Guns, Preferences, And Necessity

I'm a little girl that likes big guns. As my rather large friend MattG put it last year after fondling my Firestar (and then pondering the mechanics of having bitty hands, a phenomenon that he is decidedly unfamiliar with) a heavy gun can absorb a lot of recoil, making larger calibers more fun to shoot.

I like the way they feel in my hands, as well. I'm not talking about any of the truly large frame guns, even some 1911's are not entirely comfortable for me to grip, but the smaller framed pistols, like the Firestar, and the Walther, fit my hands in a way that is comfortable for me. I feel like I've got something to hold on to when I pull the bang switch.

I've never been much of a fan of pocket pistols, frankly. It's not that I don't see the utility or that I won't shoot them or anything, I'm just not jumping up and down with glee when I see one. I've never really felt that I had a need for one.

Until this job, and all the nights.

Don't get me wrong, with the only true weapon (the brain, dur) and my pocket knife, I'm reasonably confident that I could hold off crazy axe rapists for long enough to push the panic button (which you have to hold for three long-ass seconds to activate) and either finally have a reason to use that blood and body fluid cleanup kit that gets in the way in the back room, or maintain a standoff until the cops could arrive. More likely the former.

But.

The bad thing about the pocket knife (and most other useful tools and or objects that I can generally reach in the course of my daily duties, not counting a mop handle or broom) is that you have to be within arms reach to use it. Don't start jabbering at me about throwing knives, please. I understand that there are people out there with the skill to put a blade through a person's eye at ten paces. I am not one of those people, nor is a Gerber particularly balanced for throwing, totally aside from what seems to me to be the very misguided notion of throwing away a perfectly good weapon.

Over Blogorado most of the guests, particularly MattG, LawDog, and Bayou Renaissance Man, expressed... ahem... concern. Since I'm working at a place that practically screams "ROB ME!" and working late at night, alone, on a reasonably major north-south highway, they felt that I should have more protection than my knife.

Well, so did I, but I couldn't figure out how to conceal any of my guns effectively enough to keep from losing my job, thanks to the company's no-weapons policy.

Matt, at one point, pulled out his pocket pistol and practically shook it in my face (in a manner not violating any of the four rules for any of you paranoid people out there) and extolled it's virtues. Patiently I told him "Yes, it's very nice, and I can see the utility and its applications in my situation, but fiscal responsibility prevents me from making such a purchase at this moment."

Ok, so maybe it was more like "Yeah, I would, but damnit I can't afford it!"

Anyway, Matt sat for a moment in contemplation of the gun in his hand (he was the only one who could see it at that point, to the rest of us it looked like he was staring intently at his palm) and muttered "I'm not going to give you this one, but I'm tempted."
Ankle holsters were another suggestion, with the same response from me. I simply couldn't afford it.

Coming through the Springs today on the way home, we stopped in at Sal's workplace, with me intending to have a look-see and coonfinger any pocket pistols they happened to have on hand, so that I could get an idea of my preferences and what price range I was looking at.

Well, that was the *plan* anyway.

Yes, I bought a new toy at the funstore. This isn't an epic romance or anything, at least not yet. It's more a marriage of convenience. I happened to be in need of a reasonably priced, itty bitty gun. They happened to have a used KelTec P-32 for a hair under two hundred dollars. By the time I got ammo, and the superduper clip that I'm assured is de rigueur, plus taxes, I wound up spending a good chunk of change today, but it's still less than I really expected to.

Unfortunately they didn't have a right-handed ankle holster for it, only the left. Before I decided to buy the gun, I tried the holster, with Farmdad's P3AT, strapped backwards on my left leg, just to get a feel for the holster and gun and if it was something that was doable.

Protip for anyone concerned about whether something will conceal in a specific type of clothing or a specific outfit... wear it to the gun store. I did. I packed a pair of the slacks I wear to work (for the sake of convenience I simply got two pairs of the same style when I found the ones that fit, then ordered three more when I got some breathing room on the money situation... so if it conceals in one pair, it'll conceal in 'em all) and wore them today specifically so that I could try out concealment methods while I was shopping.

After all, a reasonably priced gun that I feel comfortable holding isn't going to do me a damn bit of good if I can't conceal it well enough to keep from drawing attention... it'd just get me fired.

So, I bought the P32, coincidentally the first time I've ever purchased a gun for myself. The Walther and the Firestar were both gifts, so I've never had to fill out that silly form before.

