Beautiful bluebonnets

Mika and Paul in Texas bluebonnets

The bluebonnets are just beginning to show themselves.  In the next couple of weeks they will be joined by other wildflowers, thanks to Lady Bird Johnson. 

We found the field above at Cedar Hill State Park between Arlington and Dallas. 

Dance, Addie Mae

Addie has learned all she knows about dancing from her Grandpa Paul!

"Here's your suitcase"

The other day when we were at the firing range (see previous post), I needed to show ID (good idea) and had left my purse in the card (bad idea).  Paul volunteered to fetch it, when he returned he put in on the counter saying, "Here's your suitcase."   He does this for the benefit of the gun guy behind the counter.  Manly statement.  Did I react?  Naw.  Not in that moment.

Got me thinking.  You really can age a relationship by reactions to same situations.

30 years ago:
"Here's your suitcase," Paul says dropping my purse on the counter.

The gun man heard him say that!  I am completely mortified!  He must think I am some idiot chick who carries tons of nonsense in her purse, instead of the serious thinking woman I am.  I have really serious thoughts... most of the time.  Seriously.

15 years ago:
"Here's your suitcase," Paul says dropping my purse on the counter.

God, he's annoying, I flash him a dirty look. The silent ride home is a prelude to what's coming later: an argument about the same old shit. 

Last weekend:
"Here's your suitcase," Paul says dropping my purse on the counter. 

On the ride home Paul and I review the shooting, talking about how fun it was, exciting, yada, yada. Then I ask him:  "What was that comment about my purse being a suitcase?"  He gets a sheepish smile.  I tell him I understand exactly what he was doing. He's still smiling.  He's so cute.

I wonder what my reaction will be 20 years from now?

Bang, bang, bang, oops...

I was told to put the padded ear muffs on before entering the indoor shooting range.  It looked smaller than I had imagined.  There's five feet max from the entry door to the 10 small privacy booths.  Shell casings on the floor remind me of a sports bar with cast off peanut shells.  Some of the peanut shells in this establishment are pretty dang big.  Bang big. 

We choose the booth on the end. The range allows something like 20 yard-target shoot; or less as you can adjust your target wherever you want.  We fix our target at about 10 yards.  Paul begins the instruction on how to shoot the Walther P22 pistol.

Flash forward, I am now loading the clip which chambers 10 rounds of powerful .22 long rifle ammunition.  Translation: I put 10 bullets into the clip.  It loads much like milk at a store.  You take one out and the other slips into place.  Vice versa.  You put the milk/bullet in the shelf/clip and it fits snug into place.  Once the clip is filled, I fit it into the bottom of the pistol until I hear the click.  I then cock the barrel back, allowing the first bullet to slip into place.  Read, set...

I take my proper stance: shoulders slightly forward, both hands cradle the Walther and I am now looking down the 3.4 inch barrell, using its 3-dot sights for a most accurate aim.  Is my heart pounding?  Naw.  I am a little nervous about how loud it's going to be. 

I take aim and shoot.  I am not going to lie.  I was not a bad shot.  Not as good as Paul.  But I hit the target and was able to adjust the sights to better my aim.  After shooting about 50 bullets, I was feeling pretty confident about the whole process.  Then I did something stupid.  Really stupid.  I thought my chamber was empty and turning to place the gun on the shelf in our booth, it went off.  My finger was still on the trigger and BAM! without warning, a bullet went flying.  It hit the wall, where, by the way, there were hundreds of bullet marks.  But it didn't take away the fact that I had accidently shot a gun WITH a REAL BULLET. 

The whole experience made me like guns and hate guns, pretty much where I was before.  Shooting the Walther P22 was my first experience shooting a pistol.  I can tell you it won't be my last.

The number you are calling has been disconnected...

Remember the good ole' days when phones were NOT the nucleus of your life?  Nobody thought about their phones once they walked out of the front door - or back door.  Who cared back then what color or shape and size?  Yeah, there were some fancy phones, but most folks all had the exact same model: a black rotary phone.  When I was a kid, we had to share a phone line with the neighbors.  Our ring was different than theirs so you would know which calls belonged to your family.  And, you could pick up the phone with the intent to make a call and hear your neighbors talking...  and listen in on their conversations... not that I ever did that.

I was transported back in time these past few weeks because I started getting harassing phone calls in the middle of the night.  Mostly nobody there, once heavy breathing and one time he left a message hissing, "stupid bitch."  Old school, right?  I didn't think these guys still were out there what with caller ID and all. Of course we don't have caller ID, so I had to take the phone off the hook at night. The phone company, by the way, doesn't have a record of incoming calls like you'd think they would watching CSI, NCIS and all the others

We are not entirely sure what the motive is/was of this caller.  I say fetish driven, Paul thinks maybe something or someone related to his work.  Whatever the reason, we have changed our home phone number after having the same number for 20 years.  I cannot give out the new one. We don't use it anyway.  I never answer the home phone because everyone I want to talk to has the number to my cell phone, which is nearby almost 24/7.  I am looking at it right now.  Red with a a teenie-tiny keyboard that slides out.  My ring tone is Hakuna Matata from Lion King.  A long way from the Lochridge family ring.

While I miss the old days of not being attached to the phone, no way would I go back.  Maybe a week removed would be nice...