I started having a pre-midlife crisis about two months ago. I'm calling it "pre" midlife because I'm pretty sure 34 isn't middle aged.

     I'm not sure how common these occurrences are. All I know is that about a month ago I looked into the mirror and didn't recognize the person looking back at me. She was tired, miserable, deflated and – perhaps most disturbing – defeated.

     I had stopped doing the things that I enjoy and life had become a series of disappointments. I couldn't seem to lose that last 20 pounds of "baby" weight even though the "baby” is now 10 months old. I hadn't gone to an exercise class, vacation, concert or anything else remotely inspirational in over two years. I was avoiding social situations and eating cinnamon gummy bears by the pound. 

     I was pathetic. I needed my ass kicked. Hard.

     I've had moments in life like this before, I know how hard it is to recognize when you've become a run-of-the-mill loser and how much harder it is to do something about it.

     At my core I’m a doer – a mover, a shaker, a social creature. The problem with pretending that you are something you’re not is that eventually the real you shows up. In my case she shows up with a bottle of Grey Goose and a plan.

     The Plan is ever-evolving, but it started with a few key ingredients – the first being a really LONG swim, the second being Motley Crue and the third being a vacation.

     Time to get your big girl panties on, Scarlette, time to evict that freak in the mirror.

Baby steps, first we need to remember what it feels like to accomplish something...

     For those of you in the know, there is a very large outdoor swim in Sandpoint the first weekend of August. It’s called the Long Bridge Swim, it’s 1.76 miles long and in the fresh water of Lake Pend Oreille.

     I’d been thinking about doing this swim for years, though I’d never participated as a swimmer and always regretted this fact.

     No more regrets. I needed to accomplish something. Never mind that I had only done cardio four times since January, I hadn't swum more than 500 yards in 10 years and I didn't own a wetsuit or functioning abs.

     None of this really mattered. What mattered was that I got into the water and made it to the other side. I was on a mission.

     I tried not to let all the perfectly sculpted tri-athletes scare me. Maybe the normal thing to do would be to join a race to win or beat your personal best; my motivation for entering this race was purely to finish. And I did.

     Was it hard? Yes. Did I come in last? No. 

     I felt a strange sensation when I crossed the finish line – a tiny little bit of confidence started pumping through my veins. Part of me wanted to cry, part of me wanted a Bloody Mary.

Then enlist the help of a friend...

     My mother had sensed that something was wrong a few weeks before all of this. Mothers always know when one of their cubs is in distress (even if that cub is 34 and prefers mixed drinks to warm milk).

     She bought tickets to the Motley Crue and Poison concert in Boise, then she called to inform me that I either take the weekend of the concert off or call in sick to work. The choice was mine. Following that, she subtly suggested that maybe I take a few extra days off and make it a vacation.

     This created a vortex of stress for me. First of all, I lived in Boise for 11 years and hadn't been back to see all of my friends there in almost three years. I’ll admit it: I’d been avoiding them. There was always an excuse to not go visit, namely: I was fatter and possibly less interesting then the last time I had visited.

     I loved the idea of the concert but was paralyzed by fear. What would I wear? What would all my old friends think of me? Would they think, "DAMN SCARLETTE, you really need to get a grip?" Worse yet, would they pity me?

     In fact, the first couple days of my vacation I didn't even venture into the public. I was afraid to face my old friends; perhaps the truth was that I was afraid to let myself have fun. Who the hell was this girl?

Give in, relax, carpe diem...

     About 36 hours into the vacation I cracked. I decided that it was time to get on with my life. A few extra pounds and a tough couple of years don't make a person Quasimodo, right?

     I went to the mall – a real mall – and bought myself a couple of outfits. I got a spray tan and an eyebrow wax and topped it off with a pair of high heels. If I was going to go, I should go big, right?

     I went out with my old friends that very night. We celebrated one of our entourage's new pair of boobs, danced to old school hip-hop and drank an obscene amount of liquor. I saw people that I hadn't seen in years. I saw friends that I didn't even know I missed. It felt a lot like dying and waking up in heaven. I laughed so much. I stayed up so late...

Don't forget the power of Rock ‘n’ Roll...

     The next night I would attend a heavy metal concert with my mother and sister.

     My mother took me to my first concert in 1987. It was Poison and David Lee Roth. She has brought me too many rock concerts since that day way back in the sixth grade, but like so many events in life you always remember the first.

