Just about the only thing that saved me from bawling at work because of my migraine on Friday was getting an email from a coworker that said, in part (and I quote), “OMG!!!!!! OMG!!!!!!!!!!!! OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO -MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM -GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!” I laughed my damn ass off (which is far from a painless experience with a migraine – but worth it).
Saturday, Geoffrey and I went to the Rose City Gun and Knife show. It strongly reminded me of the open-air swap meets my mom used to take me to in Hawaii, except it was indoors and there were fewer Samoans (sad to say — *grin*). Lyse was thinking of going along, but working graveyard shift makes daytime excursions a little disruptive to one’s schedule, and also she wasn’t feeling so great. It probably would have bored the demonspawn silly, and she’d had a late night, so she stayed home too. But it all worked out okay…I got this awesome new shirt (too bad I can’t wear it to work, but it would break the dress code in at least a couple ways I can think of!), and got Anxiety this shirt (in pale blue — and she can’t wear it to school, either…which still vaguely astonishes me, considering that I had my handgun targets hung inside my locker door for all to see when I was in 10th grade!!!). Geoffrey got himself a Mosin-Nagant M/44 rifle (well-used but came with some accessories), and I was soooo drooling over a rifle very similar to this (but more purple); I almost got it.
Why didn’t I? Because I decided it would be just a smidgen excessive to buy two guns at my first gun show. And I had my heart set on this darling little shiny (got it new, but didn’t pay nearly as much as that link shows, either!). Why that one, instead of something bigger? Because I’m super-picky about how a weapon feels in my hand (which is why I don’t care for semi-autos), and that was the only revolver that sat really *nicely*, like it belonged there. Okay, there were a couple of larger-caliber ones that I liked, too, but I do not need Dirty Harry’s gun! (I’ve fired a .44 without smacking myself in the forehead, but I’d rather not mess with that much recoil often. Not unless I take up weight training.)
I was terribly amused at how many vendors at the show kept pointing me toward the smaller-caliber guns with itty-bitty grips. Sure, I’m a girl — but not a small one. I’m 5′9″ and built like a Norse warbitch. I wear a size 9 ring, people; I do not have small hands! Crocheting for twenty years means I also have fairly strong and limber hands. Besides, derringers are for experts or posers; I actually want to hit what I’m aiming at, and if it’s not a paper target, it needs to go down and stay down. (BTW, I have never actually shot anything but a paper target…although one of these days I have got to try skeet-shooting.)
I wasn’t surprised that the men in attendance out-numbered the women at least 30 to 1 (in any other setting, I’d have been extremely creeped out by being in a crowd surrounded by that many guys, but everyone was so intrinsically polite that I wasn’t bothered a bit), but I was pleasantly surprised that the ratio was closer to 5 to 1 at the actual gun purchasing points. Poor Geoffrey may have been the only long-haired guy there; he was constantly referred to as “Miss.” One thing that did surprise me about the gun show was how few books there were — but we did manage to find a couple nifty titles: In the Gravest Extreme: The Role of the Firearm in Personal Protection and The Encyclopedia of Country Living. Both really excellent books, that I would recommend. Also I must say that the Expo Center concession stand makes a damned good grilled chicken sandwich.
Sunday I went grocery shopping (wearing my Infidel shirt, a few people stared but no dirty looks — which surprised me, in hippie-dippie stupidly-PC Portland), did a metric butt-ton of laundry, actually cooked a real dinner (used the oven and the rangetop, even!) and watched a horrible documentary from Netflix. I don’t know why I don’t shut horrible docs off within the first 20 minutes, they never improve…but somehow I always think they might. Le sigh. Out of every 5 flicks I get from Netflix, they tend to run thusly: 1 terrific, 3 decent (or at least not worthless), and 1 atrocious. Oh well, at least I’m learning things…like how to conclusively spot utter dreck within the first 5 minutes of a DVD. Speaking of which, I just added Repo! The Genetic Opera to my queue; my eldest loved it, and I’m a sucker for any footage in which Anthony Stewart Head is singing. I hate musicals as a rule (White Christmas being the ultimate exception), but how bad can it be? I’m going to find out.