June 26, 2008
I'm So Proud!
Forget the quilting. Forget the shopping. Forget the antiqueing, the singing, the impeccable fashion sense. Forget everything you thought you knew about Husband because...
Husband has a gun-related injury!!! How incredibly macho is that?!
Last weekend was our annual four-day vacation with my cousins, Egrau and Ramone, their spouses, J and PJ, and their dogs, Karma, Zoe and Ava. That's eleven creatures in one cabin, and we were still out-numbered by the guns in J and Ramone's arsenal!
Our "Hillbilly Weekends," as they have come to be known, consist of four primary parts:
1. Eating.
2. Sleeping/napping/"resting our eyes."
3. Drinking
4. Shooting.
(There are also secondary activities like shopping, reading and arguing, but they are mere incidentals.)
So we were at the shooting range, shooting targets. Targets that consisted of spinners, silohouttes, empty helium tanks, plastic milk cartons filled with water... and Barbies.
That's right, I said it -- Barbies. And Kens. Every time we go up, I thin the herd a little because there is nothing funnier than a naked Ken doll riddled with the holes left by 22s. Especially when Ramone lets me use his rifle, and I nail Ken dead-on, so that his torso splits apart, and his leg flies ten feet.
BWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA!
Sick, sick, sick.
And yet, while we are sick, we are not crazed, gun-toting maniacs. J is a police officer, and Ramone, too, has extensive weapons training. They always make sure we know how to use each gun safely and correctly.
DISCLAIMER: Husband's injury is in no way due to faulty training, safety or supervision.
He's just a little dim.
Anyhoo, there I was, reading my book, having tired of mayhem and destruction and wanting to finish my 341-pg. novel (which I did).
PJ and Egrau were sitting with them, when one of them said, "What? What happened?"
I looked up at Ramone and Husband (J had left on an emergency big-pottie run), and they were looking at the gun Husband was holding. I didn't understand why the shooting had stopped, until I saw a big splotch of blood on Husband's hand.
My first thought was, "Oh, dear God. Ramone shot Husband in the hand."
But then I thought, "Well, that's unlikely. Ramone is a stickler for gun safety. He'd never do that."
And then I thought that I had accidentally included Western Barbie in the target group, and he had outdrawn Husband.
Still perplexed at what was going on, I walked over to where the guys were standing. Husband took the gun out of his right hand, and blood began to drip from where the thumb meets the hand.
"All right," I sighed. "Get in the car."
[For some backstory on how many times -- and for what reasons -- I've had to drive Husband to the E.R., read parts One, Two and Three of "Husband's Bizarre Illness" and the Three-Stooges-esque comedy of Mr. Drillbit.]
"Really?" he whined. "It's not a big cut. It'll be fine."
"Well, you can bleed for an hour while I nag you, and then we can go. Or you can just come now."
Ramone said, "Yeah, you should probably go."
Well, that clinched it. Because when I say something, it's meaningless. But when anyone other than me says THE EXACT SAME THING, it is suddenly Husband's gospel.
Welcome to wedded bliss.