1.12.13

Greg got a new gun this week.  It's some sort of assault rifle.  He had to buy one before they got banned again or else he'd never be able to buy one and then he'd never have an assault rifle again (he had one in high school that he sold to buy a different gun)...and I want a new BOB so I said yes.

We took it out shooting on Saturday.  It's a heavy gun. Of all the guns I shot on Saturday it was the easiest to shoot, but really that's relative.  Greg would know all the number and such to go along with his guns but I'll just tell you a bit about them.  We started off with shot guns.  I shot Greg's Pop's (grandpa) gun.  It threw me back a good 2 inches.  I literally jumped into the air.  Then I shot some smaller shot guns but still didn't hit anything.  

Actually, I didn't hit a single thing all day.  I'm really bad at sports.  (Suspend your non-Southern/hick disbelief a minute here and just roll with me).  Every time the clay would go up for me to shoot I'd get everything lined up and tell myself to keep my eyes open but as soon as my finger pulled the trigger, BAM it was like a steel vault.  I could not get my eyes to stay open.  I missed every shot.  Same reason I can't catch a ball, or kick a ball, or throw a ball, or anything else with a ball.  To be honest, half the time I run with my eyes closed.  Point is: there's a reason I don't play sports that require hand-eye coordination, which apparently also includes shooting.

Back to the shooting.  Next we shot one of Grandpa's old guns.  This was a standard issue World War I rifle.  This thing was crazy.  It made Greg jump so image what it did to me.  Needless to say I didn't hit any of the targets and my spotters (the people who are supposed to tell you where you did hit so you can adjust and hit the second time) were too busy watching me go flying to actually see where I hit.  I shot it twice.  It was a tough gun to shoot, mostly because I was afraid the recoil was going to take my eye out.  I don't know how soldier carried that thing around and were actually able to use it (as a firearm--I could also see it used a as a club) to defend themselves.

Last we shot the AK (the new one).  It was by far the easiest to shoot with the least amount of kick back, but too heavy for me to aim accurately, as if the weight of the gun really makes a difference for me.

My new name at church is (we went with Greg's old scout leader and some other people from the ward) is Fearless because I shot all the guns even though they were bigger than me.  Greg, on the other hand, is Eagle Eye or something like that.  He hit every shot.  Every. Single. Shot.  (Notice I'm trying some new blogger style here--I've never done a serious of single word sentences that are really one sentence but that I separate out to make my point more clearly).

I was the holder of the guns.  They thought this was a pretty funny picture.  Neither gun is loaded , by the way.

To make up for all the Southern-hickness of our Saturday morning date, I made Greg take me to Panera for lunch--nothing like soup and salad to go with your guns.

PS when I first met Greg, he was not like this.  I knew he was from the South, but he didn't have an accent and he got 5's on both of the AP English tests.  I thought of him as a sophisticated Southern.  And then we got married, and he wanted a dog.  Lots of people have dogs.  No red flags, yet.  Then he needed a truck because he needed a truck.  Getting more southern.  Then he needed a dog to put in his truck.  Oh dear.  Then he wanted his guns to target shoot.  I'm starting to worry.  Then he started hunting...it's a slippery slope to Southern hick, one I am earnestly try to steer very far away from for my WEST COAST children.  They, like I, are temporarily displaced in the South.  Nevertheless, I still love Greg.  There are worse things he could do.  Besides in case of the zombie apocalypse we have adequate firearms and at least Greg knows how to use them.