But what I didn’t expect?
Was a next-generation follow-up to that True Story Tuesday of old.
Here it is – in all its glory… with a new ending. Just because apparently, the
apple bullet doesn’t fall far from the tree…
Hunka Hunka Burning
Whilst dating my rugged redneck, I knew that the day would come when I’d be expected to join in some Annie Oakley activity.
Let’s go shooting. You wanna go shooting? Let’s head up to the Peak tomorrow and fire off a few rounds.
Umm. Sure hon.
Then in pure terror, I ran off to my parent's’ house and sought out my dad.
See, I’m not kidding when I say that you don’t want to mess with the guy. He’s as respectful and patient as they come, but he’s got the kind of aim that makes law enforcement glad he’s on their side.
You know… the hero of the movie during the shootout scene? Where all the cops are going bang bang bang and the bad guy is just dancing around? Until Mr. Saves the Day gets there and ends it with one shot? Yeah, that’s my dad.
So I convinced him to talk me through a crash course. While my mother stood there and blankly wondered what someone had done with her city girl, I learned about safeties, loading, how to grip, how to stand, and how to aim with your dominant eye.
But I still hadn’t fired a single shot.
Shooting day comes and I’ve resolved to be as goofy as possible – so my atrocious performance can be attributed to the “just having fun” excuse.
I forgot how competitive I was.
We drive up to the Peak. It’s a hot day and I’ve donned an uncharacteristic ballcap to keep the sun out of my eyes. (Uncharacteristic because who wants to listen to that hearing aid whistle all day?)
(Mr. Daddy in: You want to see cute, you should see her in a ballcap with her hair pulled into a pony tail out the back… *grin*)
(Rachel in: Oh what? Now you’re gonna butt in on my story? I see how it is. That little remark was just to bug me… he knows I hate being called cute).
I’m dreading my turn with the gun. Especially when I realize that Mr. Daddy has brought eleventy-hundred of them along with my weight in ammunition.
No backing out. My first dilemma is to choose which gun to shoot.
Let me be honest here. I cannot identify handguns by caliber. I’m a girl. This is not prerequisite in our training. A girl can tell you exactly what kind of engagement ring she’d like – down to the cut, clarity, color, carat, dimensions, setting metal, and size (by the way… my wedding set was EXACTLY what I wanted, and a family heirloom to boot!). But guns? There’s a trigger, then a BOOM, right?
So as Mr. Daddy begins discussing the calibers of the guns, I’m nodding blankly and and praying I don’t look like a total fool. Several comments later, he decides that the grip and size of the Beretta .9mm would be best to try first.
He shoves the magazine in and shows me the mechanics. He sets up some aluminum cans and a Starbucks cup against the dirt hillside and backs away. He fires and hits the cans. Again and again. Then the cup goes flying and lands upright.
He hands the gun to me. My hands are sweating, shaking, and apparently not listening to my brain.
I mentally tick through all the steps as I find my stance, check my aim, kick the safety off, and take a breath. On the exhale, I squeeze the trigger and the gun slightly bounces in my hands.
WHOO-HOO! I actually hit something within my line of sight! Mr. Daddy cracks up at my expression and tells me to fire again.
(Mr. Daddy in: Yeah the hillside was in her line of sight….*snicker*)
My second shot I hit an aluminum can sitting near the coffee cup. I keep shooting, getting into a groove… then finally make the money shot.
(Mr. Daddy in: Actually I am not sure if it was the second shot or the second clip load…and that baby holds 16 rounds in a clip load)
(Rachel in: Oooooh! You wanna step outside for a minute? ;)
Remember Mr. Daddy hit the Starbucks cup? Oh yeah baby… you should have seen the look on his face when I shot the lid off the cup! It twirled up in the air and prompted some pretty riotous celebration from this city girl.
(Mr. Daddy in: Seriously, she was like Michael Jackson on crack, hopping and jumping around, and squealing. Totally unprofessional…)
(Rachel in: There may or may not have been several NYAH NYAH NYAH I outshot you references…)
(Mr. Daddy in: Did I mention TOTALLY unprofessional???)
