People I Want to Punch in the Throat (25 page)

“Pretty much,” he agreed.

“You know what? I’m going to go! If nothing else, maybe I’ll accidentally shoot myself in the foot and have something to write about on my blog for tomorrow.”

The night of the event arrived and I started to get ready to go out. As you know by now, I don’t normally care how I dress—usually it’s cargo pants and tees—but the range got me thinking. What does one wear to ladies’ night at the gun range? Would camouflage cargos be a better choice? Maybe tweed? (I told you I watch a lot of
Downton Abbey
and they love to shoot in their tweed.) Maybe I should wear something lighter so my black gun would stand out against my ensemble. Unremarkably, I settled on the usual. Why start getting fancy now?

I met the other ladies at the gun range and we stood in the showroom giggling nervously. I had never been surrounded by so many guns in my life.

It freaked me out no end to know that everyone in the room (except for the six of us) was packing heat. I said something about this, and my friend Joni replied, “Yeah, but it’s not like they’ve got real bullets, right?”

I laughed at her stupid question because I knew the answer. What I didn’t mention was that I knew the answer to her stupid question because I had asked the Hubs the same exact stupid question just before I walked out the door.

“Wait, those are real bullets we’re going to be shooting?” I’d wondered.

“
Of course
, Jen. What else would they be?” he told me.

“I don’t know. I thought they were blanks or something.”

“How can you hit a target with a blank? Don’t be so dumb. Those are real bullets.”

“Well then, what the hell keeps us from accidentally shooting one another?”

“
Nothing
. So please be careful and follow the rules.”

After perusing the range’s store and noticing the quality of the NRA Second Amendment RangePacks, we met our instructor, Andy. Andy had a holstered gun and a large knife on his belt just in case his gun jammed and he needed to finish the job. Plus he was a big guy who looked like he could kill you with his bare hands if all else failed. Basically, if
Red Dawn
ever happens, I want Andy on my team. “Wolverines!”

Andy took one look at our group of middle-aged minivan-driving moms and sighed deeply. “Have
any
of you fired a weapon?” he asked hopefully.

“I have,” said our reservist. “But I’m not very good.”

“I’m pretty good with a Nerf gun,” I said.

Andy looked disgusted.

“Okay, ladies,” he said with another sigh. “Let’s find a conference room and give you a lesson or two before we even step out on the range.”

We sat down for about twenty minutes while Andy explained the different mechanisms on the 9 mm guns we’d be using.

After passing an unloaded gun around the table for us all to try holding and working, Andy decided he couldn’t postpone live ammunition any longer.

Twenty minutes didn’t seem like enough time, and I was a little worried for Andy. “Do you want to put on a bulletproof vest, maybe?” I asked him.

“Nah. I’m not afraid of you guys. You’ll be fine.
But
I won’t be happy if someone accidentally shoots me, so be careful out there.”

Andy handed out our “eyes and ears” (that’s gun range talk for sunglasses and earphones) and our box of ammo and took us to the range. Lock and load, mofos!

Holy shit! If I’d been nervous in the store, surrounded by unloaded guns on display and holstered guns on people, I was terrified in the range, where guns were actually firing. Andy gave us all a reassuring smile and told us we were going to have fun.

“Yay,” I said weakly.

“Who’s first?” he asked.

“I’ll go first, but I just want to shoot one bullet,” Joni said. This is the woman who didn’t know we’d be shooting real bullets.

“But you have ten rounds,” Andy said.

“Yeah, but I just want to shoot one,” she replied. “I’m a little afraid.” You and me both, sister.

“Just try it,” Andy said.

She went into her lane and loaded her magazine clip. She took her stance (knees slightly bent, leaning forward, arms slightly bent, double grip on the gun) and fired.
Boom!

A fucking head shot.

She turned around and told us, “I think I’ll take another shot.” She gave us a little smile, then turned back to her target.
Boom
,
boom, boom
. She unloaded all ten bullets in her target’s head. She looked like John McClane in
Die Hard
. Yippee-ki-yay!

“Ha! Great grouping,” Andy yelled, giving her a high-five. “Who’s next?”

Throughout the night we all took turns until we went through our box of bullets.