Sal is going to check for me whether it would be better to order in the ankle holster there and just pick it up when we go back up next week, or order it myself and have it shipped to me. It really depends on shipping times and whether they got one in the shipment they received today or not.

Anyway, without further ado, I give you the obligatory Gun-Pr0n, which you'll have to forgive me for. The lighting sucks and I'm tired so you get a quick snapshot instead of something tastefully laid out, well lit and composed.


Since I name all of my weapons, I'll have to think of something suitable for this one. Maybe Bruinhilde. She's not so bad, really, and she's gonna be nice to have around, but she's not the girl that sets my heart aflutter.

(Why she, you ask? Because as I was doing the paperwork for the background check, I was sagely informed by the older gentleman who was leaning against the counter, sending one of the poor floor people hither and yon in search of various and sundry things, that the P32 is a "good girl gun"... I've just knocked the last word off and decided that she's a good girl, and we'll leave it at that.)

Disclaimer: this post is not intended to encourage anyone to break their employer's policies regarding firearms or weapons. Regardless of whether I believe that the Second Amendment trumps corporate policy, they do have the right to fire an employee for disregarding any policy made clear in the hiring packet. I have not carried this gun at work and I will make no admissions about whether or not I carry it at work in the future. So Legal Eagles can just go piss up a rope.

Bass Pro Shop Outdoor World

Oh. My. God.

We're in Denver (again) for an appointment with the new surgeon on Farmmom's knee (again) which got everything ready to rock and roll for next Friday on the surgery (finally) and we hit Bass Pro Shop to pick up a few odds and ends...

Oh. My. God.

Totally aside from the knowledge that I really, really should stick my hands in my pockets and walk through that store with my head down to avoid spending wayyy too much money, in their fish tank I saw, my hand to Jebus, a catfish that weighed more than Farmdog.

No joke this thing must have been a good sixty pounds. I've never seen a fish with fat rolls before.

Meanwhile... I whimpered so loudly in the camping section that several onlookers wondered if I were mentally retarded or into some kinky sexual thing involving tents and gear.

Photo Op

Having Oleg Freaking Volk at your blogmeet is bound to turn up some great photos.. what surprised me was just how sneaky the man could be. He's very good at that unobtrusive thing, until he thinks of a shot that he really wants that requires him to be obvious.

I had a couple of twitchy moments, I admit, but all in all it was a good experience, even when I was obviously in front of the camera. Since it will get out soon anyway (these things always do) for those of you who weren't aware, yes, this is me.

There goes my faceless blogger status, but really, if you're going to come out of the anony-mouse closet, what better way to do it than in pictures taken by the immortal Oleg Volk? At least you're guaranteed to look good, cause the man is a genius.

For any potential stalkers* out there: remember, I carry, I'm never entirely unarmed, and I have an intimate familiarity with the process of relieving male critters of their boy bits without causing them to die.

If you haven't seen his stuff (and if you haven't, you're an uninformed heathen, which should be corrected immediately) check Oleg out at his LiveJournal or website ... but do it when you have plenty of time to waste cause you're gonna be entranced.




*Oleg made several joking remarks about how many stalkers I would gain thanks to the pictures, and how most of them would likely have enough sense to realize that actually hurting/touching/otherwise upsetting me would likely result in their gaining several new and interesting orifices. It required a special mention.

"Ass Kisser" Takes On A Whole New Meaning

Got a few minutes before I have to run off to work until midnight so I'll jot down a note about one of the highlights of the weekend... please excuse me if I'm not up to my usual standard since I haven't slowed down much since everyone went home and I'm not caught up with myself yet.

So, this Blogorado we failed to demolish any cars (the worst damage was a couple of flat tires, I can live with this) field-dress any roadkill whilst slightly horrified young deputies stood by, or create any international incidents, thankfully.

What we did manage to do... or rather, I managed to do, is provide what may become this year's epic moment.

With my birthday approaching, the Nerds brought me a gift of a lovely pie plate. (My birthday being the same as LabRat's, they remembered that it was coming, while everyone else thankfully forgot... I worked hard to keep Blogorado away from my birthday, thank you. I know how sick and twisted all those freaks are)

The pie plate is, as I said, lovely. What came in it however, was heavenly. I got a piece of my birthday pie, brought to me at the second job since unfortunately the scheduling monkeys decided that I needed to be chained to a register the night the Nerd Beer arrived.

