Single in Sandpoint: To ski or not to ski, that is the question…

   In order to answer this question, I must admit a secret that I've been hanging on to for approximately 22 years: I've lived in North Idaho for the better part of 30 years, and I've gone skiing precisely one time. 

     Yes you heard me correctly. One time. Once. 

     Sure I've been to Schweitzer for the occasional kegger, wedding or to sit in the lodge while others ski. But I haven't had a pair of skis on my feet since 1988, and it took me once, just once to figure out what it was that I was missing up there. 

     Granted, my first foray on the slopes was during a junior high field trip, and that may very well be the reason I haven’t gone since. You see, there is nothing quite like doing something – anything – in junior high when you don't know how and everyone else does.   

     There were three of us, two complete freaks and myself, who had to take "the lesson" on the T-bar while the rest of the 7th grade was out hopping moguls, shredding and basically being awesome. 

     The idea of the lesson was to teach us the basics and then set us free. Being reasonably athletic and from a family of skiers I thought I'd pick it up easily; compared to the freaks I would surely be a star pupil. 

     “The freaks” were two girls, one who refused to wipe her snot nose and the other who kept panicking and crying. The ski instructor was an old guy who probably only "taught" lessons for the free pass. 

     He was as irritated by them (us) as I was. He taught us snow plowing and a bunch of other stuff that I don't remember while we were on essentially flat ground. 

     He taught us all these things without poles and it seemed normal at the time – I figured you earned your poles at the end of class or something.

     It wasn't long before he had talked the crying freak into quitting and spending the rest of the day in the lodge. At some point it became obvious that snot-nose and I were going to be harder to discourage. 

     Snot-Nose, it turned out, was a lot more determined than I thought. Sure, in my mind she was several rungs lower than I on the social ladder, but the kid had spunk. That or she thought I was the freak. 

     But how could she possibly think that? Was it the bright blue pair of ski pants I was wearing? The ski pants that MOTHER WORE IN HIGH SCHOOL? 

     (I knew it was a bad idea to listen to her that morning. To ease my reluctance at embracing those bellbottomed atrocities, my mother assured me that everyone on Schweitzer would be wearing these ski pants. She then cinched up the straps to the point that I had a major front wedgie – this was also necessary because my mother, even in high school, has always been tall.) 

     I had been able to combat the nerdy ski pants issue by wearing my hottest, tightest pair of stonewashed jeans underneath, coupled with teal eyeliner. I had a full bus ride of looking cool to remind the others that I had coolness running through my veins, even if I was wearing my mothers antiquated snow gear.

     That’s right – that old craggy ski bum of a teacher wasn’t going to scare me into committing social suicide by going back to the lodge with the freaks. After the lesson, I would find my friends, we would find boys to torture and ski hills to conquer. Heck, my dad had told me that very morning that if I liked skiing he would take me up the next weekend. That ski instructor would have to earn his pass today. 

     Yes that’s the irony here. My dad is an awesome skier. AWESOME. He does flips and shit ON SKIS. Then he tears down the hill only to stop to drink fine liquors from his specialized flasks. A practice that he enjoys to this day. 

     I don't know why he never taught me to ski. Maybe he held me at as an infant, looked into my eyes and said, "this child will never be a skier," then moved briskly on to my brother and sister. Both of them ski, and yes, both of them are good at it. Oh well, it’s a question I don't ever ask. Sometimes it’s better not to have the answers.

      Anyway, getting back to my junior high experience, after the ancient ski bum's tutorial he let us go on the T-bar hill/trail. I have heard a rumor that it's no longer a run at Schweitzer but honestly I don't know. What I do know is that when he set us free, Snot-Nose and I released a terror on that trail unlike any other. 

     First I realized that I didn't know how to stop – that is, unless I hit other skiers or trees. 

     Snot-Nose was my "buddy," and whether or not I liked it I was stuck with her for a few hours. I would quickly crash my way to the end of the run, and then pick up all of my mismatched early ’70s ski gear while she painstakingly snowplowed from one side of the run to the other – skis never pointing downhill, just side to side. It was maddening. 

     Then we would catch the T-bar together. The ski bum, of course, offered no guidance whatsoever. 

     After a couple of "runs" down the Bunny Hill, first blood was drawn. Snot-Nose and I were getting dragged up the T-bar when somewhere toward the middle of the drag she decided to – what, I don’t know? – sit down. 

