Single in Sandpoint: Springtime for Scarlette, in Sandpoint

     It felt like a Disney movie when I woke up this morning – the birds were singing, the sun was shining, my animals were helping me get dressed. It’s early March and there isn't a spot of snow in sight… in North Idaho. What's up with that? I keep waiting for the part where the evil villainess (Winteressa, we’ll call her) tears through the city and delays summer for five months with that five or so feet of snow we’ve been missing all winter. 

     Sure there’s been some rain and some cold mornings, but we’ve been blissfully snow-free for months now, and I for one LOVE it. All is right in the world when spring is in the air, “American Idol” is on TV and the cold, cruel hand of Winteressa lays heavily on places in the east. Seriously, whoever is responsible for this, THANK YOU.

     Maybe we deserved a light winter. I mean, I did have to have a TRACTOR dig me out of my snow-buried house a year ago. I also spent some quality time in a snowy ditch with a car full of kids after being cut off on the highway by some idiot hell-bent on being first in line at McDonalds. Oh, and then there was the whole thousands-of-people-getting-laid-off thing.

     Last winter sucked. 

     Which brings me to my point: I've been officially laid off for a year now, and over that time one of my goals has been to find a job that I love. I've struggled with whether or not I’ve successfully completed this task. You see, back before I was a run-of-the-mill corporate whore I graduated with a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree, emphasis in Photography. (And no, I did not take underwater basket weaving, and YES it is a REAL DEGREE.) 

     I've successfully worked as a photographer off and on through the years, mostly as a side job. It has taught me that there is a reason for the term "starving artist."  Nonetheless, when I was laid off I decided to seize the once-in-a-lifetime chance to do photography "full time.”

     I have a pretty broad portfolio; in the last few years I've taken pictures of everything from a 300 pound women's "tush" (apparently her husband is a big fan), to a wedding fit for a princess. Taking pictures of the happy parts in people's lives is beyond fun. To call it a “job” is almost insulting. 

     Therein lays the problem: Sometimes I feel like I'm having SO MUCH FUN that it can't really be a job. Other times, mainly in the winter months, I'm slow. Being a corporate cog for so many years has made it virtually impossible to embrace these slow times. Instead of training for a marathon, or perfecting my Bloody Mary recipe, I worry. I go so crazy worrying that I become a psychotic, cursing myself for doing something so stupid as marrying for love and  following my dreams of running a successful photography business.

     I could have been a kept woman, right? I could have met me a sugar daddy, QUIT my job and spent my winters lying on a beach sipping drinks and honing skills that would eventually transform me into a powerful and successful cougar. My only expectations in life would be to look good and spend money doing it. Photography would just be a pastime. 

     But what if I would have done that and found it wasn't that great? That would be worse. Who wants to find out that their fantasy life was a big bowl of suck soup?! 

     What would I fantasize about when I was trying to think of ways to pass the winter months? Without my cougar-in-training fantasy I'd end up bald and working in a call center – my two worst nightmares.

     Worry. You see? It's what I do.

     Here's the catch though: today the birds are singing, the sun is shining, Winteressa is otherwise engaged, I have a really hot husband who loves to cook breakfast and, later on today, I GET TO BE A PHOTOGRAPHER. That life sounds like a fantasy too, only it’s real. It's mine. Go figure. 

     So there you have it folks, I have a job I love and just think – like Dorothy, in “The Wizard of Oz” – it was there all along.

Happy Spring,

Scarlette Quille

     With all this Canadophila going around, I just feel like it's necessary to say that I've been going to Canada since before it was in style. I started going in high school, using my cousin’s ID to cross the border, and took advantage of the younger drinking age.

     It was a different time then. All you needed was a driver’s license to get across, and (for some reason) the border patrol’s suspicions weren’t aroused by a carload of teenage girls on an international trip to “visit friends.” Yes, it was a simpler time, even.

     So as a public service to any hopeful high schoolers today I will say in all caps: THAT IS NOT THE CASE NOW. In no way at all is it the same.

    They have really upped their game at the border, and you need to brush up before you try to cross. Maybe you should watch a little “SVU” or “Judge Judy.” Get yourself in the authoritarian mind-set. Whatever you do, do not go up there thinking it’s going to be a breeze! OK?

     Public service aside, I’ll tell you that about a month ago my family and I decided it would be fun to go up to Canada, pretty much just to use our passports. The plan was to drive up through Bonners Ferry, cross the border in Creston, then drive to Kootenay Bay for the FREE ferry ride back to the border in Washington. The trip takes between four and five hours, typically. Perfect for that Saturday when you have no plans and a desire to flee the country.

     My story starts when we pull up to the Canadian border guards and were met by a tall dark hunk.