     We were attending this concert out of a mixture of love for the music and nostalgia. And let me tell you folks, if you want to attend a concert of a band that was popular when you were an adolescent, you need to be able to suspend reality.

     The audience must pretend that the aging rockers are still the virile spandex-clad hair band of the ’80s; and, in turn, the band pretends that its fans are still the wide eyed nymphs willing to do ANYTHING for a back stage pass.

     This suspension of reality really works. The smoke, the lights and the deafening music create some sort of time machine.

     I might have been at that concert for four hours, or maybe it was four days. All I know is that I was hit on by men and women of all shapes and sizes, I discovered a place called the "tequila" line, I hung out in the smoking section with some groupies who were at least 40 and, for more than three hours, I was a teenager again – blissfully singing along with the songs that shaped my youth.

     “Every Rose Has Its Thorn” blared out into the crowd and I felt a twinge as I remembered being 14 and dumped. “Girls, Girls, Girls” rolled over the arena and I was 16, drunk on Boone's Farm and head-banging at a school dance.

     I can't say what part of the concert was my favorite because it was all good – even the part where I walked out of the bathroom, hit a wet spot on the floor and ate shit in front of a man wearing a full spandex zebra suit.

     The only disappointment I had was a "small" one. I had been dying to see Tommy Lee play live for several years. There is so much legend surrounding him and a certain body part. Every time I mentioned to someone that I was going to see Motley Crue in concert I would be informed that Tommy can play the drum with his (fill in the blank). So you can image my anticipation on that very night.

     I was planning to report exactly what I saw. I waited and waited. Nothing. Apparently when he plays with that certain body part the divorce rate goes up in whatever town he's playing. So I guess he omitted that part of the show for our benefit. Time will help me get over it I'm sure.

Learn something…

     The next day I drove eight hours back home and to reality. I'm still actively working on The Plan. I'm hoping that I can take some of the things I learned on vacation and apply them to my daily life. I'm hoping that the person in the mirror continues to look more and more like the person I am and less like the depressed freak in ill-fitting sweat pants. I think I'm off to a good start.

     In six weeks I turn 3-5. Wish me luck.

XOXO

Scarlette Quille

     Amen. Hallejulah. We finally have summer here in the big city. But with summer comes the heat, and where there is heat there is burn.

     The following is a true story, and before you read this I want you to know that I am completely bypassing any savings for my children's college tuition. Instead I am saving for the therapy that they are going to need as a result of having me for a mother.

     This story starts as so many others: I make an ill advised attempt at being domestic and it ends with the pain and suffering of innocents. 

     We received a care package in the mail a few weeks ago. It was full of avocados. We had so many avocados we just couldn't keep up with them. They have a short life, so I decided to do the right thing with them before they went bad and made guacamole. 

     This was a perfect idea because we had a party to go to that evening and, seriously, who doesn't like fresh guacamole?

     I was full of myself. I had visions of making the best guacamole ever and even using one of our nice bowls; you know, the ones that are still in the box from our wedding. I would show off further by wearing an impressive outfit and all the other ladies at the party would think, "Wow, she's really got it together," rather than, "Oh great, Scarlette brought a bottle of vodka and Ritz crackers again.”

     I'm going to say it right now for the record: I wasn't myself that day. I was aiming too high, looking for love in all the wrong places...

     I added an extra helping of delusion when I thought it would be "fun" for my 9-year-old daughter to help me with my voyage into homemade guacamole making. We looked up the recipe together on the Internet and she wrote down all of the ingredients. It was like something out of a Hallmark commercial. Here I was becoming a good cook and a perfect mother all in one day. I was so full of myself.

     So we took our list of ingredients to the store, and this was where things started to go awry.

     First, the recipe calls for serrano peppers, and here I am looking at this bin full of tiny orange peppers. Something in my mind is telling me that these are those really F-ing hot peppers that people talk about. Hmmm... I always thought serrano peppers where green.

     My daughter is grabbing the mini orange peppers and filling a bag with them. I tried to tell her that I think those peppers are in the wrong spot. My 9-year-old looks at me and says, "Mom, stores don't make mistakes. You do."

     She has exposed my weakness; honestly, what do I really know about peppers, or guacamole for that matter? NOTHING.

