Go Ahead. Make My Day.

Stop. Or I’ll shoot (because now I know how to handle a gun)!

I may not hit you. The bullet might nick your ear or rustle the hair on the side of your head and that’s OK…I just really want to scare the living shit out of you (well not you, actually).

My real live stuffed animal Ted and I live happily together in a cozy duplex (I lovingly refer to as my mini-manse).  So when someone started messing around with my surroundings I wasn’t so much scared as I was territorial. And extremely pissed off.

Little mysterious happenstances occurred…it wasn’t that someone was harassing me outright but just enough to make me take notice (window locks broken), enough to let me know they were around (a pile of cigarette butts by my car door in the morning that weren’t there the night before), enough to get some sort of security…enough to get my ass a gun.

A .38 special revolver lent to me (living in the gun happy South, many folks own more than one). The pink grip was a birthday gift from my firearm lovin’ buddy Chris (and yes, it can be changed back to black).

Upon acquiring a loaded firearm, I was feeling much more secure. So while I felt at ease, I had never shot a gun. Not even a bb gun (I couldn’t even make cool gun sounds – a capability all boys seem to be born –  with when I was a kid).  Maybe it would be a good idea to know how to handle the gun so as not to accidentally point and shoot at shadows, possibly hitting myself in my foot (which would be tragic, as I love my heels).

Sharing my need to obtain skills, my buddy found a ‘ladies shoot free’ day at a gun range near work.  So over lunch (only in the South would you be able to shoot guns over your lunch hour…how red neck of me…but let’s not forget I’m already fabulously trashy (see anything in my Grizzie category), therefore, I don’t give a rat’s ass what you think) we headed to the range.

We arrived to a grimy, dingy, seedy (get the picture?) building, complete with bars on the windows.  After signing in, we received our ear (which look just like fancy headphones but sucked because they were communal. Yuck) and eye (snazzy yellow-tinted glasses) protection and headed downstairs.

Prior to actually shooting a gun, I was feeling very bad ass. Like a big, dorky, bad ass with kick ass accessories.

The first few times I pulled the trigger I was startled not only due to the loudness of a shot but also due to the ricocheting casings that flew off the ceiling, coming back to bite me on the head (insert screams – at first I thought they were bullets – how blonde of me).

Focused on trying to hit the target…anywhere.

My trigger finger is apparently the weakest link on my body (why the hell does this look so easy on TV shows?) because I was having to use two fingers after about 5 shots (insert excuses as to why my bullets were hitting the floor and ceiling instead of the target).

Did I really hit it? Or is that just a black spec?

Hells yes I hit it! And then almost shot my gunpanion in all of my excitement.

While taking a break from my cockiness of mediocre shooting ability, (and resting my throbbing hand and aching finger) I was able to pose for one more threatening picture:

Stop! Or I’ll shoot…if I don’t giggle you to death first (way too much red neck fun at the gun range…maybe I do have a little Southern blood in my veins).

And now for the grand tamale of my White Trash Wednesday (I know, I know, how can I possibly top a lunch break at the gun range?)… I decided to display my moderate (but in my mind kick ass) abilities and scare the bejesus out of anyone lurking around my duplex.

A poor girl’s security alarm. Scared, aren’t you?

Who wouldn’t be terrified upon seeing a target with actual bullet holes hanging on a front door (no one has to know I took aim 12,346 times to achieve the 22 bullet holes actually making contact with the paper). But since my security guard has hung on my front door, no mysterious incidents have occurred around my place…maybe they’re scared of a red neckish, unabashedly trashy girl with a gun.

So go ahead, make my day.



WARNING! Excessive profanity contained in the paragraphs below (spewed from a four-year-old’s mouth). Read at your own risk.

My foul mouthed sister in her earlier days. Don’t let this sweet face fool you.

If you have been keeping up with my posts, you’ll remember (maybe even fondly) my blog last Wednesday, describing my family’s fabulous trashiness (see White Trash Wednesday).  After my previous divulging, I could not resist sharing The Great McDonald’s Ice Cream Incident.

Growing up in a small town, our Saturday nights were spent 20 minutes away at the nearest Pizza Hut (I thought was so fancy).  Often times my grandma and grandpa would join us for our family date night and we would head to McDonald’s for ice cream afterward.

