Single in Sandpoint: Summer is a cruel mistress… smoke gets in your [kids’] eyes

Thank the Lord it’s over. Winter is officially out the door wagging its middle fingers at us like an eliminated reality contestant. Spring is going to hang around longer than it should like a rebound relationship that you let go on for way too long. And soon summer will be here for a brief fling, like the hook up you had on spring break 1994, only a bit longer.

     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

SIS: Schools Out ...

Summer in Sandpoint: A warm weather taxonomy

     Schools out for summer. This isn't just an awesome Alice Cooper song; summer has begun. This means a lot of things.

     If you are a parent, it means that you will have to find ways to entertain and care for your lovely children 24 hours a day without the six-hour break that school provides. If you’re like a certain parent from my youth – who shall remain nameless – this means establishing ground rules.

    Such as: Children are required to remain outdoors from 8 a.m. till 5 p.m., only allowing entry into the home for meals.

It’s a lovely rule on paper, but it doesn't translate into modern times. If you tried that mess nowadays, your kids would sic Child Protective Services on you before you got through one episode of “The View.” Plus, all the pedophiles and freaks for miles around would be at your house, ready to take advantage of your cruelty.

    So, like it or not, you get to deal with the summertime burns, scrapes, bites, near-drownings, meltdowns and allergic reactions. Or you can pay someone else to. For those of us who work from the home or stay at home, there is just no justifying that last option.

     But enough about parents. If you’re a child or a teenager, summer means that the world revolves around you. Every day is an opportunity for your parents to pay for something you want to do, and then drive you there to do it.

    Your main job is to get into as much trouble as possible by pissing off the neighbors, neglecting your chores, running up the phone bill and torturing your siblings. You have a late bedtime, friends are allowed to stay the night on weekdays and you seldom wear shoes. You have become mildly insane and feral from lack of routine. Every time you get into trouble you say to your parents: "But it's my summer vacation." You aren't exactly sure why, but this works to your advantage.

     If you’re a single, free-wheeling adult summertime brings with it a new sense of freedom. You have about three months to get it in all the fun you can possibly have, because Sandpoint has crappy and unpredictable weather from October till… um… well, I would normally say June, but have you looked outside lately?

     Regardless, your job as a singleton is go boating, drink on the weekdays, plan camping trips and bonfires, wear sunglasses to work, hook up with unsuspecting tourists and basically act like you’re on vacation – even (and maybe especially) if you aren’t.

     Remember last winter, when you kept going into work even though you had Hantavirus because you were saving your "sick" days for summer? This is when you cash in. Four- and five-day weekends for the next six weeks. Booyah!

     Now you can work on perfecting that Mojito recipe, and while you recognize that rehab may be an essential part of September, you’re OK with that. I’m very jealous of all of you who fit into this category, and I don't feel bad for saying that I hate you.

     If you’re married, summer means that you’ll be expected to make all kind of compromises because, well, “it’s summer.”

     Summer becomes the time when people start having "girls’ nights" and "man weekends.” I never fully understood why these same-sex fests were so popular in the summer; I now know the reason for this is that each person in the relationship feels like they’re being taken advantage of. The only way to make your spouse pay is to do something REALLY fun, and then exclude him or her from attendance. 

     Here is the married summer scenario in brief: Let’s say the wife decides to go shopping for "summer stuff" while her husband is at work. When he gets home and sees all the new tiki torches and the string bikini his wife has been wearing to mow the lawn, he will subsequently lose his mind. His next step is to either go fishing EVERY SINGLE DAY after work for the next week, or he’ll say, "Oh, sorry I can't go to your cousin Luwanda's wedding that weekend – I have a man trip where we kill things and ride motorized vehicles.”

     Naturally, the wife gets pissed, so she plans a girls’ night wherein she is required to buy a new outfit and drink $13 martinis all night until she comes home and vomits in the bird bath.

Its a tale as old as time.

And speaking of “old as time”: If you’re retired, summer means you’ll actually get to enjoy all those hours you spend clipping, mowing, pruning, planting, guarding and fussing over your yard. Your fool children aren't around to mess up your stuff anymore – in fact, they’re too busy trying to piss off their spouses or whoring for tourists to bother you.

