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.

Sweet Little Nothings

In case you wondered what it's like to live with and be loved by a writer, here it is:

And zoomed in...

And for those of you who don't read with mirrors I quote: "Love U so much, makes me sick!"

Girl Dating

For the record I have been on exactly two dates this week and my husband's out of town. Before he left he hooked me up on a semi-blind date with his co-worker. And I think he may have told another co-worker to have his wife call me. I feel like a sympathy project.

However, I enjoyed both nights out. Date one involved a 3-hour walk through a park and the historic district of Peoria. We dished on clothes, travel, pets and boys (or hers at least) and that's when I discovered one of those Aha! moments. Married people want to talk about dating drama because it's fun.

I always thought that the marrieds were bored or believed everyone should be just like them with their house, dog and 2.5 children. Now I realize that between work drama and work drama and work drama, it's nice to be swept up in the love affairs that daytime dramas envy. I will be taking applications for all single or dating girls in the area. You can gush about a new crush, first kiss, or stupid boy at any time. If you'd like dating advice I can Ann Landers you.

On to Date two. A friend and I met for dinner to plan a bachelorette party. We dined on sushi and schemed up new games (preview: Laney and a trip to Costa Rica inspired my idea for a high-fashion makeover game). Looking around the room I saw multiple girls out conspiring in groups of two. Sushi is the perfect place for a light dinner and you don't feel as awkward stuffing large uncuttable pieces of rice and raw fish into your mouth when it's another girl sitting across from you. They understand your mouth is small...well most of them do.

Girl dating is kinda fun, but I'm glad Skipper comes home tomorrow.

8 3/4

Inches that is. More specifically that's 8 3/4 inches lost, by me after an intense Houdini wrap and a mini facial.

Last week a coworker asked me if I wanted to go with for a body wrap. It was a special herbal concoction that would pull out all my toxins resulting in a slimmer version of my former self. If we went together we could get a free facial. Detox, facial and some girl spa time when my husband was out of town? Sure.

It didn't even matter that the whole thing sounded suspicious. Like why the promoting words were inches not pounds. Why it was for mere pennies (ok dollars, but in spa terms and cosmetics it translates to pennies). And, once we arrived, why only one door could be used, but there were three ramps and three doors. We tried every one too. Plus, she failed to tell me my measurements.

The mud mixture hailed from the great and glorious Dead Sea. The herbs were the unmentionable secret ingredient. The way I lost 8 3/4 inches? The intense mummification I endured for an hour. Spagirl wrapped me in multiple ace bandages tight enough for me to gasp. Tight enough that after I laid down for a couple of minutes I felt pins and needles pricking my foot. Then I felt my foot go numb and no amount of hitting or repositioning allowed relief or blood back to the appendage.

My mini-facial was pleasant but while trying to relax and enjoy it a sharp pain in my bound waist brought the gritty reality home. I was wrapped up in some fairly nice flowery clay by ace bandages looking like a leper of old in a decrepit mobile home. My body ached to be free and I toyed with the notion of ripping the bandages off and fleeing. It was just like turning 16 holding pliers up to my teeth trying to grasp my braces. Something had to be done.

"I'm going to get some warm towels and then I'll unwrap you."

Finally! I breathed in shallowly and twitched in anticipation.

She remeasured my various body points and happily announced the shaving of a 1/2 inch here and a full inch there until finally the inches lost totaled 8 3/4. I believe that for those two minutes I had lost those inches. I also believe that 5 minutes later when I gulped down a jug of water and took a full deep breath all 8 and 3/4 inches came back. The popping sounds in all my joints verified it.

Royal Pains

Maid of Honor in this year's royal wedding? Pippa. Name of my first born. Not going to be Pippa. I'm expecting plenty of Pippas to pop up in the next year or two. It's a beautiful name, one I'd had my heart set on since reading a Dickens classic, Great Expectations. I fell in love with Pip and wanted one of my own. My sisters ridiculed me enough over that idea until I came up with a compromise--Pippa.

An old English nickname for Phillipa. I figured I could justify that easily enough as Philip is a family name. I'd just need to have girls and no boys. Done. A cute name fairly unknown in the States but not entirely made up, nor a medical term.

Then I ran into an old college friend at BYU graduation (I was supporting my brother Travis). She happened to be pregnant and naming her daughter Pippa.

