A Boy and His Shirt

A couple months ago was some guy's birthday. Said guy received a beautiful flannel shirt, perfect for his week long camping adventure following the birthday celebrations. Some girl lovingly wrapped the flannel shirt and presented the guy with the present early on the morning of May 12th.

Some guy blinked and waivered between ecstatic jumping and forlorn crying. While the guy appreciated the thoughtful gift he could not be convinced that baby blue looked manly. The girl lost the debate and repackaged the shirt so it could be returned.

The guy camped without his flannel. The girl hung her head in despair. A birthday gone awry.

One week passed. Then another. The girl found a familiar package in the mailbox. She recognized the awkward tape job and saw her name peeking beneath a few labels. Inside the package was the rejected flannel shirt. A jumbled return brought the flannel home. The girl presented the present with hesitation and a solid compliment.

The guy conceded and wore the shirt to work.

Beautiful. Fantastic. Amazing. swooned his coworkers. Some guy went home that night and kissed his wife for the the best shirt of the year. Said guy abandoned his own sense of fashion for life, appointing the girl his personal shopper.

Miss Fire

Skip decided I needed a Daisy Red Ryder to improve my shooting stance, tone my arm muscles, and reign in my target spread. Apparently we like small scatters on the target, not holes in the neighbors garage.

Also, Skip wanted me to want to go skeet shooting. While I'm not opposed to shooting skeeters it seemed a little excessive and hard to do. I prefer bug spray. You laugh, but skeet shooting felt like trying to smack a mosquito. Awesome if you hit one, frustrating when you don't and it left an itch I couldn't scratch. I really did not like missing the skeet. The gun experts told me to lead the target and shoot when I couldn't see it. OH, and keep your head down, lean forward, stand on one leg, and sing the national anthem. I was trying not to tip over or drop the gun. Thanks guys.

That first trip out left me annoyed. I hit three by accident and the rest of the time shot blindly. I would have done just as well to have my eyes closed. The only thing I felt good about is my fast reflexes. Instead of taking time for things like aiming and breathing I yelled "pull" and and flicked the trigger. My coaches complained that I was shooting ahead of the target, when most beginners lag behind.

Enter Daisy. Skip determined I needed practice. He bought me the gun and a pack of ginger ale. We could quench our thirst and my queasy  stomach all in the name of target practice. I became a quick and accurate shot when the pop can was a mere 12 inches away. A natural. Then I learned an old western trick and made the pop can dance. As it flipped and turned my shot distance grew. Soon I was hitting at 80 percent and 16 foot distance.

This translated well over the weekend when I battled the skeet again. True to my style I fired quickly, but this time I heard a reassuring smack and ducked as the broken skeet sprayed around me. I even endured my first misfire in the middle of my round. While loading the case I drove a bullet into the ground. My sleuth of a husband determined there was no way possible I touched the trigger based on the two handed hold I need to load the bullet. The guys jumped a little, I jumped a lot, and then they welcomed me into the club of official gunsmen. If you haven't had a misfire, you haven't shot much. Or so they say. I say you're lucky.