Guns

I was in Tennessee and Alabama last week hangin’ with my girls. My tribe.
Two of them are from Canada, the land of Mounties and mooses—and Justin Trudeau—which they rub in my face every chance they get.

She was telling me over duck-fat tater-tots (you heard me) that when she phoned her mom to tell her she was coming to the States, her mother didn’t tell her to have fun, or ask her for a t-shirt from Nashville (which is up there with Vegas and Disneyland in its “We don’t have anything like this in Canada” gobsmackery.)

Nope. Her mom voiced her concern. It went something like this:

“Mom, I’ll be in the United States next week.”

“Aww jeez honey, don’t get shot.”

Wtf? That’s embarrassing.

It breaks my heart. And it makes me mad. 
Because it happened on my watch. Our country became this dysfunctional, hot mess on MY watch?

The fact that the rest of the civilized world is afraid to come here for fear of some loon opening fire and killing them with his Constitutionally protected assault rifle while they innocently sit eating a tater tot is sad—and disgusting.

What has become of us? What does it say about America when sane folks warn their daughters to duck and cover?

A few weeks ago Trump signed into law some legislation making it easier for the mentally ill to get guns. You know, because who doesn’t want that?

I’ve always had such a hard time with this “right” to own a firearm. Listen, my husband has guns. He relishes his right to own them. He is skilled with them, respects them, and locks them up when they’re not in use and most importantly, last time I checked—he wasn’t crazy. But sadly, that is not the case with some people.

And I have to say, their rights are starting to infringe on mine!

I have to go through metal detectors at museums, concerts and sporting events. Some schools even have then now.

I have to open my bag at most public social events and let people poke around in there.

And the past few times I’ve flown I’ve been subjected to a body scan at the airport even though I’m TSA pre-check approved.

When do I get MY rights back? When do I get to laugh at my friend’s mom for being neurotic nervous Nelly—instead of prudent?

When will they stop interpreting the Constitution for their purposes?

When does this madness end? I don’t have the answers.

Thanks for the rant. 

Oh…Canada.

Feel stuff. Stay involved. Vote.

Carry on,
xox

I heard a statistic today. One that I found so hard to believe I had to look it up—and it’s true—and it put me over the edge.

There are more gun dealers in the U.S. than there are Starbucks in the ENTIRE WORLD.

Now, here is why I find that so hard to believe. I’ve traveled pretty extensively and that’s the one thing, good or bad, that you can count on seeing in a foreign country.
A Starbucks. Oh, and a KFC.

I’m at a loss here you guys.

And I’m pissed. And I don’t like to post my rants, but after talking to numerous people the past couple of days, I know I’m not alone in feeling…sad…confused and mad as hell!

After the events of this past Sunday morning, I just have to go on record as saying, how fucking sick I am of these mass shootings.

What are we to do?

Vote?

Our politicians are bogged down by partisan rhetoric. The two party system is in shambles, while fear and rage, two very dangerous bedfellows, have hijacked a cross section of our citizenry and are fanning some very scary flames.

We are assured that the background checks will stop any “bad guys” from being able to buy guns.
And just for the record, I’m sure any self-respecting bad guy gets his guns from other bad guys at the bad guy gun shop located in the back of some bad guy’s garage. He doesn’t fill out paperwork and wait the three days for the background check to clear…

Or does he?

This guy had been questioned repeatedly by the FBI and was even on some kind of terrorist watch list and yet—he was able to purchase an assault weapon a couple of weeks ago along with a regular handgun.

And in a twisted case of truth is crueler than fiction, can you guess who does the background checks?
The FBI.
They missed a guy—on a watch list—who was buying an assault rifle. I feel safe.

While we’re at it let’s talk about the AR-15, shall we?
This is a weapon of mass destruction that has killed innocent elementary children at Newtown.
Innocent movie-goers in Aurora.
Innocent student and faculty in San Bernadino.
And innocent party-goers in Orlando.

And it can be obtained legally.

Can we just all agree, once and for all, in the complete INSANITY of a private citizen being able to own a military weapon? An assault rifle?

Don’t argue with me on this. I’m not in the mood!

This time, the guy targeted gays and latinos. Then he pledged allegiance to Isis.

Not my problem! you say. (Not you guys, because I know you would never say that, but people do).

They pissed him off, somehow. You wanna know why? Because he wasn’t paying enough attention to his own life—he was judging theirs.

Which puts us ALL in the crosshairs. Who is watching you right now, hating what you stand for?