     Anyway, it caused her to fall, then the bar to become un-balanced and I fell too. We started sliding backwards knocking mothers and children and other novices off the bars they were clinging to. Piles of people, people who were good enough to have poles were writhing around cussing and trying to get off the track. 

     One thing led to another, and I found myself on the side of T-bar trail holding my eyebrow. My glove was covered in blood – the blood was easy to see because my gloves were also a nice little gift from the ’70s a white pair of leather ski gloves with little American flag designs on them. Apparently my parents’ goal was to make me into such a geek that they would NEVER have to worry about me being cool enough to get into trouble. 

     Snot-Nose was concerned, but I was too cold and annoyed to care about the gash above my eye. I felt like such a failure, so I did what I had to do: I started laughing. Laughing so hard that it was maniacal, and Snot-Nose caught on and she started laughing too. 

     The lift operator stopped the T-bar – I SHIT YOU NOT – and sent some other weird guy out to reprimand us. You see, they thought that we had caused the drama on purpose. 

     Even Snot-Nose, who lacked the sense to wipe snot off her own face (snot that had crystallized and formed stalactites), had figured out that it was better that the world thought we had caused the scene on purpose. 

     Better to be the rebel than the freak that can't ski, right? Maybe old Snot-Nose had potential? I mean, with a little bit of Wet-n-Wild cosmetics, a Kleenex and a promise not to talk about horses or unicorns she might even be someone I could hang out with in public.

     It wasn't meant to be, though. We trudged up to the lodge and she returned to her horsey clan and I returned to my friends – the "cool" people. Everyone asked about my eye, and I just laughed it off, telling them the story of how we purposefully knocked everyone down on the T-bar. 

     I still had my cool intact, thank God. Unfortunately I was cold, my ill-fitting ski gear wasn't helping, I didn't know how to stop, I didn't have the slightest idea how to use a chairlift and everyone at my table was talking about going on the "backside" to ski. 

     I didn't really know what that meant. I hadn't even earned my ski poles yet. Did you need them for the backside? No one seemed to know what I was talking about.

     I had seen the Bunny Hill – it was pretty scary – so how much worse could the “backside” be?

     To answer that. WAY MOTHER CHUNKIN’ WORSE. SCARIER THAN ANYTHING I HAD EVER SEEN BEFORE OR SINCE. 

     Yes, at 12-years-old, on my first day of skiing, my "good" friends took me to the back side of Schweitzer on some satanic run called "Down the Hatch," which basically was an ice covered drop off that went straight down, and then you were going so fast you went straight up for a while. 

     WTF? 

     I tried to ski that hill, I really did. After two collisions with other skiers I decided to walk. I walked down and then up the hatch – no use risking my life or another eyebrow. I was cold and wet. What was I thinking? These people were nuts. Skiing isn't fun. It’s scary. 

     Then the only way to get back to the front side was skiing on some weird track thing. Which I did just fine on until it came to the time I had to slow down and turn. I went right off the track and into some trees. One of my friends was kind enough to stop and dig me out. It was a bad wreck – a clump of my hair was in a tree branch, I lost one of my dad's fancy Isotones, my mom's ski pants had a rip in the ass. 

     When I got home I was going to pack my shit up and move out of that house. Those people could not call themselves parents… letting me go up to a place where I would surely meet my maker. At least my dad could have warned me about "Down the Hatch.”

     Thankfully by the time I limped back to the lodge it was time to get back on the bus. I wadded up my garish outfit, tried to comb some hair over my fresh new bald spot and severed eyebrow, and left that hellish mountain with my ego still up there somewhere. 

     I've never been skiing since and I don't even like sledding. I have an aversion to anything where you are freezing and hurling down a hill at a million miles per hour and stopping is impossible. In fact, I don't even like to walk on ice. It’s who I am.

     So the answer to my initial question – “to ski or not to ski” – is, was and forever shall be: I DON'T SKI.

     I say this knowing that all you ski freaks are super  stoked because this is going to be one hell of a winter "up on the hill." I don't wish you any ill will; last winter was "easy," this winter you win. Have fun. 

     But to all of you who are sending your kids to ski for the first time: Warn them about Down the Hatch and please, please, don't make them wear your ski clothes.

     Scarred for life (no, literally, I still have a scar in my eyebrow),

Scarlette "I DON’T SKI" 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: Bring on the Warm Bring on The Crazy

     This sudden warm spell has brought on the Spring Fever earlier than normal. Usually we don't see a lot of insects or sunshine until late May or even June. While this provides adults with comfort and joy, it bewilders children and animals.