     You can spend countless hours a day sitting in a lawn chair watching birds and sucking on a butterscotch candy and end the day with a 6 p.m. bedtime. Your life is really an endless summer at this point, since you book it to Arizona at the first sight of snow. Now you know why they call them the golden years.

     Lastly, and I’m only adding this to the list because I feel like it’s an underrepresented segment of the population, if you’re pregnant, summer means you’ll spend the next three months sweating like a pig and wearing ill-fitting clothing.

     You will become hot the second the thermometer crosses the 70 degree mark, sweating will commence at the 75 degree mark, and by 80 degrees you’ll have already had to change clothing.

     People will say things like: "You aren't due till October? Oh, that’s a long time."  You’ll kindly reply: "Oh, it’s not really that long when you’ve already been pregnant for the last six MONTHS."

     Then you’ll silently imagine what it would be like to Jean-Claude-Van-Dam-kick them in their big mouth.

      Beyond that, you’ll also spend the entire summer being the designated babysitter, driver, house sitter, dog watcher, salad maker and any other menial task that people will ask you to do because "you’re pregnant and can't do anything fun."

     You’ll do all of these things wearing elastic waistband pants and "roomy" shirts, but after awhile, the elastic feels like an angry bondage instrument and the shirt becomes more of a sausage casing.

     You are creating life, but from now on you’ll refer to this summer as the summer from hell; you are the only person in town who can't WAIT for it to be over.

  So there you have it, folks: Summer means a lot of things, right? Make yours a good one!!!

XOXO,

SQ

SIS: FACEBOOK PULLS THROUGH WITH INSIGHT

     I started out writing this week’s column with the intention of giving great advice to all the single people out there. Then it sort of dawned on me that I’ve been out of the game for over a year now. What if something has changed? What if somewhere in the last couple of years exciting advances had been made in the Sandpoint dating pool?

     What if?

     Then I’d be writing an article not only as an annoying married person trying to give advice to single people, but – worse yet – an UNINFORMED married person. Sick and wrong. I promised myself I would NEVER become one of those married people who refer to their own single days as a reference for the currently single.

     Married people who do this:  You know who you are. STOP. The single people don't believe you, don't want to, and no it doesn't matter if every bit of advice you’re giving came from the pages of the most current issue of Cosmo – they see your married status as a hindrance.

     The singletons believe you are married because of a stroke of "good" luck. They will not believe you when you say that it took years of dating, and plucking, and dieting, and going on stupid camping trips, and pretending to like things you hated in order to find "the one." 

     So save your breath. Feel sorry for them, keep setting them up with the perfect date so they can screw it up and embarrass you. Do this because that's what you do when you’re the Married One.

     For this very reason, I decided to conduct some research on the state of the dating scene in Sandpoint. Is there still a negative stigma attached to the experience? Or are all the single people finally embracing their freedom?

     I compiled my research the way most scientists and relationship experts do: Facebook. I figured that if I posted something so controversial, people couldn’t pass it up without commenting. My friends did not disappoint  

     My method was to post an open phrase to which any and all could reply: “Being Single in Sandpoint is like (fill in the blank).” 

    Minutes later I started receiving responses such as those listed – verbatim – below. Read ‘em and weep (or laugh hysterically, depending on where you are in life).

Being Single in Sandpoint is like…

     “A Bobby Brown comeback. Tragic.” – Liz

     “Being single in Sandpoint is the only way to go...have you looked at the dating pool? HA HA just kidding...sorta HA” –Brooke

     “Is a lot like being married in Sandpoint except you can leave the toilet seat up.” – Lenny

     “good because it will save you from alot of diseases.” –Adam

     “Small pickings and never fluctuates beyond a certain number. People can move in and out of the pool, but apparently there’s an official quota of unattached citizens, possibly set by the bartenders at Eichhardt's or perhaps the wine bar to appropriately limit morose drinking. Of course, everyone in this pool has already dated you, your best friend, and occasionally sleeps with your neighbor.” –Donna

     “is better than being married to an a**hole in Sandpoint!” –Robin

     “Being unemployed, you miss out on some of the perks and benefits, but the only sh*t you have to put up with is your own.” – Charis

     “Fishing with no fishing pole” – Tamara

     “is like watching reruns of my own life....” – Dave

     “biting into a raw piece of chicken!” – Dannielle

     My conclusion: being Single in Sandpoint hasn’t drastically changed since my tenure ended. There is, and has been, a marked dissatisfaction with the dating pool of our lovely town. Were any of you surprised?