     Stick to the recipe. Trust the process. OK.

     We get back home and start chopping up the ingredients. My 8-month-old is crawling around on the floor, dressed only in a diaper, looking for things to get into. He requires constant supervision nowadays because he’ll eat a penny and wash it down with the dog’s water any chance he can get. 

     I’m elbow-deep in over-ripe avocados when my daughter pulls out the orange peppers and asks, "Can I please cut these, Mommy?"

     I was, like, “Sure, but be careful, I'm pretty sure those peppers are REALLY hot."

     In my mind I was wondering if it was a good idea to let her cut the peppers, but I thought to myself, “What can really happen? I'm right here.”

     She’s cutting those peppers like a chef. No really, she watches about 20 hours of the Food Network a week and she is obsessed. My mini-chef tolerates me in her kitchen, but at the end of the day we both know who the better cook is. Maybe that’s why I trusted her on the pepper thing. A mixture of awe and my own insecurity provided the ingredients for the perfect storm that day.

     So I’m finishing up the recipe and adding all the ingredients in the "special bowl." My hands are covered in guacamole and the chef is watching me, judging my technique.

     We both notice that the baby is absurdly quiet.

     That’s when it hits me.

     I smell something foul. It is overpowering the smell of freshly chopped cilantro and permeating the air with a noxious cloud of methane that is so volatile that it makes you want to run but you have to puke first.

     The baby is sitting on the floor bouncing up and down and smiling. Mustard colored cream is oozing out of both sides of his diaper and has splattered all over his bare back.

     I lock eyes with the mini-chef and her face is a mixture of fear and anxiety.

     "I can change him, Mom, please I know how," she says.

     I am once again in awe of her bravery and skill.

     She picks up the baby and carries him to his "changing station" and things are quiet for a bit. I wash my hands, grab some disinfectant and start to clean up the carpet. All of a sudden I hear a wail followed by deafening crying that pierces my soul.

     "MOM he's turning all red,” my daughter yells. “Something’s wrong with him!"

     I run into the room. The baby is wearing a new diaper but now he’s covered in red blotches – shaped like perfect hand prints.

     What the…?

     He’s crying so hard he can barely breathe. Then the montage runs through my mind: the peppers, the mini-chef, the bare skin, the hot oil in peppers...

     OH NO.

     I pull off his diaper to reveal the angriest, reddest set of twig and berries you've ever seen.

     The screaming is at a fever pitch. It has caught the attention of my 12-year-old daughter and she saunters into the room while lazily tapping off a text message.

     "What's wrong with him," she asks. Than she sees "it" and panics.

     Then I scream: “I'm going to put him into a cold shower; you look on the Internet for ways to stop serrano pepper burn.”

     The mini-chef has started to cry. She wipes her eyes and then sticks her hand in her mouth.

     MINI-CHEF, NO!

     “Stop touching things, you have pepper oil all over your hands,” I shriek.

     It was too late. She was now on fire as well and, expert that she is, starts drinking milk right out of the jug.

     So at this point I'm standing in my shower holding a naked, red, screaming baby and I’m wearing nothing but a pair of shorts. Mini-chef is on the other side of the door crying and asking, "Will he ever forgive me?" in between gulps of milk. I'm thinking that I'm going to have to drive to the hospital.

     The 12-year-old sashays her way back into the room. She passes on the information that water makes the burn worse as it spreads the oil. Lemon juice neutralizes the oil and a milk compress can provide comfort.

     Awesome.

     I pass her the baby and run into the kitchen topless. The smell of shit and guacamole almost floors me. I cut three lemons in half. I throw one to the mini-chef, pick up the baby and rub his entire body with a lemon half. I place another half on his "parts" and within 10 seconds he’s smiling. Still, I continue the lemon bath and fashion a little baby jock strap – complete with lemon "cup" – out of a dish towel.

     After about 10 minutes the redness has subsided and it appears that the baby has forgiven the mini-chef.

     But will either one forgive me?  Better yet, do I still serve the guacamole?

     I am later informed by my husband that those were Habanera peppers.

     Shit.

     Like I said, saving for therapy makes a lot more sense.

Keep it hot – but not too hot – this summer,

Scarlette Quille

     Do I have to mention fall? Fine. Fall is like the high school friend your mom always wanted you to marry but you couldn't bring yourself to date because there was no chemistry.