     I'm serious as a heart attack: He looked EXACTLY like a guy on a soap opera that I used to watch. I will call him Matteo.

     Matteo proceeded to ask us all the normal questions: where we were headed to, could he see our passports, did we have any fruit or vegetables, etc. Then things got a little weird. He asked us if we were going to an Olympic event.

     We were, like, “Um, no the Olympics doesn't start for a few weeks, right?”

     He stared back at us with disdain. Weird.

     Matteo then directed us to pull our car ahead and wait for him. Apparently he didn't approve of the situation. Terrorists and kidnappers usually drive right up to border patrol with three children holding valid passports in plain sight. Right?

     After about 15 minutes Matteo sauntered up to the truck and asked me to get out. He then took me into the Canadian Border Patrol office for questioning. He asked if my kids were safe with my husband. I was a little confused by the question, since they’re probably safer with him behind the wheel than either of their biological parents.

    I played along: "Yes, sir he is their stepfather, my husband.”

     Matteo then asked if I had my children's biological father's phone number. I gave it to him. His follow up question kind of floored me.

     "Why don't you have a signed note giving you permission to take your children to Canada?" he asked.

     I told him I was sure their biological father didn't care if they went up to Canada for the day, and I didn't know that I needed a note. He walked me back to the truck and asked my eldest daughter to get out of the car. It was her turn to sweat it out back at the station.

     Matteo interrogated my daughter for about 5 minutes, making sure to ask important questions like: "Do you like traveling with these people?" (A question many parents may not want to hear answered by their children. Especially in the midst of an international incident.)

     When he was done it was time to call the Ex. Matteo dialed his number and – Of COURSE – the Ex didn't answer.

     Matteo gazed at penetratingly at me with his deep, brown, brooding eyes and the theme music from "All My Children" started playing in the background.

     "I'm sorry ma'am but he didn't answer."

      (Cue the ominous drums!)

     I was sure we were all going to international prison (wherever that is) for attempted child trafficking. Damn us and our stupid plans to expose the kids to Canada. Clearly this border hunk was the evil kind, and now he would probably throw my children in an orphanage and I would never see them again.

     I pictured myself in a Canadian asylum, screaming and cutting my own hair with a plastic knife.

     At that point I briefly considered telling Matteo that my husband forced me to cross the border, “Please call the Mounties!”  At least then the children would be safe, right?

     That’s when my sharp little 10-year-old daughter saved the day. That’s when she piped up: "My Dad probably isn't answering because he doesn't know if you are a bill collector."

     Out of the mouths of babes, so says the Bible.

     Perhaps Matteo had a father who didn't like to pay bills, or maybe he just realized that there can be more than one last name in a family. Whatever the case, he had a change of heart and let us continue our journey into Canada.

     (Cue the violins!)

     Still, despite escaping incarceration at Guantanamo, or wherever, the mood was kind of somber. My kids didn't appreciate the shake down and my husband had developed a complex. “Do I look like a wife-beater or a kidnapper?” he kept asking me.

     We pulled into the town of Creston and things continued to be strange. There were hundreds of people lining up and down the streets of the town (which is smaller than Sandpoint) and there was a huge parade going on. Why?

     According to my understanding, Canadians have the same basic holiday schedule as we do (plus Boxing Day, minus Fourth of July).

     We parked the car to get lunch and enjoy the parade, when there it was: The Olympic Freakin’ Torch. Apparently we had accidentally entered Canada on the same day as the torch parade – at the exact moment it was passing through the tiny, remote, Kokanee-brewing town of Creston.

     Matteo's question about "Olympic activities" made a lot more sense.

     The kid's impression of Canada was starting to improve, and let’s face it, seeing the torch is pretty cool.

     I was starting to feel like maybe we’d make it out of the country and live to tell the tale. We decided to take the kids to Dairy Queen, because let’s face it, there’s nothing more fun than discovering the menu differences at fast food restaurants in foreign countries.

     That’s when I learned about "poutine," pronounced "poo-tin.” Poutine is not only the most hilariously named menu item I’ve ever come across, it’s also probably one of the sickest.

     Poutine originated in Quebec and is now a Canadian dinner staple. The dish features French fries covered in "cheese curd" and smothered in brown gravy. I was told that SEVERAL fast food chains in Canada feature poutine.

     So folks there you have it. If someone tells you they’re going up to Canada to get a little poutine, you don't have to slap their filthy mouths.

     The rest of the trip was just scenic, beautiful and without threat of incarceration. In other words: You wouldn't want to hear about it.

     This is just my way of letting you know that if you’re going to take a little trip to Canada, make sure you have your story straight – and say "hi" to Matteo for me. If things get a little sticky, offer him some poutine.

Once again dodging the asylum,

Scarlette Quille