One Saturday we were on our journey through the drive thru, Dad chauffeuring us in the front seat with Grandpa.  My mom, sister, grandma and myself were all in the back and giving our orders (sounds like a dream of a Saturday night, huh?).  As Dad was receiving and passing the treats out, my sister got her sundae.

My four-year-old sibling looked my dad square in the face and said (without hesitation or skipping a beat), “You goddamn son of a bitch I wanted nuts on my sundae.”

Immediate silence followed (although I was instantly delighted that I wasn’t the sister in trouble this time).

I assume my reaction was something like this one captured above (you’re loving the classy outfit with hair clips, aren’t you?).

Moments later, reactions set in. Grandpa busted out laughing. Grandma’s jaw hit the floor.  My mom leaned up over the seat to hiss in my dad’s ear,  “MICHAEL!” and my dad replied, “What? I don’t say those words,” (which I instantaneously knew was a lie because anytime he had his head under a sink being the ‘plumber,’ I never remembered him saying shoot, gosh darn it or duck).

Little did Grandpa know how his heart would burst with secret pride over my sister’s nut rant a few years after this photo was snapped.

So, my toddler sister just put the phrase together all in her own right? Well, being classy, a little trashy and quickly having my sister’s back, my grandma said, “I bet she learned it from all of those John Wayne movies.”  Um, yeah, since we had a three channel cable line up in our metropolis.

Being white trash is knowing better but doing it anyway, while not giving a rat’s ass what anyone else thinks. My sister just got a head start – you gotta love her spunkiness!

All guts and glory for this kid.

So fabulously trashy.


My Cat is Bitchier Than Your Cat

How my feline friend lead me to become a creative master in the art of reupholstering.

Teddy Bear can really be a little bitch sometimes.

Touchy Teddy B, sticking his tongue out instead of smiling. He’s worse than a Jr. High girl going through puberty. Seriously.

Lately, I might as well be getting up to nurse an f’ing newborn because TB starts meowing (in which he sounds like a tiny sheep) around 3am. Then he comes in a little closer to the bed at 3:04 am. A little louder and just out of arm’s reach at 3:07am. I put the pillow over my head, turn my sound machine up and all of a sudden my little sheep cat is roaring his head off like a lion.

When he first started doing this, I’d get up to coax him back to bed but he wanted to play chase. Such fun every night at 3:13am.  I would go to pick him up and he’d run (for what seemed like his life – I might as well have been threatening to de-claw him with pliers) under the kitchen table. As soon as I’d crouch down by the table, he’d race into the bathroom behind the toilet, and so on…therefore, I started to ignore him.  Because he’s really just seeing if I will get up and give into him, right?

Well, this cat means business. So much so, I was considering how to reupholster a section of my vintage sofa.  As I was getting my beauty sleep amid the white noise of my sound machine (on the highest volume setting) TB was up to no good.

Here’s Ted’s interpretation of a temper tantrum (again, like a Jr. High girl):

Teddy Krueger at his finest.

Of course I couldn’t find the little shit when I discovered this treasure and racked my brain contemplating how to patch this corner (the front, exposed so everyone can see it corner, naturally).  And I came up with a solution that fit right in with my eclectic, budget conscious household. Duct tape.

Growing up, I my dad taught me that duct tape can fix anything (even your big, red glasses in 3rd grade. You simply put the duct tape over the piece that snapped off, which in my case was right in the middle, where the glasses sit on one’s nose and pretend as if nothing is wrong. Which is why much to my delight, I was nicknamed Ducky. Kids are so sweet). In my current case, applying my father’s knowledge, I found leopard duct tape and ‘reupholstered’ the corner of my couch.

Cheapest (and probably cheapest looking) DIY job ever! But it does the trick.

The $4 duct tape fix. Leopard duct tape, $3.99 for one roll. Target. Dad’s practical solution!

In reality, Teddy was just trying to help me spruce up my space a tad. Because once he got his claw stuck in the duct tape, he never set his sights on my couch again. Oh, and those 3am wake up cries? Seems he was needing food, as I was forgetting to feed him before bed (guess this would be why I don’t have kids). So now, I feed the damn bear at night and all of my furniture has remained in tact. For now.