Tag Archives: guns

Ouch, That Burns or Why I’ll Never Wear a Low-Cut Dress to the Gun Club Again

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Sheepdog and I went on a date yesterday.  It was actually a double date with new friends, Fat Bastard (self-named, but he’s not even fat – he’s just old) and his Very Cool Wife.  We had talked about things that we have in common and settled on a casual dinner.  But first we decided to bond over shooting some guns.

Sheepdog is always up for a little target practice at the range.  He probably goes once a month to shoot and to grope the cool new merchandise on the shelves.  And by “grope” I do mean moan softly while he touches and fondles the guns inappropriately.  His latest obsession is an AR-15, which is a semi-automatic sport rifle that one would apparently use to shoot most kinds of varmints.  That man really loves guns.

Sheepdog's latest mistress

So our new friends are from the arctic tundra (or Wisconsin) where they apparently grow up with not much else to do but hunting and ice fishing.  The saying goes that the four major food groups there are cheese, beer, fish and venison.  And everybody from there either has a friend, relative or a pet named Brett.  Anyway, they were totally up for some fun with guns so we swung by their house and picked them up.

When we got out of the car there was some talk about me being too dressed up.  I kind of was, but you have to understand that I own sweatpants/ pajamas and I own dresses.  I have nothing in between.  So I had opted to wear a summer dress and (as a favor to Sheepdog) some high-heeled sandals.  We were going out to eat afterwards, so it wasn’t completely unreasonable that I would be in a dress.  It was just a little weird and out of place at the shooting range, but I certainly didn’t care.  Sheepdog, of course, thought it was hot and was all for it.

So we are at the gun club and we put on our eyes (protective glasses) and ears (Monster Beats by Dr. Dre headphones) and we pick out our target practice sheets.  Sheepdog gives us a little safety reminder class and he sets us up in Lane 10.  Very Cool Wife is up first and she shoots the Glock once to get a feel for it.  Then Mrs. Jack Bauer up and busts a cap or two (or fifteen) into the neck and torso of the terrorist holding an RPG.  She was completely bad ass.

By the time I was up I was still a little nervous, as it has been a while since I last went shooting.  I am a safety girl, so I asked Sheepdog to give me yet another rundown.  Soon I felt comfortable enough to shoot.  I like the standard black and white target dummy with a red “X” over his heart.  I shot the crap out of that thing.  I loved the power of the gun in my hands, even though I have never been able to get the grip just right.  I always end up with blood on my thumb from the recoil.  I didn’t empty the magazine, but I was satisfied for the moment and let Sheepdog finish that one out for me.

So the four of us rotated for a while and we each took turns with the different target sheets.  Bullet casings were flying left and right as they discharged.  We were trying shots with both of the guns that Sheepdog brought and we also experimented with distance shooting.  We were having a good time.  It was really fun.  And then…

I was shooting the Glock 9mm again (which is definitely my favorite handgun).  Now, everybody develops a certain stance when they are shooting.  Some people stand loosely and some are more rigid in the knees and elbows – there are dozens of variations.  I choose to stand with my legs apart and my arms fairly close together, while my elbows are a little relaxed.  Risking TMI, I will tell you that this actually causes my boobs to get pushed together, which is neither here nor there except that one of the bullet casings flew up into the air upon discharge and then promptly fell into my cleavage.

One minute I was thinking about protecting my family from bad guys, super proud that I was pumping lead into the target’s face, throat and heart, and the next minute my twins were screaming in pain from the burning hot shell casing that was trapped in between them.  My survival instincts were strong but I was still all Safety First, so I promptly placed the handgun on the counter facing downrange.  But let me tell you that my hands were fishing around for the hot metal in my bra toute de suite.

It hurt at the time, but fortunately my boobs are just fine.  The burn was very mild and almost completely unnoticeable by this morning.  And I got a lesson that I hope all of you will learn from as well… don’t ever wear a low-cut dress to the gun club.  There’s good reason why everyone else there is in crew neck t-shirts and jeans.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…

Look Out! I’m Packing

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

No, not a gun, which – let’s face it – should in fact scare the bejesus out of everyone who knows me.  There are certainly some days that I could be the poster child for road rage.  I wouldn’t shoot people, mind you, but I would sure as a Swiss watch shoot some tires that belong to the idiots, the texters and the people who can’t be bothered to thank me with a simple wave.  What has happened to manners on the road, people?  No, I am actually packing up to go back home to Atlanta.  But you should still be a little scared of me right now.