What if someone decides that blonds are fair game?
Or big mouths?
Or cat owners…because…well, cats.
What if a person decides that all bald men are evil?
Or guys who drive pick-ups.
Or people with children?

So we have to heighten out vigilance. Right?

That turns us into a nation of raging, paranoid separatists who are paying way too much attention to what the other guy is doing.

Who do we keep from immigrating? Whose records do we scrutinize? Who do we keep an eye on?

Men? These mass killers are mostly men.

Muslims?

The mentally ill?

Those with anger management issues?

Where does the list end?

When does it stop?

I’m at a loss here. I really am.

Someone explain this to me so I can be funny tomorrow.

Carry on,
xox

Check your thermometers and change your vacation plans because,
HELL HAS JUST FROZEN OVER.

That is a picture of a GUN in my hand.

Don’t get your panties in a bunch now, relax, I’ll explain.

This morning my expert in all things gun related, paid me an early visit; while I still had both courage and coffee running through my veins.

My husband you say? No way!

His lifetime allotment of patience wouldn’t be enough to allow him to tackle teaching me about weapons. Although he is an aficionado and quite a good shot, ( I framed a target from the range that one of his buddies brought me. There’s isn’t a mark on it – except for a giant hole in the middle, where he emptied his pistol) we both agreed that Ernie is up to the task at hand.

Ernie is the guard at the jewelry store I used to work at, and since he is allowed by law, to carry a concealed weapon at work, he has to stay very current and adept with his gun skills. I have always been silently grateful for that, since my life was in his hands; and I’m ashamed (only slightly) to admit to having plied him with cake, brownies and cookies to stay in his good graces – so he would save me first.

He takes everyone (my husband, his friends, my friends – everyone’s friends) to the range for practice when he goes, and is a very skilled, thoughtful and patient teacher.

I’ve never gone. I’ve always declined because I’m scared beyond all reason.

Ever since I can remember, I’ve had an irrational fear of guns. 
I can’t look at them, let alone touch one. (Check out the old dog’s face, she can’t believe what she’s seeing).

If I even catch a glimpse of Ernie’s gun it makes me cry, so he never removes his jacket; even when the air conditioning broke and it was an oven in the store.
Yes, he’s THAT nice, and yes, I’m THAT mean.
I’m telling you – it’s irrational.

When I was in line at a fast food restaurant and a couple of cops were next to me and wearing their weapons, I froze, then I started to shake and cry, and I had to run out.
I wasn’t nine, I was forty nine. That’s crazy, I know.

Since I’m in my fifties I’m all about confronting my fears.
They are imaginary after all; just the stories I keep telling myself. A gun is plastic and metal, and is only dangerous in the wrong hands, and it cannot kill me if it isn’t loaded. Still, I must be shown ten times, that there is no bullet in the chamber before I will even LOOK at it.

Let me set the record straight, I’m no fan of the second amendment.
I can’t fathom why, in the twenty first century, we need the right to bear arms. That all made perfect sense to our founding fathers because it was the 18th century, and the only thing I know for SURE about guns is that their only intended purpose is to kill.

That always makes me say: I HATE GUNS, when the more accurate statement would be: I’M SCARED OF GUNS, I HATE GUN VIOLENCE.

That being said, I find myself surrounded by men and women who take guns and that amendment very seriously. They are well trained, and practiced and I gotta tell ya, if the zombies come, I want them on my team.

Another thing I know for sure: Knowledge is Power.
At this stage of my life there aren’t a lot of things I know NOTHING about, yet, I am completely clueless where guns are concerned, which has started to make me feel…..disempowered. That does not sit well with me at this age. I want to conquer my fears. I want to know how to load and hold and fire a gun.

There. I said it.
(It still makes me shake.)

Can bungee jumping and sky diving be far behind?
Yes, yes they can. Maybe sixties for those.

So… It’s time. I’m going to pull up my big girl Annie Oakley pants and I’ve made the commitment to go with the whole gang to the range on Monday.
That’s why Ernie started the aversion therapy today.
Part two will be Thurday. I suppose what comes next will be me holding it for more than thirty seconds.

I may forget to be home Thursday.

After getting all testosteroned up at the range, they have a tradition where they all go to Hooters for lunch – because the chicken wings are so good. I swear, that’s their story.
I think the sight of boobies helps them back to balance.
I’m a good sport, so I’ll be tagging along.
I’m looking forward, no, I’m actually counting on the boobies bringing me back to balance.

I’ll let you know how this goes….

What fears are you conquering? Have you waited as long I have?
Who’s afraid of guns out there? Who hates them?
Yell at me, talk some sense into me.

Love you,
Xox