Single in Sandpoint: Scarlette puts on her pre-midlife big girl panties

      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

Workplace Farting Incidents Rising

WORDS: 1277

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

SIS: Secrets and Mechanical Bulls

PS. I will get better pics and post later!  This was captured by cell, it  is my baby riding the bull at the dive...

     I've been trying to think of a perfect time to come out of the closet. You see, I have a secret. A secret that I have been mulling over for the past five months. A secret that sort of changes everything and nothing all at the same time. Tantalized yet?

     Well, you’re going to have to wait a bit for the big reveal. First I have to preface. It’s hard to write a column about being single in Sandpoint when: 1. You’re no longer single, and 2. You have an unspeakable secret. So today I'm going to just get it over with. At some point. Anyway, I have a story.

     It all starts with the fact that Sandpoint has a new bar. And for those of you non-Sandpoint residents who read my column, I know you probably don't understand the significance of such an event; but to many people around here, a new bar is like being touched by naked baby angels.

     When I say “a new bar” what I mean is “a real bar.” A bar that serves liquor and has a dance floor. A bar where celebrating and listening to loud music is applauded rather than condemned. A bar where a person under the age of 40 can feel like they belong.  

     Sandpoint really lacks in this area. The nightlife here is practically non-existent for people in their 20s and 30s, and let me tell you these people COMPLAIN about it. ALL THE TIME. So it’s really nothing less than awesome that a local entrepreneur took it upon himself to make a bar where there is something for these people, their kids and their parents.

     In case you hadn’t put it together yet, I'm talking about Sandpoint's newest watering hole: The Dive. And The Dive is hard to explain, but I’ll do my best.

     Imagine, if you will, gutting an old brick building, then turning the inside into something sort of like the Thunder Dome – a large indoor space with a balcony around the top.

     Next, add a mechanical bull, several different kids of arcade games, free peanuts, greasy food, waitresses in tight shirts and the sounds of hair band music playing in the background.

     The front of the building has a deck overlooking the street (think Mardi Gras), and the lower outdoor seating is right next to two giant garage doors that open into the main floor.

     The theme is sort of "white trash fun" meets super cool night club. The decor is unfinished raw wood and brick with bright orange accents. There’s a lot going on there.

     I stepped into The Dive for the first time on the Friday night of Lost in The ’50s. I loved the fact that the games were free and the food was cheap; many people had their children there and the kids were loving the mechanical bull rides and free games. But kids are allowed only until 9 p.m. After that, The Dive is an adults only establishment.

     I heard a lot of people complimenting the decor and general set up of the building, and loving the tongue-in-cheek trailer park concept.

     Sure there are critics out there who think The Dive is a terrible idea. Blah, blah, blah. The truth is that Sandpoint NEEDED something like this. Something that breathed life into the downtown area. Somewhere you can go to watch a game, get tipsy, ride a bull or pick up a member of the opposite sex. The economy sucks, things are depressing and adults need to let off some steam. Tourists need to have a place to go party and spend their money and – let’s face it – some of our local taverns aren't so friendly to newcomers.

     In case you didn’t pick up on it, I was really excited to see this new bar. But my excitement soon turned to jealousy, a bit of sadness and maybe a twinge of anticipation. You see, there’s still the matter of this secret that I have, and the secret was preventing me from jumping on that bull and riding it into the pages of history.

     In short: I couldn't ride the bull at The Dive and I couldn't sample the vodka. I had to sit at a table eating nachos and observing. Why? What is the secret? 

     I'm creating life. That's right, bitches, I'm not fat I'm pregnant. 

     And before you ask: Yes, it was on purpose. Yes, I might be crazy and no, I won't be sitting at home for the next four months knitting booties. 

     This isn't my first rodeo, you know. That’s why I waited five months to let the cat out of the bag; there was no need to make ya'll suffer through nine months of me complaining about living the life of a stone-sober whale. 

     So there you go. I have now done it all: I've been a kid in Sandpoint, a teenager in Sandpoint, single in Sandpoint, married in Sandpoint and now knocked up in Sandpoint. In fact, I might be sort of an expert on living in Sandpoint, and I’m available for consultation.

