My new blog

Some of you may remember my NewYear's resolution from last year learn - how to knit.  (If not, insert shameless plug for my previous blogs here.)  You'll also remember how I barely squeaked under the deadline, since I only remembered at Thanksgiving what the resolution even was, giving me a scant month to learn how to knit.

Well, this year I was determined it was going to be different.  No more eleventh hour effort to tie up my resolution.  I was getting it done!  And congratulations are in order, as I'm proud to say this year's resolution is complete, a full four-plus months ahead of time.

My resolution?  Go to the shooting range.  Why, you may ask?  Well, there are numerous reasons.  For one, I've always wanted to shoot a gun ever since falling in love with sexy Fox Mulder running around with his gun on the X-files.  I even harbored the secret dream of joining the FBI, finding a smoldering partner with an affinity for aliens, and you know...  More recently, I've gotten hooked on the Stephanie Plum series by Janet Evanovich, in which the heroine also gets to run around with a gun.  Or more likely, the gun is stuffed in her cookie jar at home or left accidentally unloaded in her purse, but that's not really the point. 

The point is, at the end of the day, I need to know what to do in case I'm ever walking through the grocery store parking lot one night when a kidnapper jumps out from behind a van and grabs me.  I fight like a tiger and manage to kick the gun out of his hands.  It slides across the ground and we both look at each other; our eyes meet and we lunge for it at the same time.  I wrap my fingers around the handle seconds before he does and swing around, pointing straight at him.  But now what?  I need to know what to do with the thing, don't I?

Enter my New Year's resolution and cue Ladies Night at Autrey's Armory.  My pals Emily, Renee and Jen were all headed there after work one day and I decided to seize my chance at crossing off this resolution.  Of course, not being prepared in advance, I'm wearing my heels.  But I figure, if Stephanie Plum can do it, why can't I?  The four of us stroll into the shooting range, all girls and giggles.  The men behind the counter are unimpressed.  We are asked what kind of gun we want (how the hell should we know?!) and pick a Glock.  We are asked if we know how to use it (do we look like we know how to use it?!) and get the 15 second tutorial on loading and not killing each other.  Emily asks if anyone has ever been hurt at the range.  The man tells her she would be the first, a thought not comforting in the slightest.  Then, decked out in our protective ear- and eyewear, we are pointed in the direction of the indoor shooting range and sent on our merry way.  Alone.  With a gun.

Now this disturbs me slightly.  Here we are, four girls, only one of us who has ever shot a gun "a few times" before.  Emily is visibly shaking from the thought of facing her fear of guns.  I can't stop giggling (and subsequently blame the nerves).  Jen has the minute confidence of having shot her brother's gun (a few times) and Renee is trying to remember what her dad showed her earlier in the backyard about aiming and firing.  Yet we are allowed, alone and with no prior instruction, to take a gun, load it, aim it, and shoot it, all in an enclosed concrete space.  Even now, the thought is slightly ludicrous.

Very quickly, we realize this is serious.  The sharpshooter in the lane next to us firing round after round of viciously loud pops is enough to convince us of that.  If the insane level of noise isn't enough to unnerve us, his bullet casings are flying all over the place, landing burning hot on our arms and heads.  We are so out of our league.  I begin to wonder what we think were doing.  Emily has managed to memorize all 15 rules of the range during our five minute check-in and begins quoting them to me.  "The gun misfired?!  That's rule eight!  Put the gun down and get the instructor!  Rule eight!  Rule eight!" And it's hot, a stifling heat that adds to my nervous sweat and makes my hands so slippery I have trouble loading the gun.