Much more apropos that this picture represent peace than that stupid Mercedes sign inside of a circle

You see, I am a Master Packer.  If there were a class in packing, I would have slept through every one then just showed up for the final gotten an A plus.  I would have a Ph.D. in Stowage.  Opportunus Plures res in vegrandis tractus.  I can pack so much into such little space that I often amaze myself.  And I don’t even need those SpaceBag things (while I must admit that they are quite amazing).  My mind just sees a big game of Tetris and I can turn things and flip them and make them fit into other things and then into whatever space I’m working with.  Or I’ll just throw it out/ not bring it with me.

But talent like this does not come without a price.  In the hours leading up to a Big Pack I can become distracted and sullen and moody.  My mind is working so hard to plan and calculate the puzzle that will soon lie before me that I have no time for common social mores, like feeding my hungry children (“Am I wearing a sign that says, ‘Carl’s Slave?’”) or not growling at people just because they have the nerve to speak to me.

I am busy doing laundry, finding duffel bags (they pack much better than inflexible suitcases), tracking lost items, planning for eventualities and random possibilities (do you think Mary Poppins’ bag got packed all by itself?), and re-assembling bike and roof racks.  And then I have to check the DVR to see if the season premiere of Flipping Out recorded yet (priorities!).  I love me some Jeff Lewis.  He always makes me feel better because at least I’m not as crazy as he is.  Plus, it was fantastically funny when he taught that 3-year-old girl to say her favorite drink was chardonnay.  Then I have to pack.  Dun dun dun.

Fortunately for those directly involved in the process, today is cloudy and not at all a good beach day.  Before this weather actually presented itself I had some crazy scheme planned that involved a final day on the beach followed by last-minute loads and loads of laundry and cleaning (and subsequent drying!) of beach gear prior to a late night packing session.  Right, because there is nothing less stressful than a Big Pack on a deadline. (guess what… I got that from my daddy too – heh, heh).

So today will be mildly taxing, but soon enough we will be on the road again.  I am hoping for a drive day that is free of incidents, whining (by me or the kids) and speeding tickets.  A girl can dream, can’t she?  And when we finally get back to Georgia I will open a big bottle of wine.  I am beginning to notice a trend here.

Wish me luck for tomorrow… (I really mean it, because that drive is going to be L-O-N-G)

Let’s Agree to Disagree

Posted on by Stacy Swiger

Everything comes down to the He'n and She'n

Sheepdog and I have a great relationship.  He is the yang to my yin.  The out to my in.  The pragmatic to my fly off the handle.  We make a really good team.

We met when we were both twenty-years-old in college.  We got married just one month after graduating.  We were babies.  We both say all the time that we are so fortunate that we still liked each other after we sobered up.  True story.

It helps that we are on the same page about so many of the big things… finances, religion, politics, discipline, priorities, work ethic, what color to paint the house.  Those things really matter when you are dealing with the day-to-day crap that can sometimes drive a couple apart.

But, like every other couple, we don’t always see eye to eye.  Sometimes Sheepdog can be a dummy and he doesn’t see things my way, i.e. The Right Way.  Our disagreements certainly aren’t marriage-ending or earth-shattering, but they are ongoing.  For example, these are a few of our always-on-the-table points of contention:

  1. Tattoos.  Him:  Has two already.  Negotiated for new tattoos every time I suggested we should have another kid.  Another tat would be so freakin’ cool!  Me:  Hell no.  I have a Sharpie.  C’mere and let me give you another “tattoo,” mister.  Oh, and wait until Kids B and/ or C (Kid A wouldn’t even think about it) come home with tramp stamps.  Let’s hear how you feel about tattoos then.
  2. Guns.  Him:  Grew up in West Virginia, where they apparently issue “Baby’s First Shotgun” upon pre-school graduation.  He is a proud, sticker-weilding member of the NRA.  Me: Didn’t touch a gun until Sheepdog taught me to shoot empty beer cans with a 12-gauge, double-barreled shotgun in college (romantic?) and paper burglar targets with a Glock 19 a few years ago.  I respect the gun, but will always be a little scared of it.  I’d rather not even think about them, frankly.  I always manage to forget the code to our gun safe.
  3. Camping.  Him: Avid outdoorsman who would choose to live in a lean-to if I agreed.  Loves everything about the outdoors, including wiping with leaves.  Me: I only use Cottonnelle Ultra.  I see no point in camping.  Camping is for people who are not smart enough to know where to find a 5-star hotel.
  4. Girls in (Really) High Heels.  Him: The higher, the better.  All women should be required to wear high heels when greeting their man at the door after a long, hard day at work.  And nothing else.  Me: I wear flip-flops year round.

We have always called each other out on our B.S.  If I can count on no one else (well, before we had children who couldn’t wait to tell me that my hair looked crazy or that I am wrong about the facts), then I could always count on Sheepdog to give me the hard truth, or at least his version of it.

Except for when he wants some.  Then he knows he had better see things The Right Way.  And maybe I’ll even put on some heels.

Wish me luck for tomorrow…