     Thanks for sticking with my column for the last 4.5 years; I have a feeling the adventure is just starting.

Going to buy some kick-ass cowboy boots to wear on that bull after my vajayjay heals,

Scarlette Quille

SIS: Lost In The 50's

Single in Sandpoint: Scarlette falls ill with rocking pneumonia & the boogie woogie flu

     So I was sitting in Taco Bell the other day.

     (Yes, technically, I’m one of those freaks who actually eat inside a fast food restaurant. I should mention that the only reason I do so is that I’m forced to by the man I married; he doesn't like eating inside his sacred vessel (read: truck). Another rule worth mentioning: no touching any part of the truck's exterior, except the handle, and your feet may only touch the floor mats. Any movements outside of these approved areas will be met with a verbal warning. If you fail to heed this warning, the next step is stopping at a car wash. The manual kind. You know, the ones that take at least 20 minutes and are freezing cold this time of year?)

     Anyway, back to Taco Bell.

     I was sitting there contemplating life and the Great Beyond, whilst dipping into a substance diplomatically referred to as “nacho cheese,” when I became suddenly irritated. It was akin to the feeling you get when you’re hung over and at the grocery store the day after Halloween. At first you have no idea why you feel angry, and then you notice there is Christmas music playing in the background.

     Glancing around to find the source of my irritation, I finally heard it: "Rockin’ Robin ... tweet ... tweet ... tweet. Rockin’ Robin … tweet … tweetly-tweet."

     Fifties music. The only music in the world as irritating as Christmas carols.

     Of course this made perfect sense. At the time, Lost in the ‘50s was only three weeks away; apparently they were getting a jump start. This also meant, like spotting the first robin of spring, that soon all the stores and restaurants in the Sandpoint area would start cranking up the oldies. My “glad rags” were most certainly not on.

     But before we get any further, let’s get something straight: I like Lost in the ‘50s, it's a good time. If you’re from Sandpoint, Lost in the ‘50s is like Christmas, or the Fourth of July. All Sandpoint natives are called back to the homeland to celebrate a decade most never lived in, and the vehicles that made it great and gas guzzling.

     For whatever reason, this makes perfect sense. And – underscored – it’s fun. There’s even a parade, and it’s the best parade ever simply because you’re encouraged to drink beer and cheer for revving engines. You know a celebration is a big deal if it has a parade.

     Also, unlike Christmas or the Fourth, people can actually relax during Lost in the ‘50s because there’s no expectation whatsoever that you’ll spend it with your family.

     There’s no special dinner, no gifts, no religious undertones, no weird mythical creatures sneaking around your house at night. Oh, and it's your choice whether or not to bring your kids.

     As far as holidays go, honestly, it’s almost perfect. People dress up in their best ‘50s garb, so you get the costume component of Halloween; there’s a grand parade, a la the Fourth; specifically themed music, as in Christmas; and the beer flows freely, like St. Patrick’s.

     But going back to my initial beef: The music is the only part I don't like, and I’m not even exactly sure why. I'm starting to think my parents locked me in a basement and forced me to listen to Buddy Holly for days on end.

     Whatever the reason, I have a serious aversion to it.

     Part of the problem is that I just don't get it. There are too many secret code words: “hound dog,” “dust my broom,” “be-bop-a-lula,” and it’s just a tad too sweet for my vulgar tastes. Also I really hate the fact that if I hear “Great Balls of Fire” once it’s lodged in the inner-core of my psyche for at least 10 days. I’d do anything to rid myself of that song, and the need to sound like a cracked-out ghost in order to properly sing along with it. Good thing it’ll be on heavy rotation for the rest of this month (*sarcasm).

     Oh well, with everything else I like about Lost in the ‘50s, if people want to dress up and play bubble-gummy music for a weekend, far be it from me to stand in their way. It’s tradition, right?

     Best get myself a beer and a nice poodle skirt and enjoy it.

Happy Lost in the ‘50s, Sandpoint!

Scarlette Quille