     And yes, my relationship with the weather is highly dysfunctional. 

     In other regions the passing of seasons is closely tied to calendar months and there is a bit of predictability involved. You know that if you’re going to go to Las Vegas in May to lay out by the pool you’ll be able to fry like a piece of delicious bacon in the sun's mighty rays.

     If you try the same thing in Sandpoint you just have to take your chances; you might get a little bit of sun, or you might get snowed on.

     It's more accurate to gauge Sandpoint seasons by their events. If you want to know when spring starts just start looking around for people driving restored classic cars.

     Lost in the ’50s weekend is the only way to tell whether or not it’s actually spring. You can always wear shorts and a t-shirt to Lost in the ’50s, and regardless of the actual temperature others will be dressed the same.

     There are many reasons for this, but the main one is that Lost in the ’50s is a place where you will be drinking beer outdoors and activities like outdoor beer drinking go hand-in-had with summer attire. Look it up, it's like death and taxes.

     True story. Lost in the ’50s is off the hook.

     This year I was enjoying not being pregnant and the good weather during the parade by taking my kids on a stroll through town. I don't allow them to stay downtown later than 7:30 p.m., though. I find that all the people who started drinking at 5 p.m. are primed at that time and also related to us; I like to spare my children that kind of adult attention if you know what I'm saying.

     So therefore I’m the “mean mom” who sends her kids with a babysitter before the "street dance" even starts. I'm not going to apologize. I GAVE THEM LIFE.

     Anywhoo, we’re strolling around and we come up to a major intersection where we’re going to cross the street. There are about 25 people waiting at this intersection and it’s a bit crowded.

     This is where things get a little weird.

     The lady standing next to us is wearing a front-backpack with an infant tucked inside. In her hand is a lit cigarette. She proceeds to smoke it.

     Now I’m not the type to begrudge someone for smoking. I'm not going to preach to a smoker about their habit any more than I’m going to smack a cheeseburger out of a fatty's hands.

     We all choose our own vices, but really? Smoking? With an infant on your chest? 

     I mulled over my feelings: Disgust mixed with fascination over her complete lack of regard for one of society's most ingrained social standards.

     Smoking around infants and other people’s kids is generally frowned upon, right?

     Then she casually dropped her hand and swung that cigarette about three inches from my 9-year-old’s face and right into my 7-month-old son’s stroller. 

     GET YOUR CIGARETTE OUT OF MY SON'S FACE.

     I'm not going to lie to you and tell you I screamed those words, I more or less hissed them through clenched teeth.

     She sort of looked at me paralyzed, then my 9-year-old daughter yelled at the top of her lungs: "MOM, I'm trying so hard not to inhale."

     People all around started chuckling and the smoking mom looked stunned. I guess she didn't need to cross the street that badly because she turned on a dime and walked off.

     I don't know. The whole thing seemed a bit ridiculous. Was I being judgmental?

     I was wearing cargo pant Capris at the time, and this was an atypical outfit for me as I associate that type of pant with people who stock up on boneless chicken breasts and wine at Costco. I like Costco but I'm not really ready to cash in my chips and become a full-time member of that crowd.

     In fact, I've been a smoker before. I just always thought smoking was something you did in the smoking section, dive bar, college road trips or in an off-site shack next to your workplace. NEVER IN A KID INFESTED ZONE.

     Now I was irritated. That smoking mom made me act like an uptight uber-mom Capri cargo pants-wearing bitch – and I even had a tiny little henchwoman with me. One who was so thoroughly trained that she was holding her breath because she'd rather pass out than breathe second-hand smoke.

     Boy oh boy would I like to be a fly on the wall in her therapy sessions one day.

     I tried not to let the irritation ruin my night as I loaded my kids into their grandma's car. You see, I like to do my partying when my kids are at a secure smoke-free location. I don't think that makes me better than anyone else. At least I like to think I don't. Growing up is hard to do. Especially at my age.

     The moral of the story here is that the weather is getting warmer and there will be several more public events throughout the summer. We all need to co-exist in order to fully enjoy the season because, like I said earlier, summer is a real heart-breaker.

     She swoops in quickly, has her way with you and then disappears without so much as a goodbye.

     Prepare yourself for the season. Brazilians and spray tan optional!

