Single in Sandpoint: Notes from the hot, irritated and pregnant

Ok. So I admit it. This is a slow summer for me. I can’t drink, I can’t tear up the town,
caffeine is a no-no and I am so sleepy by 10 p.m. that I fall asleep sitting up. In other
words, my social life is pretty much that of an 8 year old.
You know those times in life when you think back on your mother when she was in
her heyday and you’re like, “Golly, how did good ol’ mom do it?”
Yeah. This is not one of those times.
When my mother was in her childbearing years, drinking alcohol was only mildly
discouraged and you could have all the Coca Cola you desired. There weren’t pregnancy
Nazis around every corner letting you know that “shell fish are off limits” and asking
you about breastfeeding.
And when people did get annoying – which they do ALL THE TIME – mom could
prop her feet up and order a Bloody Mary or a cappuccino and no one would even bat an
eye.
If I even enter a place that serves alcohol someone is calling my cousins the next day
to report that I was seen “out” while pregnant.
Sorry guys, I thought it was still generally OK to sit in a restaurant whilst others
drank. My bad. When I took the pregnancy test there wasn't a wise old bearded man in
the corner to give me the behavioral specifics so I didn't turn myself or unborn child into
a Gremlin.
Speaking of drunks, I don’t mind driving ya’ll around and listening to you proposition
each other. I don’t even mind it when you continue to turn up the radio so that you can
hear the music – even though I’m fairly sure that you could hear it just fine if you weren’t
screaming.
I embrace my role as designated driver because I like to give back to the community.
It’s my way of saying thanks to all those who have gotten me home safe in the past.
Seriously, though, I've had a lot of time to reflect on the behavior and social practices
of those around me. I've realized that there is something pure about an intoxicated person.
They tend to love you regardless of your surly mood and they forget all the bitchy things
that you say to them.
They still love you the next day – even after you removed the battery from their cell
phone so that they can't call their ex-boyfriend.
In fact the more I think about it, a drunkard is probably the perfect companion for a
pregnant person. Sober people tend to notice your irritation more.
Here’s an example:
I was photographing a wedding the other day, it was about 900 degrees outside and
I was sweating like a pig. My hair was wet. My clothes looked like sausage casing.
All the drunken people at the wedding were sweet angels who offered me chairs and
occasionally groped my bump. One man even hit on me. (This simple fact alone made
my summer.)
The sobers, on the other hand, asked me things like: “Are you sure it’s not twins?”
and “You know what causes that right?”
What the hell?
What if pregnant people just rose up and fought back? What if I just looked that stone-
cold sober person in the eye and said, “Oh yes, having sex causes this condition. You
probably haven’t had that problem in years.”
The fatter I get the less patience I have.
For instance, I’ve started saying things, sometimes rude things, like the truth.
You know when someone asks you for your “honest” opinion but in reality they
don’t want it? Well, I’ve discovered that there is some sort of hormone that gets secreted
during the last months of pregnancy that eats up your ability to politely lie to people.
It’s terrible. You don’t even have to gossip anymore because every person that has
annoyed you knows it.
I’ll admit, there is that beautiful, serene part of pregnancy, but there is also its less
talked about second personality which rears its ugly head when the pregnant beast gets
taunted.
You don't want her around. She's the type that would take off her own shoe and beat
you with it if you cut her off in line at the grocery store.
Just try to remember this: the Beast is twice the size, twice as hot and twice as irritated
as a regular citizen. When you see a Beast at the beach, avert your eyes. And no matter
what she looks like, NEVER comment on her size.
With those cautionary comments said, and my duty as a pregnant citizen fulfilled, you
should all be spared the wrath of the Beast.
Now go out there, enjoy your summer and make some bad decisions. That's how
single people and those with liberal arrangements should be spending their free time.
Me, I’m going to go make out with a Blue Raspberry Slush Float from Dub’s (the
Lord's food). Catch up with you next time!
Scarlette Quille

     As the Grateful Dead once wrote: "every silver lining has a touch of grey." I 'm not sure if they made that up, or if they plagiarized it from some famous philosopher. I'm not sure if that matters. In fact I'm not sure of many, many things.