"I know. We're crazy," she said in her southern drawl.

I laughed and assured her it was the perfect name, one I'd wanted for myself. The problem with having great taste in names is your friends will have it too. Since she was married and pregnant she got the name. I graciously told her it was beautiful. She laughed at me and said I should also use it.

I would too. Well, I would have. Now that Britain's newest next of kin to Princess Kate is named Pippa I expect a huge surge in baby girls named Pippa for 2012-2020. On the other hand I'm checking to other family names I can use...Travelina? Danielle?

Third Wheel

Yes, growing up I was the third wheel. Amber and Heather moved in sync and beyond the capacity of normal "friends". My grandma called it twin power, which I enjoyed on the merry-go-round. They would push me, and sometimes Travis, until we were sick or screaming because we could barely hold on. The twins just smiled triumphantly speaking mind and eye twinspeak.

A couple of days ago Skip sent me a link with twin boys babbling a deep discussion. They gesture and mimic each other, pause, listen, answer--everything any of us do when advising a loved one. It's emphatic. My first thought was it couldn't be real. I run social skills groups every week and we really push for a hint of the engagement and awareness that these video twins have. The video twins can't articulate but they communicated to each other clearly. Then I thought of my sisters and concluded the video was real.

Skip and I laughed and joked that Amber and Heather did that and would understand it. I emailed it to my mom and sisters. Here are their responses:

It does to me. I' not sure about the twins. Isn't that fun---

Happy Easter. Love Mom

Yes it does - and i know exactly what they were saying. Amber

Memories?  Of course.  And it should come as no surprise you that I knew exactly what they were talking about......Heather

I'm not saying that my sisters were wearing matching green capris, white tank tops, blue flowy shirts and baubles on their wrists as they typed those lines, but I also wouldn't be surprised.

You can watch the twin phenom at:
http://www.bing.com/videos/watch/video/twin-baby-boys-have-in-depth-discussion/20dj32ji

Ladies Night Extended

Last night I attended Ladies Night at my local bike shop. My reason? To make some friends and plan some rides. I soon realized that this was a night for road cyclists. Not a problem, but I don't own a road bike. I mountain bike and I don't really need crazy nutrition supplements for my rides, I need a partner in case my head meets a tree. While I didn't make friends I did win a new pair of gloves. Whoooo! This was not the end of the excitement.

I went home and feel asleep in the living room a couple hours later. A couple hours after that I woke up and stumbled to my bed as I worked out the crinks in my neck. What I didn't do was check to make sure the sliding glass door and the door to the garage were locked. And now for the pattern. A couple hours after that Wiley (we're dog sitting for the month) starts barking wildly by my window. Before I opened my eyes I thought it must be morning and Wiley was barking at the children who use our front yard for the bus stop. When the barks continued but moved further from my window I slowly opened my eyes. Now he was locked into the back corner terrorizing something. And it was pitch black. Only 2:30 am not 7:30 am.

Probably just a rabbit or the famed deer I'm always hearing about, I told myself. A few minutes later I'm more awake and a little freaked out because I've decided that a deer or rabbit would not be loitering. Wiley continues to bark. I wearily climb out of bed, full of dread for what I have to do. Best case, I'm chasing after Wiley trying to get him into the garage and quiet. Worst case, Wiley's got something or someone cornered and I'm going to have to sort it out. Aggressive children would seemed blissful at the moment. So I throw on my robe and debate if I should grab a gun. Wiley, who had stopped barking for a moment starts again and I can't quite tell where he is.

I grab the closest gun from behind the bedroom door. Then I realize I don't know what kind of gun it is. Skip keeps various guns around the house, including my new Daisy Red Rider. At this point I'm tempted to grab the bb gun because I know it's loaded, but it's in the kitchen and won't really scare anyone. So I get the security gun from the other corner of the bedroom. Why not grab it to begin with? Because to do so I had to walk past the window near the street. Two windows actually. I grab it and feel more terrified that I'm lugging a heavy gun around and I can't quite remember how to use it.

