I drove up to my mother’s house late on a Friday afternoon, both kids in tow, and left them there. After I made them dinner and told my mother how to take care of them, because it’s not like she’s been taking care of children for over 30 years. Also, traffic was terrible. That’s not really related, but it was really, really terrible.
The next morning, Hubbles and I got up an hour early so we could head across town for a before-it-gets-too-damned-hot-out rendezvous for some trap shooting with friends (the somewhat infamous Mr. and Mrs. Animal). Of the four of us, I am certainly the least experienced with a gun of any sort and had actually only ever been shooting once before, at an indoor range with stationary targets, and a rifle with very little recoil. The same could not be said for the clay pigeons nor the shotgun. I also had to verify that trap shooting was the same thing as “skeet shooting” and that the little orange discs were called clay pigeons. I forgot to ask if they were actually clay, though. We each did a round of 25 shots, and I’ll let you guess who hit the least. To my credit, and by “credit” I mean “blind luck”, I hit one dead on and chipped a couple more. I actually had to swap out for Animal’s better padded vest after the first couple of shots because the recoil on the shotgun was slamming my shoulder so hard. Here is where I
whine explain that I have chronic chest wall inflammation so that’s totally why I’m such a wuss. It’s because even just touching my torso can be painful.
Also, I’m kind of a wuss.
Even though I wasn’t very successful, it was a lot of fun. I have no idea how to correct in this situation since I couldn’t really tell where I was shooting versus where the pigeon was going, but we plan on going shooting again and I can get more practice with some stationary targets first. Plus, I’m at least familiar with loading and firing the ruddy thing, and if I ever had to use it in an emergency capacity, my target would likely be significantly larger and closer than a flying clay pigeon. And I hear with a shotgun you don’t have to be especially accurate to dissuade unwanted company anyway.
After the Hubbles and I developed some matching blooming shoulder bruises, we all went to lunch at this awesome place called Bonefish. No, wait, scratch that. We drove down there and they were closed, because even though they have a lunch menu on their website, they don’t open until 4pm. Makes perfect sense. Instead we went to Bass Pro Shops, which has their own fish restaurant, and lots of aquariums and really nice taxidermy. And live ducklings. And pink camo. And a fancy-shmancy section where they sell antique guns that cost as much as an entire house and have certificates of authenticity.
Hubbles had to pick up a couple things while we were there, as he goes hunting and fishing* with Animal, and I made him spend an extra $4.76 on those square bird seed thingies to keep the federally protected woodpeckers from eating our house. He was not pleased. It’s possible I’m high maintenance. Actually, the birds are the high maintenance ones, so I’m not sure why I was the one getting the stink-eye for excessive bird food expenditures. I’d make a joke about how woodpeckers are assholes, except it’s completely true. If they weren’t, they probably wouldn’t need to be protected by law to keep irritated homeowners from throwing rocks at them. Not that I’d ever throw a rock at a woodpecker. Because it’s illegal.
Once we finally dilly-dallied ourselves home, it was time for us to pick up the kids from Grandma, who was quite exhausted by then. Just kidding. We went home and had an afternoon nap first. Then I got Hubbles to go pick up the kids because I usually hate driving. Unfortunately, not driving meant I didn’t have an excuse not to do the dishes while he was out. It occurs to me that a steady diet of human kibble would eliminate a lot of dishes, cooking time, and kitchen appliances. Kibble for humans, not of humans. Really, I shouldn’t even have to clarify this. Unless Puppy Chow is made from real puppies, but I’ve seen enough pet food recalls lately that I’m suddenly not entirely certain the clarification is facetious.
*For the unfamiliar, hunting is when you go camping with a variety of guns and ample cheesey-bacon-hamburgers on bacon-grease toasted bagels, followed up with a side of bacon, and if you’re extremely lucky you might accidentally shoot a deer. Fishing is when you drive two hours each way to sit next to a pond only to discover that your reel is broken, so you may as well just go get lunch at that bar in town.