Scarlette Quille

Single in Sandpoint:

     The new job is going great. In fact, most days I look forward to going to work. However, this job is not in a cubicle and I don't work with your run-of-the-mill office types. 

     My co-workers do not wear Dockers and nibble Lean Cuisines at lunch. My co-workers – on the whole – are far more likely to wear Carharts and discuss their latest interaction with a wild animal (an interaction that typically ends in death for the animal). 

     That's how they roll. And yes, I find it almost excruciating when no one wants to discuss the latest episode of “America's Next Top Model” and there’s no Starbucks within a 25-mile radius. 

     I work in a very rural area – 33 miles away from my front door. I'm not going to get all specific with the details because that's how people get fired. Suffice to say, we also have no cell phone service, which is unfortunate because my cell phone is actually critical to my functioning as a human being. 

     For eight hours a day I don't know what time it is. I send and receive no texts. I'm pretty sure there are thousands of people who need to, but can't, reach me and I can't take any pictures with my fantastic Droid camera. 

     I am cut off from cell world and that fact alone is single-handedly responsible for a new ulcer growing in my guts. Ugh. 

     Anyway, I’m not really a rural type. These new co-workers are not my people. I know this. They know this. They treat me as though I’m the "special" cousin visiting from some depraved place, and I view my interaction with them much like Jane Goodall and her silverbacks.
     I say silverback with the utmost respect; remember, Jane loved those apes. 

     I've had to do several strange and foreign activities at this job, like bottle feeding lambs, hiking, constant exposure to fresh air, playing capture the flag and interacting with chickens. I was cool with all of these things – seriously, I may not have liked some of them, but my desire to earn a paycheck makes it possible for me to at least fake it. 

     Like I said, the people I work with and for are actually a lot of fun. They find my general lack of skill in the outdoor arts comical and I don't mind being the object of amusement. 

     Lately, however, I’ve found myself assimilating into their culture. I bought a pair of trail shoes and began to appreciate walks in the forest. But just when I was considering purchasing an item from REI for the first time in my life, it happened.
     I was sitting in the "office" at my new place of employment. This office is typical in the fact that there is a desk, computer and telephone; however, it is shared by all employees. 

     I was furiously scribbling away at some mandatory paperwork when one of the female silverbacks entered the room. She is clearly the alpha female of the pride. She knows how to cook, hunt, hike, track animals, change oil and drives a giant pickup. I cannot compete with her on any of these levels, though I've been working on befriending her. Sadly, my lack of any practical skills or ability to cut an animal into pieces and then eat it makes me fairly unimpressive to her. 

The alpha female walked past me toward the water cooler, water bottle in hand. Without so much as a "what’s up" she sauntered over to get herself some water; and despite our close proximity, I took her lead and didn’t utter a word. 

     She bent over to catch the stream, and then an ungodly sound ripped through the air: "RRRRRRRREEEEEEETTTTTTTPPPPTTT!!!!!"

     It was a deafening, thunderous clap so loud and earsplitting I couldn't possibly have controlled my instinctual reflex to turn toward the sound. I was looking the alpha female straight in the eye, head tilted slightly. I now know how a deer feels in the instant that it’s looking down the barrel of a hunter's rifle. 

     I couldn't immediately place the somewhat familiar sound, and then while locked eye-to-eye with her I realized that she had cut ass. 

     Right there, in the office. In front of me. In public. 

     I had witnessed a work-place farting incident of fairly epic proportions.
     It was one of those moments that will forever stand still in time or space for me; a moment when I had to make a choice about who I am and where I stand. 

     Having never been in that situation before, I didn't know how to react. The alpha female looked up from her water bottle, waved her hand back and forth in front of the offending orifice and then stated: "Now that's old school." 

     She then turned for the door. 

     Oh, hell no. This lady was going to trap me in a small space with a fart that broke the sound barrier and then walk out to leave me trapped in a cloud of confusion and methane. 

     No. I'm not a public farter and there is no way I was going to stay in that office and wait for the next silverback to walk in and ASSUME that it was ME WHO FARTED IN THE OFFICE. 

     I already have enough strikes against me at this job; I'm not going to be known as the chick who craps herself while doing paperwork. 