I can't turn on a light. I wouldn't be able to see in the dark after that. I also can't turn off the light in the kitchen, there is no rational reason I just can't. It gives me a little comfort to have a low light burning. Wiley continues to bark. I check the rooms quickly and make my way to the kitchen. There I peek through the drapes. I don't see Wiley but I do see a car parked across the street. Yep, that's where Wiley had lost his mind a few minutes earlier. Deep breaths. It 's probably been there all night. But I still creep to another window and close the blinds. Then I go back to the sliding doors and look out into the night. I can't hear or see Wiley.

I begin to wish I'd grabbed a darker robe and put black paint on my face. I don't own black paint but am certain that anyone outside can see my pale face. I put the barrel of the gun next to my cheek. Maybe they can see that too. Wiley starts barking. I can't see him but his in the corner to my right and the car is in the far corner to my left. Has someone been in that corner?! Can they see me?!

I retreat to a back bedroom. I want to call the police but I don't know their number and my phone is in my bedroom. To look up the police number I'd have to go back to the kitchen. Not going to happen. My phone I manage to grab and I go stand watch at the bedroom window. I can see the car. If nothing happens after 20 minutes I'll relax and go to bed. I see someone light a cigarette inside the car. Just a flash of orange and my heart races. A coincidence. Pure coincidence.

CRASH CLANG WRRROOOOOOFFFF! That came from inside the garage. I pull back from the window convinced that I just saw someone give a signal and another person is going to barge into my house. I dial 9-1-1. I tell them I think someone is breaking into my house. I tell them I can see a car across the street. I'm speaking louder than I want to but I can barely hear myself over the pounding in my chest. I've had three people break in to my house over the years. Twice I knew them. The third time I didn't but he took my roommates computer.

I give my address and they ask me if I see anyone. No, I don't hear anything but the car is still there....And the car door is open. The gun I'm holding starts to shake and I'm worried I'll set it off because it's not the gun that's shaking but my entire body and the gun could drop. I'm now cradling a rifle, or a shot gun, or a pellet gun because what if this isn't the loaded gun. Where are my shoes?! I'll get them.

"Is the car still there? Did anyone get out of the car?" a voice asks. Wiley is still in the garage barking.

I'm still on the phone with the 9-1-1 agent. I look back at the car and the door has shut. I still can't see anyone. The headlights flash. Another signal. Then the car starts and drives slowly. Wiley's barks get muffled and from the variation in sound I know he's running around the back yard.

"The car is headed towards Sherwood," I whisper. "It's turned and heading toward IL-8."

"Ok, a police car is on it's way. Don't open the door unless it's an officer."

Dial tone. They hung up. I panic and do the only thing I can. I call my mother. It's 2 am where she's at and still she answers. I tell her just enough to give her a heart attack before the cops are calling me.

"I have to go. I'll call you later."

She either thinks I'm a dead woman or I'm hallucinating again.

Knock, knock.


I see the cop car, notice the uniform and still struggle to open the door. He's a nice looking guy. A little more librarian than hero with his wire rims but he's got a tool belt that looks like Batman's so I accept. His hands go up and he takes a step back with alarmed eyes.

"I really need you to put that gun down," he insists.

I jump and start to toss it on the ground. Luckily I stopped myself and rushed to put it in the hall. Illinois has some funky gun laws and I probably just violated nine of them. He takes my information and tells me he's going to look around some more but I should quiet the dog. Oh yeah. Wiley's barks had become familiar, something stable in that moment. I waited until I heard Wiley's deep growl. The cop was in the back yard, now I could open the door to the garage.

Wiley grinned when he saw me. Have you seen a dog grin? He bounded over to me, licked my hand and listened when I told him to sit. His owners will read this and shake their heads in disbelief. Skip will read this and wonder how I tamed the beast. Wiley won't come to anyone but his master, and me at 3 in the morning. I lock him inside and wait for more instructions.

The cop comes back to the front door and asks me more questions. Did our bedroom window always have a tear in the screen? Uhhh... Well you would have known if someone was trying to get into your bedroom window. Don't worry. We've got the car stopped. It's a female.

I listen to some cop radio garble. "We've got a serious 96 here." A 96? What is that. The officer relaxs. You didn't see anyone try to get into the house did you? No. Not really. A 96 is a psych patient. He proceeds to tell me how safe my neighborhood is and if anything else comes up they'll call me.

A mentally ill woman. Confused. Stalker. Or just wanting to be my friend? Ladies Night may have been a success.

Oh and Skip? He's hunting turkeys, the kind that gobble not park across the street.