My mom went to a shooting range today. It was her first time firing a gun in her life. Her weapon of choice up until now has been her searing wit and foul mouth. Now she’s REALLY like a character out of a Quentin Tarantino movie.
This newfound interest concerns me on several levels. My mom, while exceedingly bright and capable, is spazzy and klutzy as all hell. She once jacked up her leg on a river rafting trip. But not while in the water. Oh NO! She managed to trip while walking (not running or anything – just WALKING, you know, like a lot of toddlers do without any trouble at all), twisted her knee in such a manner that she needed crutches, and THEN developed a fucking blood clot. If she can almost DIE FROM WALKING you can understand my worries about her handling a loaded gun. Throw in some rage issues and this could end badly.
Actually, I’m proud of my mom for trying this out. Maybe our next mother-daughter outing will include a trip to the range. I’m pretty good with a .22. Franny Get Your Gun!