Category: My Life

THE GUN AND DOLL SHOW

I attended a gun-range bachelorette last night.

This is me shooting a gun. The leather jacket does enhance my badassery, but I was wearing it because the range was about as temperate as a walk-in freezer. (Is this a thing? Are all gun ranges arctic-expedition cold? And if so, why?)

Jaime’s getting married Saturday, and this was our most compelling celebratory idea. It turns out she’s a hell of a shot, which surprised no one. Jaime is the first person to whom I would hand the weapon if I found myself stranded on an island. An island with a weapon. And Jaime’s there too for some reason.

Point of interest: In the above snapshot there are three of us, at a gun range, posing for a photo. You may be asking yourself, Why doesn’t that photo look more like this?

Good point, my friend. Unfortunately, despite multiple requests, I was unable to muster any finger-gun irony in the face of actual guns.

I pretty much nailed the vaguely apprehensive pose though:

The apprehension is because of an early run-in with a hot bullet casing. The first time I fired my gun, the casing flew behind my safety goggles, behind my glasses, and landed on my eyelid.

Ow.

I refrained from flinching and flailing, because I had a loaded gun in my hands, but I did set the gun down and curse profusely, which startled my heavily tattooed instructor.

Because a few of us have Vice Presidential aspirations, the gentlemen at Jackson Arms allowed us to pose with some of the enormous, phallic weaponry available for sale.

Apparently they get a lot of bear hunters in there.

In conclusion, this is how Jaime’s sister stands when she shoots in heels:

Male readers? You’re welcome.

Advice from Mom, Part II

You can’t change people.

Learn to type. You can always be a secretary.

When someone is drowning, don’t jump in after them. Find a branch.

Men like it when you ask them to open the jars.

If you’re in a contest, you have to find a way to be different than everyone else.

Laugh and the world laughs with you, cry and you cry alone.

It’s just as easy to fall in love with a rich man as a poor one, Margaret.

If you ever want a nose job, I’ll pay for it.

In a fire, cover your mouth and nose with your T-shirt while you crawl out.

Airplanes are too big to float.

If you ever need birth control, you can go to Planned Parenthood and they’ll tell you what to do. I don’t want to know about it.

In Stride

You, sir, are sporting oversized aviator sunglasses, and your shirt is unbuttoned to the middle of your chest. Your head is shaved. You are strutting backward up the street, your arm at a right angle to your body, as you point up the block, greeting someone you know.

That guy? The stranger in the distance? He is the man. “The man,” you would say, if he could hear you, but he is too far. Instead you point silently, profoundly. You point with emphasis.

…You are still doing this — still walking backward, pointing meaningfully at this person, who is no longer visible. The friend walking with you offers his feet an awkward smile, shakes his head.

Maybe the friend walking beside you has a girlfriend. And if he does, she wishes he would hang with you less.

No promises about the Elmer’s Glue

This morning I used the last of some deodorant, and I felt victorious, like I had bested corporate forces that were waiting for me to buy another pack before it was time. I should have left this fateful stick in my gym locker, or dumped it from my bag in a hotel room, or found it dried and crunchy in a drawer crammed with confusing hair products.

For my next feat, I shall use the last of a bottle of honey before it becomes a bear-shaped crystaline brick, or perhaps consume an entire bag of ground-up coffee beans before they start tasting like dirt.

Then we’ll have a party. You bring the coffee.

George Bush Would Still Be Terrified

I was watching TV last night when, suddenly, my shoulder and upper arm began to tingle and erupted in gooseflesh. It was so startling that I jumped a little. Did something just brush up against me? Some sort of crazy energy field? (We have those in California.) A ghost? Or perhaps the bony, beckoning finger of Death?

The isolated patch of goosebumps continued to prickle, and the bumps were extreme. “Look at this!” I said to Bryan. He examined my arm and murmured in appropriately confused tones.

Then I remembered I had eaten a single pretzel a few minutes earlier. Turns out they were coated in some sort of yeast powder. I tried another one an hour or so later, and the isolated goosebumps resumed.

So, it wasn’t so much an ectoplasmic energy transfer from the netherworld. It was a pretzel.

But! You may be saying, “Maggie? What if it was a magic pretzel that gave you psychic powers?” And that’s an excellent point. I’ll keep you posted.

Robbed, I Tell You

So. What can I say about being burglarized that’s constructive?