     Being single in a small town has its challenges, as does being single in a city, or a village. We are so quick to blame our loneliness on geography, when in fact the place you live is only as small as you make it.

     If you decide to hole up in your house all the time and maintain relationships only of the cyber variety, what do you expect? If you keep refusing to attend that annoying-person-at-work’s barbecues and theme parties, they’ll soon stop inviting you. You’ll have missed out on meeting REAL people, with REAL laughter and REAL booze.

     In every invitation there’s an opportunity; you’re the person who ultimately decides whether or not to pass it up. Happiness is ultimately a choice. Amen.

      (Thus concludes the sermon portion of this week’s column.) 

      Finally, we have an early spring situation this year:  mating season will start early. The early bird gets the worm, right? Now get out there and flaunt your plumage.

Remembering a time when I got to eat ALL THE GIRL SCOUT COOKIES, ALONE,

Scarlette Quille

Single In Sandpoint: Could I be The New Disney Princess?

NUMBER 10 ON THE LAY OFF LIST!!!! SUCK IT.

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

Single in Sandpoint: Scarlette vs. December: The Winter Snow-down.

     December, we meet again.

     Each year I vow to take you down. I research your weak points. I consult ancient texts. But this year I discovered that, apparently, the only way to conquer your endless lines, snow, incessantly cheery music, soggy socks, cookie exchanges, white elephant gifts and heinous accessories is with organization, preparation and a flask full of very hard liquor.

     In the months leading up to December I was ready for the battle royale, and this time I’d be ready. I found I wasn't really stressing out about “The Holidays,” and I have no idea why. I wasn't curled in the fetal position on my bedroom floor, begging with the Lord himself to please, just this once, let’s skip December.

     No, this year I had high hopes. I’d try to do impossible things like bake cookies and buy presents in real stores (not online). I would be so good at it my friends and family would be like, "Dude, Scarlette has totally turned over a domestic leaf, she can cook, and these are the pickle-shaped salt and pepper shakers that I've always wanted."

     Yes, it would be glorious. December would just skulk off, defeated. That was my visualization. But when the bell rang, boy oh boy did December come out swinging.

Round One:

     We got the tree. The one the whole family went searching in the woods for. The perfect tree. Before I knew it I was riding around in the mountains in 7 degree weather, clutching hot chocolate and wondering what kind of a person buys a 2-wheel drive truck.

     My husband pulled over next an area with a bunch of "Christmassy looking" trees, and I said something like, “This tree is nice.” Then I went off searching in the woods for a tree that wasn't just nice; I wanted a tree that was PERFECT.

     Less than 30 feet from the car, or about 45 seconds later, I heard the sound of a chainsaw. Oh, no he didn't. Was he really cutting down that nice tree? I didn't say to cut that one down. I just said it was nice.

     Upon further investigation, I found that, yes – that was exactly what he was doing. By the time I arrived back at the truck, the tree had already been felled.

     "Why did you cut down that tree?" I asked.

     "Because you said you liked it," he shrugged.

     "NO, I did not say I liked it; I said it was nice," I hissed.

     "Fine, we'll just leave it here and find another," was his brilliant answer.

     Now, I’m not the kind of person who feels comfortable cutting down a tree and discarding it. I felt like all those jerks in "A Charlie Brown Christmas" – the tree wasn't perfect, sure, but maybe all it needed was a little love.

     Well, we got the tree back home and it needed to be trimmed down by about 4 feet, and I'm pretty sure those were the 4 feet that were "nice." All the love in the world wasn't going to make it a show-stopper. In fact, after the tree sat in the corner of the room – mocking me – for about a week, even our dog decided he hated it. After I left to go run an errand, the dog did it’s best to undress the poor thing, eating an entire strand of lights and taking a few ornaments off just for good measure.

     Round one goes to DECEMBER..

Round Two: 

     A couple of days after the dog-on-pine violence, I was sitting comfortably with my half-naked tree when I saw on the news that Sarah Palin was coming to town.