     Such as: Why does everyone act like they hate mayonnaise? It’s completely, blatantly, obvious that mayo is one of the most beloved condiments, yet people have that uneasy feeling that if they admit to eating (and liking) it, they’re somehow white trash and on the fast-track to Obesity Avenue.

     If I had a dime for every time I heard a person tell me they hate mayo – but will eat it in tuna, pasta salad, deviled eggs and salad dressings – I’d be able to buy stock in Best Foods. These people annoy me so much – I often think of them while thickly spreading mayo on my roast beef sandwich.

     However, I am off topic, and that’s probably no surprise to any of you. If I wrote a book about my life it would probably be titled, Off Topic: The Story of a Lady Who Eats Mayonnaise, Drinks Domestic Beer, and Admits It.

Today's column isn't about mayonnaise or the book I’m supposed to be writing. Today's column is about the epic words of the Grateful Dead. Where is the silver lining? Where is the touch of grey?

     Let’s do this.

     Sandpoint is arguably one of the most beautiful places on earth. Sandpoint in the summer is magical. There are so many things to enjoy about living here in the summer:  the schizophrenic weather, the mountains, The Festival, people who wear swimwear everywhere, the City Beach and above all else, THE LAKE.

     Tourists may come here to enjoy the lake, but locals live in Sandpoint because they worship the lake. Yes, this may come as a surprise to many, but most locals live here because they love Sandpoint, and I mean LOVE it.

     Example: I love my unborn child more that vodka. That’s why I don't drink while I'm knocked up. Locals LOVE Sandpoint more than the big city, that’s why they don't mind taking a ginormous pay cut and living without a mega-mall

     We all make sacrifices for the things we love.

There is a thin line, however, between loving, worshipping and obsession. When it comes to the lake, you’ll see people with all of these afflictions.

     As early as May, you’ll see people – clearly in a trance-like state – standing at the beach, dipping their bare toes into the icy waters of Lake Pend Oreille. The lake is probably about 3 degrees or something at this point, but as a devoted follower, hypothermia is just a minor discomfort – a price that must be paid in order to bathe in the holy waters.

     People take days off of work just to spend time with the lake. I mean, they may not take one single day off for nine months to hang out with their kids or visit their mother, but in the summer they use up all those vacation days for lake worship.

     Is it spiritual? Cultish? Take a good look at yourself: are you a peaceful follower, or a rabid zealot?

     Personally, I feel guilty if I don't spend at least an hour a day, every day, at the lake from June through August. Any time spent on the lake in the off-months is considered a blessing.

     There is a reason people worship the lake, and it’s not just cold weather related insanity. Bottom line: people are happier, more attractive and full of energy when they get to spend time soaking up the summer outdoors. Just the vision of drinking a frosty beverage while sitting on a dock with your feet in the water is so powerful that it can sustain a person for nine months of bullshit weather.

     All of that is the silver lining, now it’s time for that "touch of grey.”

     We have long, cold winters here. When it gets hot, we as a city collectively decide it’s vacation time. There is nothing wrong with this, except that like most deities, the lake needs to be respected as the powerful force that it is.

     We need to take care of it and use caution when enjoying it. Even if we were born here and crawled straight out of the womb and into the water, things can still happen.

     It’s so easy to forget your seatbelt when you drive home from the beach blasting “Jesse's Girl” with all the windows down, so easy. But it's not safe, and there are dogs, and deer and kids on bikes around every corner.

     Do you see what I'm saying? Be careful. We are all guilty of letting our guards down to have a good time; everyone has made a choice or two in the moment that they luckily LIVED to regret

 There have already been two fatal accidents this summer, and accidents can't always be prevented – we don’t necessarily have control over the when, where and who. What we can control is how they impact our lives; whether we knew those involved or they were complete strangers to us.

     Accidents are often the stunning reminders that life is too short. We all need to hug our pets, kids, parents and friends more – and we all need to be that much more careful.

     I'm sorry for the public service announcement, but I just had too.

     (And remember, even mayonnaise has potentially dangerous effects if not properly enjoyed.)

 xoox

Scarlette Quille

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

Pushy barista boys and oldster makeout sessions:

Scarlette’s trip to fake-Seattle takes a turn for the grody

     So let’s just come right out with it, I'm not going to beat around the bush: This whole torrential downpour thing has really got my panties in a bunch. I've had to reschedule several of my photography sessions, not once but twice.

