Bet You Can't Guess What I Did This Weekend!

No, really, I was there and I can't believe it happened.

I went to a shooting range. But there was a good reason. AlabamaPink decreed that some shizzle needed to be blown up and you don't argue with a prepared zombie-fighter like her. So off I went, after spending a good 20 minutes trying to figure out what one wears to a shooting range (when dinner out is happening afterwards). I had nothing bright orange, nor camouflage, so I went with black, hoping to blend in with the expected disaffected youth clientele (damn those video games!).

I followed the directions on the website which were not correct, so I had to pull over and call Stephano, my go-to-girl for questions of the country persuasion. She's completely citified, but she has seen the Blue Collar Comedy Tour live, so that qualifies her for this type of situation. Or at least I thought so. Turns out Stephano has only pumped lead into rusting appliances in the backyard. In any case, I was glad to have her on the phone when a trio of expected disaffected youth with GUNS IN THEIR WAISTBANDS walked by. Stephano stayed on the phone for safety as I cautiously ventured down the dark road from which they came.

Now I should point out here that I come from a no gun family. We don't own them, we don't shoot them, we read about them in books. There was purportedly a handgun in a locked metal box hidden on the top shelf of my grandfather's closet in Toronto -- I never saw it, hence the purportedly -- that may or may not have been the gun used to defend my grandmother's grandfather's general store. I'm sure somebody told me that once. Other than one skeet-shooting foray, I've never touched a real firearm.

So imagine my surprise when I walked up to the counter and nobody called me out as a fake and a phony. Instead, they merely asked if I had my own gun or if I would like to use one of theirs. I was prepared for this question thanks to a conversation with my co-worker, Hunter. [I know! The delicious coincidence of that!] Hunter had suggested a Sig Sauer 225. O.K., whatever, I've read about those. So they gave me the gun, a box of ammo, a paper target ("bulls eye, please, I'm no killer"), and a staple gun all in one of those little plastic baskets you use at the grocery store. Weird.

I put on my protective eye (fogged up!) and ear (not good with earrings!) gear, and made my way down to the range. The shooting party was well underway. They had an arsenal, so I was greeted by five backs happily blasting away at targets. Thankfully, they put their weapons down before they turned around to greet me. Nor did they mock me when I handed over my grocery store basket and said, "What do I do?"

Over the next hour, I proceeded to shoot all manner of firearms: a small and delicate antique handgun (not too satisfying after the Sig), a shotgun of some kind (bad for those of us not wearing a contact in the sighting eye), a fancy handgun (wicked kick back into the soft flesh between thumb and finger), some really big gun of Mr. AlabamaPink (TOO LOUD), and the Sig (satisfying large holes in the target and rapid shooting action). I started hitting the targets after AlabamaPink explained about the whole sighting apparatus thingies.

I also found out that bullet casings fly out and hit you in the boob. That part was a surprise as I don't ever remember any literary female detective mentioning it. If you ask me nicely, I'll even show you one. A casing, not a boob. Probably.

Tell all your single friends, shoot loudly and wear a chest guard.

XO, JamieSmitten