     I jumped up from that chair like there was a one-hour shoe sale at Nordstrom’s and ran to the door. Once I hit the door I booked it out of there, refusing to make eye contact with anyone or anything.
     What the hell had just happened?
     I like to consider myself a modern woman. I do. If I had to describe myself to someone I’d use words like "liberal" or "free spirit.” I know that a lot of people think farts are funny, and I’ve laughed at a fart or two in my time, but damn. I’ve never even considered farting un-provoked in the presence of a stranger – let alone a co-worker. 

     In fact, the only time I ever fart in the presence of another human being is out of self-defense against a family member or on accident. Case closed.
     I was pacing briskly up and down the halls of our workplace, trying my hardest not to burst out in a mixture of laughter, horror and perhaps something like admiration. 

     What did this mean? Was it an act of disrespect? Was it her way of saying, "Hey, you’re good people. I’m so comfortable in your presence I think I'll just pass some gas?"  

     Or was it merely an accident and the "old school" comment just a clever way of hiding her inner pain? 

     Even more concerning: Do they all fart around each other? Can I expect several more awkward moments and crop dustings in the future?
     I've been contemplating this last question for over a week. I may never have the answers, but I do have a deeper empathy for Jane Goodall now. No matter how much I admire the ways of the silverbacks, I can never truly be one of them. In order to fully embrace that culture I would have to give up my specific social boundaries. 

     I’m not a hunter or gatherer, I’m a shopper. I leave the farting to the lesser species like... men. 

     Nonetheless, I’ll have to work harder at getting them to accept me for who I am. Maybe I can teach them a thing or two about tweezers and the difference between Britney Spears and Jessica Simpson? Maybe.

Committed to keeping my gas leaks private,

Scarlette Quille

     We have just three more months as Mother Nature endures an exorcism, wherein she alternately vomits out snow and rain until the winter demon has been cast from her system. Three more months of soggy weather. I think I can handle it. Maybe. 

     This is the reason God invented spring break. Never ending soggy boots, ruined carpet and pastey skin will send your average person off the deep end. Ask the person who lives in North Idaho how fun winter is after about four months? That person will punch you in the face unless they have skis on.

     True fact.

     I am not going on vacation this year. I have a new job and a baby. It’s not in the cards for me. I've decided that I’m no longer going to complain and curse the heavens for this misfortune publicly. This takes a lot of self control. 

     I was discussing my lack-of-vacation-blues with a person whose name, occupation and any other indentifying qualities will remain anonymous. Unlike myself, she enjoys shoveling snow and being soggy, in fact she stated: "I don't go on vacation, I’m happy just where I am."

     Congratulations.

     There is something to be said for people who are happy "just where they are.” I wish I knew what that something was; I’m trying to figure out how one can live their entire life never tasting a margarita on the beach in Mexico.

     Let me tell you right now, it tastes like you’re sitting in the lap of an angel while she softly combs your hair and magically pays all of your bills. It's that good. 

     This contented person actually suggested that I take a "STAYCATION." Yes it's official, I now hate her.

     In case you don't know what a "staycation" is, it’s when you "stay" home and do "fun" things instead of spending money/time going somewhere else.

     My desire to put her in a potato sack with rabid raccoons after she suggested this scenario is the reason I will not discuss my no-vacation-blues with others. 

     Staycation. It is officially the dumbest name I have ever heard, in strong running for the dumbest idea ever.

     Doing fun things at home. Please. Who makes my bed and puts mints on the pillow? Who mixes my drinks? Who watches in a combination of horror and jealousy when I break out my dance moves?

     A real vacation involves a bit of debauchery mixed with equal parts over-indulgenge and sunshine. Anything that involves responsibility or "mixing your own cocktails" doesn't count. That's why the best vacations are taken without kids, pets and husbands.   

     Yeah, I said it. I'm not afraid.

     Why do you think all those college kids on spring break are having the time of their lives. Yes, part of it is that there are lots of perky boobs bouncing around and that makes everyone feel good – whether you’re the owner or the admirer.

     The other part is that they don't have anything to be responsible for during their vacation, only whether or not they have fun.

     As adults we need a little bit of that in our lives now and again. We need to capture the "spirit" of spring break without the STDs and illicit drugs. It keeps us whole.

Capturing that youthful abandon and spirit gets harder as we age.

