds.
Oh but it was an exhilarating four seconds. With Def Leppard playing in the background, and in my haze, I realized that I had finally conquered the bull.
If a pudgy girl in her mid-30s could re-create a Whitesnake video and ride a feral bar beast in one night, there was no limit to her potential.
I walked into a job interview three days later and walked out with a job.
Booyah, bitches.
As for the last four items on my list, don't worry, I’ll get to them. Remember, I'm the married person who writes about being single. I don't give a bull's horn about having a job and completing a layoff list. It's not where you start, right? It's how you finish.
Still finding random peanut shells all over my house,
Scarlette Quille
Reader Comments (3)
Glad you're having fun up there, don't stay away too much longer, come see us!
An aim in life is the only fortune worth finding.