Well, first off, none of us were hurt. The thief broke in in the middle of the day, and we all (oddly) happened to be gone. So the burglar got our stuff, but the baby is safe. It makes me feel better just to type that, actually. Isn’t it nicer when you don’t have to attack a guy climbing in your apartment window while the baby looks on? I think so.

Fortunately, our sentimental things are mostly not expensive things, but this whole robbery gig is starting to feel personal. As you may remember, in December, someone stole my purse while we were in Argentina. The car’s been broken into a couple of times in the last year (always in different neighborhoods), and Bryan had his bike stolen from a coffee shop near his office a couple months ago. Whee!

However, having a baddie inside the house is a whole new level of yuck. Seeing all our drawers dumped out on the bed, waiting for the police to come take fingerprints, noticing one thing is gone, and then another, all day long. It’s gross. It makes me want to give the whole apartment a shower.

Anyway, we’re fine, but shaken. For the next few days I’m going to try not to cry when someone cuts me off in traffic or is curt to me as I’m ordering coffee, and then we’ll see how it goes.

Thanks to everyone who Twittered their concern. You guys keep proving how nice you are, and that is why I like you.

Eight Books That Changed Things For Me

Backlash: The Undeclared War Against American Women
by Susan Faludi

I read this in college and it completely changed my worldview. A feminist is a person who believes in equality between the sexes — so it turns out I am a feminist. This came as a surprise to me at the time. Also, it looks like there’s some seriously, concretely unfair shit going down for women, even in the U.S. I had no idea.

The Gift of Fear
by Gavin De Becker

It’s a waste of time to be afraid all the time. Trust your instincts to tell you when something is genuinely amok, and when they do, take immediate action.

The Undertaking: Life Studies from the Dismal Trade
by Thomas Lynch

This book by a poet who is also an undertaker helps me remember that being happy, or at least aware, is the best use of my time. It also gave me perspective on assisted suicide, and the ways individual anguish can eclipse you, needlessly.

Years later, this passage still sticks with me:

“Here was a young man who had killed himself, remarkably, to deliver a message to a woman he wanted to remember him. No doubt she does. I certainly do. But the message itself seemed inconsequential, purposefully vague. Did he want to be dead forever, or only absent from the pain? ‘I wanted to die,’ is all it seemed to say clearly. ‘Oh,’ is what the rest of us say.”

The Four Agreements
by Don Miguel Ruiz

I’ve mentioned this book before, and if you’re feeling adrift, it’s a good little system to help get you grounded again. I wrote more about it here.

The Wealthy Barber: Everyone’s Commonsense Guide to Becoming Financially Independent
by David Chilton

It’s not a work of literary genius, but it’s clear, it’s a quick read, and it fills you in on all the financial stuff your parents didn’t teach you.

Learning to Love You More
by Harrell Fletcher, Miranda July, Julia Bryan-Wilson, and Laura Lark

I like how Miranda July seems to have always tackled the next most interesting thing, and she’s built a pretty inspiring life that way. This book of projects reminds me that it’s always a good decision to let your interests guide you.

Miss Manners Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior
by Judith Martin

An anthropology book on my own culture, and the reasons behind the societal contracts we’ve made. Now when I’ve pissed someone off, I usually know why.

Otherwise: New and Selected Poems
by Jane Kenyon

Jane Kenyon’s poems make me feel keener, like I can smell better and hear things more clearly. I read them when I’m feeling muddled to help me re-focus.

Now! Tell me which books changed things for you, because I think it will be interesting.

Do it.

Like Me, But Feral

Flashback to me, pregnant with Hank, walking along the street with Bryan — host-gift wine bottle in hand. I notice an angry man up the street, weaving and yelling in our path. In the time it takes to blink, my brain flashes to me smashing the bottom of the wine bottle on a nearby lamppost, and assuming a fight stance while bellowing profanities.

Whoa. That’s new.

I think the ready-to-gut-offenders adrenaline will fade once I give birth, but not so. This afternoon at the cafe, someone hovers suspiciously over my bag. Cut to mental image of him grabbing my bag, and me leaping over the table to tackle him and claw at his eyes.

What the hell.

When did I become some Clockwork Orange version of Ally McBeal? If I ever decide to take up caffeine again, you might need to alert someone — lest I fly at Bryan in a blind rage when he tries to take a bite off my plate without asking first.

My bite.