Next, Mr. Daddy hands me a revolver. Seriously?!?! But I’m still giddy over the coffee cup lid shot, so I feign confidence and fire away.
Can you say SHOCK AND AWE ?
The gun bucks in my hand and I take a step backwards. If I wasn’t deaf before, I surely am now.
Yikes! But as was the rule with the .9mm, I must finish the round of shots. I did passably, while repeatedly offering reminders to my redneck that this was his city girl’s FIRST time ever shooting.
Then he does it. He breaks out the .22. Telling me the whole time that he thinks I’ll really like this one.
I’m guessing he HOPES I like it because he has waaaay too much ammo for it.
And you know how you’ll do just about anything to impress the person you’re dating? Yeah, I was trying to prove all this gunpowder didn’t phase me a bit.
So I take my stance, raise the gun, switch the safety, and fire. Not too bad. Again. And again.
A few shots in, I see a puff in the distance where the bullet struck dirt. More importantly, in slow motion, I see the shell flying out of the top of the gun.
Flipping end over end… heading straight for the brim of my ballcap. It’s a direct shot and the shell ricochets in a diagonal…
Straight down my shirt.
The shell was blazing hot and hit flat where it could do the most damage.
Then the blasted thing rolled. I kid you not. It rolled down to my bra.
Oh if that were only the end of it. But this is a True Story Tuesday, so of course it’s not.
The little molten piece of brass gets stuck in my bra… really and truly stuck.
It is burning the snot out of me and I am yelping and shrieking and jumping all over the place. I am grabbing at my shirt with one hand while pointing the gun down with the other. I am screaming at Mr. Daddy,
“Take the gun! Take the gun! Take the gun! TAKE THE GUN!”
(Mr. Daddy in: How do you take the gun when it is still live, and Rach is hopping around like a three legged coyote at a chicken convention???)
(Rachel in: Where do you get these, dear? Snort)
And of course my chivalrous cowboy takes his sweet time rescuing the loaded gun from my grip… because he is bent over double laughing his redneck butt off.
(Mr. Daddy in: Give me a break, my eyes were tearing up and I couldn’t see…)
Finally he grabs the gun and stands there breathless from laughter as I pull my bra away from my torso. He explodes in laughter anew as the dastardly shell falls from under my shirt and clinks on the ground below.
My eyes are full of tears from the burns and from trying desperately not to laugh. I give up and laugh while crying as I inspect the trail of gunpowder that runs in black blisters from my clavicle to (ahem) right between the sisters.
(Mr. Daddy in: Ladies take your mind outta the gutter. No it was not a cheap trick to sneak a peek. It was fate or providence, I’m telling you…. DON’T JUDGE ME!!!)
Mr. Daddy offers a cold bottled water as rudimentary pain relief, between howls of laughter. Definitely not a painless way to impress the man you want to marry.
(Mr. Daddy in: I offered to kiss it to make it feel better…. But ya’ll can imagine how that went down, when she smacks me for just takin’ a picture of her cute butt…)
Fast forward to yesterday… I still make funny faces while shooting.
(the additional clips in my pocket add 10 pounds. the double chin is just a figment of your imagination, k?)
I quickly get back to shooting my favorite weapon – my Canon. (Oh HUSH Dana).
In case you missed it, I caught this awesomesauce shot of Mr. Daddy firing away:
And then we come to the crazy part of our story… See, that redneck man of mine has convinced this city chick that it is important for kids to learn gun safety from a young age. We live out in the country and there is good reason to pack self-defense where wild animals are concerned.
So I (freaking out city chick) watched as my husband thoroughly instructed Itty Bit on the finer points of making sure no one gets hurt. He then carefully let Itty Bit help hold the gun.
And dangit… wouldn’t you know?
That hot shell casing flipped out, hit underneath the rim of his hat, then fell at his feet.
(See it in the pictures?)
For the record… he thought it was hi-larious.
Me? I’m still in shock that the kid who held a .22, is the same one I can’t get to stop licking the windows…
King Julien is convinced we live in The Truman Show. Got any stories that qualify? Something outrageous, hilarious, miraculous, and true? Just grab the TST button, paste it into your post, and link back here. We’ll be around for some comment love!