Shooting Range

The other day Phil took me shooting at the range. Well. Actually, I didn't initially want to go. At all. We bargained: I'd come along to the range with him- "just to watch"- in exchange for him making up a story to tell me that was at least 5 minutes long. I love being told stories. It's like playing pretend or daydreaming without all the exhausting planning.

So we went to the range. I was crabby. And then of course at one point he offers to let me shoot his pistol. (Men are so tricky.) But oddly enough, for the first time I really WANTED to shoot. Don't get me wrong. I love the idea of being able to shoot. I really like the idea of going shooting. But the reality is I grew up with absolutely no experience with weapons. ZERO. And gleaned about as much from movies and what not. It's not something I ever really thought about until I fell in love with someone who was in the Army. I like the idea of being able to defend myself. I appreciate the usefulness of weapons in that respect. But the fact of the matter is guns have always been to me a scary hunk of metal that can kill people. Very scary. Sure I've shot before a few times with Phil and I WANT to learn to be comfortable enough with a gun in order to be competent with it... but it always seems that I don't really want to go shooting when the occasion arises. But I guess after a year of living in the same place as Phil and him having guns at his apartment and watching him fiddle with them and clean them and having explained how they operate and how they are to be handled DOZENS of times it finally sunk in enough that I don't panic as much when I actually have one in my hands.

It probably sounds silly enough to anyone reading this that is familiar with guns (thinking of you in particular, Jack), but my past experiences at the range have consisted of me trying to stuff down panic and not really understanding how to clear the weapon and that I shouldn't put it down until I clear it and how to do that and being weirded out by my clumsiness with them and how much- to me-, handling them seems to be much more a matter of force than finesse. That's not really how I do things in my line of work. You don't FORCE a catheter in. You finesse it. Or people scream.

But at any rate, I was pleased because for the first time I actually felt like I knew what I was doing. It had finally sunk it how the pistol operates. I didn't forget the second I picked it up and need to look to Phil every 10 seconds. I remembered what to do and I did it. I was able to focus on actually shooting instead of dreading when I'd have to put it down and trying to remember what to do when that time came. I didn't have freaked out anticipation of every bang every time I squeezed the trigger. I was no longer scared that I'd drop a loaded weapon or do something stupid.

It was kind of a big deal for me. I felt in control. I need a LOT of work... but at least I was in control. It was really cool.

We should bargain more often.

Also, Phil even mentioned letting me keep his 45 caliber Springfield Armory 1911 pistol at my house for the first time. I feel so honored and Responsible. Maybe I'm a Hound after all.. hehe...

"Men" and "Ladies" is quite sufficient. We don't need to make it all cute-sy. And other things.

So this last Sunday Phil and I went to Holy Hill for Mass after I got off of a 12 hour work shift. It was pretty cool. On the way up we passed a hand-painted sign out in front of a house saying:

"Eleven kids. No Health Insurance. And we do NOT want help from the Government."

Rock on. We hung out up at Holy Hill for an hour before Mass. Got to remember stuff from over a decade ago when I'd walked there on a pilgrimage. Things are much further apart on foot. Strolled the grounds. Checked out the view. Admired the windmills from 25 miles away (location in relation to Holy Hill verified by Phil on googlemaps after the fact cuz he rocks like that). Mass was fantastic. Father Jorge with the awesome beard translated for a visiting priest from Nicaragua. His impressive hand-gestures and accent alone had us sold. The beard sealed the deal. Managed not to doze off, as it commonly our problem on Sunday mornings because we work 3rd shift. I've largely become an afternoon/evening churchgoer as a consequence.

At any rate, on our way home we stopped at the Fox & Hounds Restaurant for Sunday brunch. Had a mojito. Some good food. Good conversation. Excellent company. Coffee afterwards. It was great. But I'd been having some stomach problems (sigh.) the night before and had been up quite a long time at this point and was getting tired. We were about to leave when I felt that horrible gurgling in my tummy that meant I had to get to a bathroom fast. So I make for the restrooms which were conveniently located down a flight of stairs. I get to the bathrooms and there are two doors. One says "Foxes," the other says "Hounds."