As adults, we recognize that swimming and camping season is still a few months away; but try explaining that to your eight-year-old, hillbilly daughter, who believes that any time the temperature tops 70 degrees it’s a child's God-given right to go swimming. Topless. In her mind it’s 100 degrees and I’m clearly hell-bent on letting her die of heat stroke.

     The heat has also been a great source of contention for my dogs, which by luck, or fate, or stupidity (it's your call) I have three. When it’s warm, all three dogs rampage for the door as soon as they think there might be a chance that someone is going in or out.  When it’s cold, I have to force them outside.

     The older two want to go out and eat anything rotten that might have been buried by snow, and the "puppy" would like to make it outdoors so that he can hump something other than his bed. 

     Yes, our "puppy" – who is really more of a young dog – is a humper. But he’s too weak and submissive to even approach another dog, so he usually just humps his bed and (or) the air. I need to mention that this humping is fairly constant; it’s like a frat boy on Viagra. It’s also a source of constant embarrassment and disgust for my daughters, which brings me to the story of the day.

     A couple of weeks ago I let my daughters have a couple of friends over. This made the kid to dog ratio 5:1. Had I known that this small fact would cause the heavens to go black and upset the natural order of the household, I might have made a different choice. However, at that point, I was blissfully ignorant of the chaos that was to come. 

     When the friends arrived they were given a brief orientation on the dogs: this one is the humper (obviously, you see Humper has to make love to his dog bed whenever a new visitor enters the house); this one, the big one, he's psycho – don't touch him while he’s sleeping; and the little black speck of perfection you see over there, she’s incapable of doing any wrong.

So far so good.

     The kids stayed in their room for hours, as it was raining and they are tweens. At about 10 p.m., they came out of the room screaming.

     “We can’t sleep in there!”

     “Why?” I asked.

     "The room is full of giant ants!" they shrieked.

     Apparently, my eldest daughter left her Easter candy on the floor, causing an ant infestation. Of course, it’s now warm enough for ants, and everyone knows that ants can smell stashed candy a mile away.

     While you might not think ants are a big deal, I’ll tell you that these suckers were the big kind. Just thinking about them makes me want to scratch my flesh off. 

  Needless to say, I spent 45 minutes cleaning up the ants, and another 20 minutes on a trip to the Walmarche to get ant traps.

     During this time, the kids were instructed to camp out in the living room. This, of course, was sensory overload for Humper, who became over-stimulated at the sight of all those pillows. In his mind, an orgy had been declared in his living room.

     This led to a scene in which no one could leave a pillow unattended without said pillow becoming the victim of a senseless drive-by-humping.

With ants amply trapped and pillows temporarily secured, night became morning and the sun was shining. The kids had to go outside the instant that they woke up. This sounded great to me, as I had ants to dispose of and pillows to wash.

     When the kids were all going out the back door, the dogs lost their minds and tried to escape. One child – who shall remain anonymous – tried to slam the door before Psycho made it out to conduct his campaign of terrorism. Suddenly, the entire neighborhood was awakened by a blood-curdling yelp. Apparently, Psycho wanted back in the house. Weird. What happened to him?

     I shrugged it off and went about my business. A few minutes later I noticed blood. Blood on the carpet, blood all over the place. Somone was bleeding – a lot – but no one was crying. What the hell was going on?

     “Who’s bleeding,” I shouted, frantic.

Then I saw Psycho, sitting in the kitchen with blood dripping from his tail. I tried to look at the tail; he tried to bite my face off. My husband had to hold him down, and that’s when I saw it: The tip of Psycho's tail had been skinned, revealing the white vertebrae.

     It was during this discovery that the kids came back in, gagging because they’d found a chunk of skin on the back porch.

     My husband rushed the poor dog out the door and to the vet. Humper and the Black Speck were so anxiety ridden that they ran around the house indiscriminately urinating on all of our guests’ belongings.

     Which catastrophe to I address first? A house full of ants? An ocean of blood in the kitchen? Urinating, panicked dogs? Wiggy, grossed out kids? Not fair.

     I was going to have to call these kids' parents and explain that we’re a bunch of hillbillies with an ant infestation, a house drenched in dog’s blood, a maniacal pillow molesting dog and their kids are going to have to go home in their pajamas because I had to wash all of their urine soaked clothes.

Oh, and also, one of their daughters had barfed that morning because she saw a bloody piece of dog skin.

 If this is any indication of how the rest of the spring is going to go, I'm in real trouble.

     And now you know why I drink.

Happy Spring,

Scarlette Quille

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