     I keep telling my clients I’m sorry, apparently it’s going to rain for more than two weeks straight. People get mad, and I so badly want to say, "Don't blame me. Blame all those angels who are crying because you don't recycle."

     Anyway, the rain has now become an excuse for everything wrong in my life. Games are being canceled, shoots are rescheduled, my husband’s work is on hold, the roof in my kids’ room has sprung a leak and my ass is getting huge from lack of exercise.

Yet it still rains, day and night, night and day. Every morning I trudge out to my car, wading through mud puddles filled with fresh, bloated worm carcasses to take my kids to school, and then I hurry home to my prison. 

     It's like we live in Seattle, only we don't get the perks of fresh seafood and public transportation.

On about the eighth day of rain – remember back when it had only been raining for eight days? – I decided it was time to get a venue change. Maybe I would just embrace the weather pretend I was in Seattle. There has to be something about an all black outfit and a cup of coffee that makes the rain seem more like a warm aromatherapy bath.

     Speaking of Seattle, why would anyone on Earth subject themselves to constant rain? I think I may dislike rain more than snow. At least with snow you know what to do, what to wear and what activities go along with it. Have you ever heard of anyone going, "I can't wait till it rains then I can ..."

     You can what? Catch up on your housework? Bake? Go to work looking like a drowned rat because you never know where you put your umbrella?

     Ugh.

     Anyway, back to fake-Seattle.

     Naturally, I drove to Starbucks, dressed in black, toting my laptop and ready to sip coffee and listen to "cool people" music.

     There has to be some way to get over this rain funk, right?

     So I get into line, order a cup of black coffee and a glass of water, and I could instantly feel the rain clouds turning into clouds of joy. The rain was really caffeine, and life was about to be good.

     You see, pregnant people don't get to have caffeine all the time – we are forced to exist on one caffeinated beverage a day, which is completely unfair since we are the most TIRED people on EARTH.

     But, whatever. There I was, waiting for my coffee, when the slick little barista boy decided to tell me I wasn't supposed to have coffee. RIGHT?

     I gave him my fiercest stink eye (the one I reserve for people who smoke with their kids in the car) and he didn't even look sorry. I mumbled something to him about it being perfectly fine to have a cup of coffee now and then. Then his manager started chuckling and telling him she had coffee while she was pregnant.

     But it was too late, the damage was done. That little jerk had ruined my Seattle moment. The clouds were filled with rain again, and I was pissed. Not just regular pissed, pregnant pissed. Trust me, you never want to see pregnant pissed – it’s not pretty. I mean, try spending nine months with no caffeine, no sushi, no lunch meat, no soft cheese, no bike riding and no BOOZE while cradling a bowling ball full of squids in your pelvic cavity. Now try to tell me how you’d feel if someone tried to police your consumption choices!

     That kid's lucky I didn't take off my sensible slip-on shoe and slap the caffeine buzz right out of his smug little body.

Just imagining it makes me feel better. Not great, but better.

     Nonetheless, I sulked off to the corner to enjoy my one cup of coffee – despite the bitter taste of guilt – and work on the 500 deadlines I haven't met because I have too much downtime. 

     I started to feel better, almost productive. And this would have been the end of my story, but as luck would have it, a couple in their late 40's to early 50's decided to sit down about two feet from me.

     My initial though was, “Cute, a coffee date. Maybe I’ll have something to write about that has to do with being ‘Single in Sandpoint’ after all.”

     That’s when it happened.

     First they started making out. I mean, tongue and all. She was running her fingers through his six or seven grey hairs, and he was – OK, seriously, this is true; I'm just reporting what I saw – he started rubbing her upper thigh, higher and higher until…

     Ugh. Omigod. NO!!

     I shut my laptop with a slap and decided to get the hell out of there. I don't mind a little PDA now and then, but going for the gold at Starbucks at 10 a.m. seems to be a bit much. Upper thigh stroking doesn't go well with pregnancy and the scent of high-priced coffee.

     I guess fake-Seattle sucks. I'm never going to try that again. I’ll just wait out the rain like everybody else, and when I need a fix I’ll take the drive-through in a disguise and enjoy it in privacy.

Still Emotionally Scarred,

SQ

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