     I’d wondered why the weather was so cold and the sun hadn't been out for days; then I knew why. Oh, December, you cagey little devil you – you thought you could scare me with Sarah Palin? 

     I knew immediately that I had to be a part of this Sarah Palin fiasco, even if it was the last thing I ever did. I wanted to see her, look her straight in the eye, and ask her to sign my Levi Johnston issue of Playgirl.

     That’s just how I roll, folks.

     Sadly, though not unsurprising, Mrs. Palin wasn't in town to sign autographs or answer questions, she was here to sell a book. If you didn't have a copy, or your copy wasn’t purchased at Vanderford’s, you weren't going to get any face time.

     As a member of the media I had access to photograph her for 15 minutes, but other than that, nothing. My Playgirl sits today, still unsigned.

     Regardless, here's the deal: I'm not going to “go rogue,” not now, not ever. I expected to see a spectacle and I did. I saw a line in which hundreds and hundreds of people waited for hours just to be in the presence of a former-maybe-vice president and ex-half-term governor. I saw people in camouflage, people with pictures of their latest kill taped to their shirts, some of my family members, and even the racist guy that haunts my favorite coffee shop (SPR XX/XX/XX). I saw them all.

     Her tour bus befitted a rock star, with a giant portrait of herself on the side and a moose antler hanging in the front window. Her groupies were lined up and ready to do whatever conservative Christian groupies do.

     Now, normally, I don't frequent places that have very high concentrations of extreme conservatives; December threw this at me knowing I can never pass up a celebrity sighting – EVEN, maybe especially, if I don't even like the celebrity. December was trying to get me killed.

     I locked eyes with ex-Governor Palin just once. She had just said “I love your jacket” to a nearby woman who was wearing a faux fur cheetah print vest. I made a little noise, like a snort, and she looked straight at me. I looked back at her. What was there to say? We both knew that she’d just lied to that lady, and we also both knew that woman would probably be wearing that vest and buying identical pairs for all her friends. Since there’s a high probability that none of them believe in birth control, we may be seeing that vest handed down to grandchildren, great-grandchildren and great-great grandchildren for the next century. At least.

     After my stare-down with “The Barracuda” I got a little scared, so I started singing a little carol I’d made up for just such a moment (sung to the tune of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town”):

She's written a book, it's got a high price,

She's gonna’ give out some Christian ad-vice

Sarah Palin’s com-iiing to town.

She kills things when their sleeping,

She knows my motives are fake.

She knows I didn't vote for her,

I best get out for my own sake.

          Round two goes to SCARLETTE (extra points for not getting flogged or converted).

Round 3:

     So, I'm in the shower, in my new house. My new house is in town and my old house was in a forest, so I'm not used to people just dropping by for the hell of it. To make matters worse, I was showering at a strange time of day – my kids had a Christmas sing-song spectacular that I had to attend, and I wanted to look like a normal person with brushed hair and pants on. Real pants, mind you, not the sweat kind.

     I hopped out of the shower and started to dry off. At that point it dawned on me that the perfect shirt I wanted to wear was in the living room with the rest of the newly folded laundry. I put the towel around my head and streaked out to the living room. I had the shirt halfway over my head when I heard knocking. A different kind of knocking. Window knocking, not door knocking.

     To my utter and all-consuming horror, the Fed-Ex man was staring through my window and I was wearing nothing but a turtleneck.

     I grabbed a towel off the laundry stack, wrapped it around my waist and answered the door under the impression he’d leave like a normal person – you know, like someone who’d just seen a total stranger half naked in their own home.

     NO. He made me SIGN FOR THE PACKAGE. Talk about awkward. I had to take a package and sign for it while standing in a hastily-wrapped towel skirt – a towel skirt that the delivery man had watched me put on.

     Perhaps this is the point in the column where I should mention that it’s actually less treacherous to shop in a mall than online; no delivery people are just waiting for you to do a nude lap around your house.

     Round three: This is a tough call, but I think the only winner here is the FED-EX GUY.

HAPPY HOLIDAYS TO ALL, AND JUST SO YOU KNOW, I'M NOT TAPPING OUT YET!!!!

Scarlette Quille