No joke... my (new) manager looked at me and said "I don't think you're allowed to do that at work..." because of the noises I was making over this pie. It is strip down and roll in it naked and pull muscles to lick it all off good.

Well, at the range, Farmmom was smarting off that she wanted that recipe. Stingray, being of the "Mine and I'm not sharing" persuasion, which I can't blame him for, said "Kiss my ass."

I turned around and looked at him and said "For that recipe, I will no shit get on my knees and plant my lips to your naked ass. You write it down, and I'll do it."

Apparently this challenge was just too tempting for Stingray because I did acquire the recipe. I'm not sure how many people got pictures or how Stingray feels about them being posted, but barring any objections from him, I'm sure they'll surface at some point, from someone.

Totally worth it. My only regret is that I haven't had time yet to get the berries and make the pie... or con Farmmom into making it for me.

Mmmmm. Pie.

You Know... It's Kind Of Sad...

For nearly a week now I've been eating quite well on mom's cooking, GC's cooking, LawDog's pepper poppers, Stingray's ass-kissin good pie (story later) and now I'm sitting here eating a bologna and chip sammich. (Sour cream and cheddar Ruffles crushed and on the sammich.)

.... Something just ain't right with me, really.

Important Blogorado Information

For those of you attending Blogorado, an update.

I've been told by a couple people that their motel reservations were lost... luckily they had called to confirm and got it all taken care of, but if you've made reservations, I suggest you call again and make sure they haven't vanished into thin air!

Not that long now... and so much to do!

Sleep? What's That?

So, after shifts going from 4pm to midnight one day, to 9am to 5pm the next, followed up with a 4:30am to 1pm after that, fair week (with all the excitement and rush associated with it both at work and off) and two dances in two nights at which I had decided to blow off some steam and didn't get nearly enough sleep, this week I have a steady schedule. I'm closing all week, which I don't mind. My body is having a touch of trouble trying to get the whole "ok you were up till some gawdawful hour of the morning last night but you're not going to bed early tonight so you can actually sleep" concept, but it'll adjust.

Met a new guy in town Friday night at the dance. His immediate backstory is almost cliche. On his way to take a job in Oklahoma City (of a skilled labor variety which makes a buttload of money) his truck broke down in the middle of the night. Having not much money on hand, he couldn't afford to both fix the truck and, ya know, eat, for the period it would take to get the repairs done, and so being a self sufficient lad he started looking for work. Temporary, at first, but as he was directed hither and yon to folks who might have something for him to do to earn a few bucks he became fascinated with the area, and decided to stay a while.

That decision actually got him a job, since he was looking at being around for more than a couple weeks, and he's been settling in, and falling in love with, the county.

I think Hollywood did that movie, even if I can't remember which one it was at the moment.

In all seriousness, he seems like the sort to fit in well here, and be a positive addition to our tiny population. After one night of discussing everything from books to livestock to philosophy over the top of the noise of the dance and one much quieter conversation with just as much variety but less background noise, I'm prepared to give him the provisional Farmgirl stamp of approval for living in my county.

I've promised him a tour of some of my favorite places, and we'll get to that one of these days when schedules permit, what with him working farm hours and me working... whatever hours the manager wants me to work.

Since one of my favorite things to do is show people the places and things about this area that I adore, I'm sure it'll be no hardship.

Now, for something completely different....

As with most convenience stores, we carry condoms. And, as with most convenience stores, it's a fair bet that, especially on the closing shift, some shy youngster will mumble something to the clerk to the effect of "doyoucarrycondomsandwherearethey" in sotto voice.

So far, I've managed to keep a straight face, even when the shy one was not such a youngster, and point them in the right direction.

Harder is keeping my giggles under control at the reactions to the discovery that we only carry these.

It's just a packaging difference but to someone looking to not be seen buying condoms, (and this just blows my mind, frankly... I want to congratulate the younger people on their good sense every time I ring up a package of condoms, just to give some positive reinforcement) it throws them off in their hurried search.

Then when they find them, you can see, across the store, the confused look, and the slowly dawning realization that hey, this might actually be kind of brilliant. Plus, the relief that if they didn't spot them right away no one is likely to associate that packaging with condoms, and they might get out of the store without their mom's best friend (who of course walked in at precisely the wrong moment) noticing that they're planning on having s-e-x tonight.

The entertainment value makes me kind of glad that they took out the 75 cent dispensers in the bathrooms.