     Family vacations are fine but they’re usually spent taking the kids to "see and do things.” I’m the waitstaff during these little excursions, and quite frankly I don't find these kinds of places relaxing. I’m not exaggerating, ask my children if their mom has any phobias and they’ll answer: "Yes. Birds and Chuck-E-Cheese."

     I take them on these trips out of obligation. Children should be taught the art of traveling at a young age; that way they don't grow up to be the ass on the plane who won't stop telling you about their venture capital business or Aunt Marie with gout. These trips are for the children but they are no walk in the tall grass for parents.

     Vacationing with kids requires extreme vigilance. Kids get stolen while on vacation, and they ocasionally get burned by the hotel’s complimentary waffle iron.

     It's not relaxing.

     That is why when you were a child your parents took you on "vacations" to grandma's house or Aunt Linda's. They took you to a place where someone would babysit you for free while they went out and got drunk. They eased their guilt during the day by taking you to the beach or whatever other geographical gem happened to be near the relative's house.

     Parents take the real vacations when all the kids move out. Circle of life folks, circle of  life.

     As for vacationing with a spouse, it can be a lot of fun if it's your honeymoon or you bring another couple. You take a chance when you vacation with just one person. You may have different agendas in mind and one of you will always have to compromise. The only exception to this rule is your honeymoon, where sex is really the only item on the menu and you both agree on it.

     In a typical husband/wife vacation the following scenario always arises: you really don't want to go deep sea fishing but you agree to go, the trip lasts three hours longer  than it should and then oops... too bad, there’s NO TIME FOR YOU TO GO TO TIFFANY'S.

     See what I'm saying? If you had another couple with you, your husband would have another man to impress and you could go spend all the money you want...

     So good luck to all of you who are going on vacations this spring, I envy you. Please bring back sunshine and liquor for the rest of us – especially your co-workers who have had to listen to you endlessly talk about this vacation for the last six months. We know you’ll be talking about it and posting pictures on Facebook for the next six weeks, so at least get us in the mood.

Just a little vacation advice from someone who isn't going on one,

Scarlette Quille

     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

get this~INTERVIEWING.

 For a job. After 2 years of unemployment I am ready to dust off my responsible clothes and make some money. It will be a relief not only to myself but also those student loan officers.

The photography business just wasn't paying the bills. What can I say? I have four kids. 

I'm not sad, I'm stoked because I got a call today and they extended an offer to me and as long as I pass a drug and criminal check~woohooo. I am back in the saddle.

Ahhh.... not sure what this means for my blogs! 

I will write more soon.

xoxo

    OK, I know, we’re two weeks into the New Year – how many of you have kept your resolutions?

     Don't feel bad. I actually set some sort of record this year. I wrote a list of my resolutions and promised myself I would really get things straightened out. Then – this is not a joke – I DIDN'T EVEN START THEM. 

     Yep, not even one day. I am officially the duchess of Loserville.

     I would like to say I have an excuse, but really? There are dudes stuck out in the wilderness sawing off their own arms in order to survive and I can't even organize my closet. 

     Well, part of my problem is the fact that I have a Ph.D. in Procrastination and the other part is that I’m exhausted.

     Ever since Emperor Napoleon was reincarnated as my infant son, my days and nights are all a jumble of blown-out diapers, vomit down my shirt and the never-ending quest to do things that please him.

     He’s generally a good baby, but he demands to be entertained; and, much like a frat boy, he prefers to stay up until 1 a.m. and sleep until noon. Unfortunately, my college days are over and I can't sleep till noon. This fact evades him.

     He also insists on drinking his meals straight from the source (a boob, for those of you who can’t read between the lines). Anytime we try to feed him via bottle he looks accusingly at the perpetrator.

     This look clearly communicates: "Get that silicone nipple out of my mouth. Who do I look like? Brett Michaels?"

     I am convinced on a regular basis that he is a genius; then I see him do something like try to nurse from the comforter on my bed.

     This whole “nursing the comforter” thing really bursts my bubble because it suggests to me that my son sees me as nothing more than a squishy warm entity, and two, he thinks comforters have nipples.

     I don't know. It's all very disturbing, and I ponder these things instead of completing my to-do lists or starting my resolutions. That's what my life has become.

     Maybe that's my problem. I don't know who or what I am. Am I a comforter? Am I a mother? Am I the court jester?

     Also what about the whole "Single in Sandpoint" thing? The title of my column suggests that I am "single.” This was a very fitting title 5.5 years ago when I started writing this column.