I was the worst shot. I’d like to blame it on the fact that I’m a lefty, but I know the truth is that I couldn’t get my hands to stop shaking. Every time I picked up that gun I felt nervous and queasy. When I was in the lane and someone was firing next to me I jumped every single time. I couldn’t get over how deadly these weapons were and how I was just trusting everyone in that room to not shoot me.

Even though I was the worst shot, I still shot my “victim” dead. (I kept calling my target a “victim,” and then Andy reminded me I should probably call it an “assailant”; otherwise that makes me a crazy person who just shoots people.)

I was stunned by how easy it was to hit the target. I’d been sure I’d be lucky if I hit the target once or twice, but I only missed my victim—er, assailant—two or three times. The rest of the time I gravely wounded him.

By the end of the night we were feeling like a mix of
Charlie’s Angels
and
Full Metal Jacket
. It was a high, and we were a bit amped up by our success. We all took our targets home to show our husbands that they shouldn’t mess with us!

I was surprised, but we actually had a great time hanging out together, laughing, and being badasses and just plain asses. I’m glad I tried it. None of us bought a gun that night. I still have a healthy fear of and respect for guns, and I still don’t want one. I’m not convinced I could ever use it properly. If I was truly
under attack, I would most likely freeze up or accidentally shoot the wrong person. I posted on my Facebook page that I was going to the range, and my brother, C.B., replied, “Ladies don’t shoot. Ladies stab.” I have to say I think he might be right, especially when it comes to me. I’ve decided that when the zombie apocalypse comes, I’ll be grabbing a machete. That way I won’t lose any time reloading.

This book is dedicated to the Hubs.
You must love me if you were willing to move to the suburbs.

Acknowledgments are kind of tough, aren’t they? What if you accidentally forget someone? Like my parents. I will probably forget my parents so I’m just going to go ahead and thank them now. Thanks, Mom and Dad, for loving me and doing the best you could. Don’t worry, I’m not
that
screwed up. And I’m sorry for all of the
f
-bombs, Mom. Let’s just say Dad taught me how to swear.

Or worse, what if you go out of your way to mention someone and they never read this book and have no idea how much they mean to you? I’m looking at you, Tina Fey. Hey girl, we could totally be besties. Let’s have a hoagie together—my treat. Call me.

Of course, I have to thank my husband. I know I already dedicated the book to him, but he’s going to want a mention here, too. Plus, he totally deserves it. This book would not be possible without him. While I wrote furiously to meet every deadline, he was the one who kept our children fed and moderately clean, while at the same time he motivated me and kept me sane. Thank you, Hubs, for understanding, supporting, and loving me even though I am such a pain in the ass. You are my lobster. Oh, and thank you for buying me a badass minivan.

Thank you, Gomer and Adolpha, for letting me give you terrible names and tell funny stories about you. Someday you’ll read this book and we’ll laugh together and then you’ll send me your therapy bills.

Thank you to Neeti Madan and Pamela Cannon for helping me with this book.

Thank you to my local McDonald’s for having the most delicious Coke on the planet and free refills and ’80s music on a loop, because nothing inspires me like caffeine and Bananarama.

Thank you to every member of my tribe of bloggers and writers who has ever shared my work. Together we can do amazing things! When the water rises all of the boats rise!

And last, but certainly not least, thank you, thank you, thank you to my readers. You make dreams come true. Without you none of this would be possible. Your support has been incredible and I am so lucky to have each one of you. Thank you for reading and laughing.

In addition to her blog, People I Want to Punch in the Throat, which she started in 2011, J
EN
M
ANN
has also written for
The Huffington Post, Babble, Circle of Moms
, and
CNN Headline News
. She was voted Best Parenting Weblog in the 2014 Bloggie Awards and was a finalist for two Bloggies in 2013 (Weblog of the Year and Best Parenting Weblog). She was voted one of
Circle of Moms
’s Top 25 Funniest Mom Blogs for 2012 and 2013 and was chosen by the same site as one of the “Most Influential” bloggers. She was a BlogHer 2012 and 2013 Voice of the Year. In 2012 her self-published debut collection of essays,
Spending the Holidays with People I Want to Punch in the Throat
, rose to the number one spot in Amazon’s Humor category. She lives in Overland Park, Kansas, and is married to “the Hubs” and is the mother of two children, whom she calls Gomer and Adolpha on her blog—she swears their real names are actually worse. Find her on Facebook and Twitter.

www.peopleiwanttopunchinthethroat.com