Now I realize for a normal person there wouldn't be much question as to which restroom they were intended to use. I just get a little funny-off in my head sometimes. I somehow COMPLETELY forgot that bathrooms are separated according to sex. The panicked internal conversation I had as I did my little dance standing dumbfounded outside these doors went something like this:

"Well that's just great." (vague remembrance of there being some crappy situation like this at outback steakhouse, quickly abandoned by being unable to remember what the heck to word those aussies used for ladies was) Then refocusing, I tried to determine which door was meant for me, knowing choosing the wrong one would go over badly. "Foxes are clever, and so am I. I must be a fox. But I'm pretty respectable, too (glancing longingly at the Hounds door)... sometimes..." But then, "But wait... liberals are clever. Maybe it's a trick. I'm a conservative Hound. darn liberals and their tricky doors." Scoffing. But then, "Hold on... Hounds are brown and foxes are red. Brown's a boy color and red's a girl color. Maybe I've got this all wrong." With that I chose red over brown and rushed in on account of another, much more pressing gurgle. The crazy part is I didn't ACTUALLY fully get it until I was already finished up in my stall... and it dawned on me, "Ohhhh. 'FOXy lady.' Right." The whole thing was rather distressing.

I could just acknowledge personal ridiculousness, but I think the more important issue here is that these places need to stop trying to make bathrooms all cute-sy. It's not cute. And the use of facilities can be a pretty pressing emergency. These are hardly times when one wants to be trying to compare themselves to random animals to figure out which one they're more like. The room men use should be labeled "MEN" and the room women use should be labeled "WOMEN" or "LADIES". Either will do. But none of this fox and hound garbage. There is nothing "foxy" or glamorous about peeing on a seat. Or worse. So give it a rest.

Other than that it was nice place for Sunday brunch, though. They had little old men drinking beer out of small glasses. There's nothing not to like about that...

Classy

There was a sign posted on the entrance to my apartment complex saying they were looking for "hot girls" for their escort service with a number to call.

Classy.

Dear Matt

Nudism may be gross, unattractive, immodest and impractical, but it sure does have its upsides and appeal

So here I am. Not wearing much clothes. Because I really need to do laundry. And being stressed. Because I'm going to have company soon. So clothes are no longer optional. And he'll be here soon. So I don't have time to do laundry first. Oh, and I should probably straighten up and do some dishes. Thus compounding the clothes crunch. AHHHHH!

Is anyone else as pathetic as me by the end of the week?

I vote "yay" for nudism. Save us all time, quarters, decisions, and stress. Who's with me??!?

(and if you are with me, meet me at Bradford Beach in Milwaukee, WI next July)

Friends

Please note the updated links in the sidebars... Matty G and Jack, the newest and the brightest members of our blogoburb.

Life After Matt

My household has been in shambles lately.

It started with the oatmeal incidents. My cupboard I've been keeping oatmeal in has shelves too short for the canister to stand upright, so I've kept it lying on it's side. Well that cupboard happens to be above the stove, so while I was cooking rice one night, I reached up to get something out of that cupboard, and as soon as I opened the door the oatmeal came spilling out all over the stove, into my rice pot, and onto the floor. I had rice-oats for dinner that night.

But due to a couple glasses breaking while washing dishes on account of my not having a dish rack because it takes up counter space, I had broken the vacuum and was unable to clean up the oatmeal right away. It might seem like a nonsequitor, but after (I thought) picking up all the large glass chunks I had vacuumed to double check, and a large piece of glass had migrated into the living room and I hadn't noticed it and it broke my vacuum. So right. The oatmeal wasn't going anywhere fast.

The next day I decided to pot my plants in the living room on top of some brown paper bags I'd spread out on the floor. That didn't work, and so dirt, literally DIRT, was all over my living room floor.

The next day I was making mac&cheese quick before I left for work, and the SAME EXACT THING happened with the oatmeal, which I had not thought to move to a safer location. So I ate some mac&cheese-oats quick and left.

So then I'm coming home to an apartment, and there is literally dirt and oatmeal tracked/blown all over my entire apartment. Eventually I borrowed Phil's vacuum and took care of that, but it was quite the blow.

Now this week I've been having trouble with my toilet not flushing right. Two plungers (yeah, I borrowed Phil's. Surprise, surprise.) and three days later I'm still a little iffy about it, though it's getting the job done. Eventually.

Oh, and the last... I don't know, say, 6 times?... I've made cookies, I've burnt the hell outta them. Also, I've been microwaving tortillas and bagels. Which apparently is a domestic sin.

Sigh. Someday I WILL have a respectable home life. Mark my words.