    Damn me. Damn my lack of ability to see the future. Why didn't I name my column something that wouldn't change with time, like “Singled-Out in Sandpoint,” or “Shit-faced in Sandpoint” or “Situated in Sandpoint”?

     Now I have people writing me and saying, "Well, you’re not really single anymore.” To those people I say: “No shit I'm not single.”

     I like to consider myself a single-sympathizer these days. I've been out there in the dating world; I know what a scary, complex and occasionally hilarious place it is.

     It’s like surviving a war. I am a veteran of being Single in Sandpoint, and you’d definitely take advice from a veteran of war, right? Why is dating any different? It’s not.

     Sure I’m no longer in active duty; I’m the old, crotchety soldier that’s left on the base to prepare the young soldiers for war.

     Yes, that's it. I’m a soldier of love. I play the role of wing-woman, accompanying my single soldiers out on their quests, but I no longer make the kills.

     Basically, I’ve earned the Purple-freaking-Heart of dating in Sandpoint. So I'm not going to apologize for continuing to write a column – that plenty of people enjoy – because five years ago when I moved back to this town I didn't ever think I'd be married with another kid.

     I have plenty of other transgressions to apologize for; writing the column that I invented is not one of them.

     Plus, writing on a regular basis is probably the only resolution I will even come close to keeping. Thus it is the only one I will admit to. The others will remain my hidden, dirty secrets. Maybe by next New Year I’ll be able to make and keep resolutions. But that’s then. This is now.

     Well, now that I have that out of the way: cheers to Sandpoint, cheers to no longer being pregnant and my sympathies to those who are.

     Thank you for continuing to read my column – and this paper – and good luck fighting the good fight.

     2011, I'm not ready for you, but you came anyway.

Sincerely,

Gen. Scarlette Quille

LOVE CORPS, Ret.

Ok, I know  I pick on Jessica Simpson A LOT. It's not very nice, and I am sure she is probably a nice person. Though she strikes me as the friend who always asks you if they look fat and sometimes they actually DO look fat. You so badly want to say "you don't look fat, you gained 20lbs, now you may or may not be technically fat but you are CERTAINLY fatter than you were." And instead you are like "No, fat? No way, you are beautiful." You keep having to tell them this over, and over, and over inside you are screaming because you know that you are perpetuating a lie. The lie that your friend is clearly living because she just jammed her hefty ass into a dress she wore your freshman year of college, and has since given birth (multiple times). She is asking you this and it's really fucked up because you are fatter than she is.

Just because you can put some body butter on and shimmy your ass into something, doesn't mean it fits. Seriously, get some cable watch a little "What Not To Wear." 

I am fat right now. I do the right thing, I wear the hoody of shame and shuffle my ass to the gym on a regular basis. I will not be asking any one if I'm fat, the answer is yes. Give me a couple of months. 

Back to this picture though. Jessica, this is the hairdo that belongs on someone who smokes a pack a day and sucks thoughtfully on celery sprinkled in cocaine. A runway model. You can't pull off hair and make-up like that unless you are starving. But, I get it, you keep having to wear and do stupid shit to stay relevant. Well played.

This new year is bringing all kinds of new hair look at this:

Word on the street is that she is knocked up. The loose fitting dress, the drastic hair. Hmmm... It makes sense. I think the second you pee on a stick you should call up your hair dresser and say, NO MATTER what I do, please do not allow me to make any drastic changes to my hair for the next year. I will not be thinking with a clear head. For some reason whenever I get pregnant my first response is to hack off or die my hair, I always regret it. The thought process is so muddled. 

I learned this the hard way. I always wanted to know what I looked like as a brunette. When I was pregnant with my second child I talked my self into getting brown hair. Brown hair probably is never going to look good on me, but brown hair on a swollen pale version of me is almost too hideous to even speak of. EVERY single pregnant picture from that era has been destroyed. Along with the postpartum red hair debacle of 2001, followed up with the most recent short hair cut, also bad. Very bad.

 Moral of the story: If you put on a few pounds or have a bun in the oven, leave your hair out of it. You'll thank me later. 

Thinking about making some amends? 12 step program for the new year....

STEP #1~ Figure out who I've pissed off, and say sorry. This will probably take the rest of my 30's.