But we did it.  We all managed to load and shoot the gun.  After every shot, we'd turn around for the smiles and thumbs ups from our friends.  We even managed to hit the target, a cheerful blue silhouette of a man who got hit far too many times in the nether-regions for comfort.  True, the target was hanging only a few feet away, but we still proudly displayed it on the wall at work, where it serves to intimidate our bothersome co-workers.  We walked away from the range proud of ourselves and hoping to return for some actual lessons one day.  Still, how strange, the thought that I was standing there with a loaded gun in my hands, heavy and hot to the touch.  Squeeze the trigger and its over.  The gun has fired before I can even really understand what's happening.  It seemed so unreal that many times I had to be reminded not to turn around with the gun still in my hands.  Put it down, point it at the ground, those things can kill people.

The moral of the story?  That would-be kidnapper in the grocery store parking lot better watch out now.  I might not be able to accurately hit him, but at least I know what a gun in my hands feels like now.  I know what will happen if I squeeze the trigger, what the kick-back feels like.  Next up, running in my heels while searching for the gun buried in my massive purse while chasing the bad guy I'm trying to arrest... Next year's resolution, perhaps?

Things that Happen on Blustery Days

Oh the wind is lashing lustily
And the trees are thrashing thrustily
And the leaves are rustling gustily
So it's rather safe to say
That it seems that it may turn out to be
It feels that it will undoubtedly
It looks like a rather blustery day, today
It sounds that it may turn out to be
Feels that it will undoubtedly
Looks like a rather blustery day today

- Winnie the Pooh, Winnie the Pooh and the Blustery Day

Oh, the things that happen on blustery days. 

Matt and I decided to make a little trip to Ikea this past Sunday after church.  We had discovered a beautiful piece of artwork for our living room.  Yes, it might have been a mass-produced replica on a piece of canvas, stretched on a flimsy frame of unfinished wood.  But it was also huge (6 x 5), relatively cheap ($99), and most importantly, we both liked it. 

So off we went, all dolled up in our Sunday finest.  Because of the exceptionally warm weather, I wore my skirt and heels, actually bothered to put on makeup, and looked quite fine.  (Matt looked nice too, but that's not really the point of this story.)  Because the day was so nice and sunny, we stopped for ice cream cones just before exiting the store, our large canvas artwork in hand.  It was altogether the making of a perfect day.

We walked outside, Matt in front, me behind, gripping the painting in one hand, the cones in the other.  That is when it hit me.  And I mean, literally hit me.  The wind, the hurricane force gale that is the wind in our fine, flat state.  Like a giant kite, the painting took off, straining to escape our grip.  My hair, always with a mind of its own, began swirling tornado-like around my head, blinding me.  As a final straw, the wind conspired with the burning sun to begin melting the ice cream cones within seconds of leaving Ikea's shade.  The wind was so strong, melted drops of ice cream were being hurled horizontally, flying directly at our precious mass-produced painting.

"Eat the ice cream!  Eat the ice cream!" Matt yelled, trying to cram the cone into his mouth.

"I can't!  I can't!" I screamed back, muffled by my curtain of hair.  Instead of lovely vanilla sweetness, all I was getting was the taste of mousse.  And not the dessert kind. 

We wrestled the painting through the parking lot.  I had one hand gripped on the art, the other held away from my body to keep the flying ice cream from hitting the new purchase, with no choice but to throw my body, skirt, heels and all, in between the two.  Finally we reached the car.  With ice cream running the length of my arm, I turned and faced the wind, letting my hair stream behind me.  But how to eat the ice cream without the wind throwing it back in my face?  I solved the problem by hunching over at a right angle, keeping my face towards the jet stream yet my body out of reach.  But melted vanilla mixture isn't as fun to slurp up as it sounds, so I admitted defeat, shook my fist to the sky and abandoned the remains of the cone to the parking lot.

So what can we learn from this story?  Texas should grow some trees?  Artwork from Ikea can be dangerous?  Ice cream running down your arm will make you feel like a four-year-old?  Always keep napkins in the car?  Perhaps all of the above.  Like my pal Pooh, maybe I don't need a moral.  Maybe I just need to point out, it looks like a rather blustery day.  So stay inside!