Bluebird Down

The pursuit of domestic bliss, one glorious debacle at a time.

Race Report: Crimestoppers Run for Justice September 13, 2011


I should have gotten a Purple Heart for this run. After calculating how long it would truly take to get to my sister’s house on Saturday morning, I realized I had to wake up at 4:30 am. Just the knowledge that I had to wake up at 4:30 kept me awake until 11:00 pm Friday night. My body works in mysterious way. I got up, jumped in my running clothes, downed a cold slice of pizza (what?!) and hit the road by 5:00 am. When I got to my sister’s exit, I called her to let her know I was close. “OK, cool,” she said. “Oh, and I read the starting time wrong, we don’t have to be there until 8:30 instead of 8:00.” She pretty much couldn’t have said anything that would have wounded my heart more in that moment. I grieved for the lost 30 minutes of sleep, but made my peace before I got to her door.

The great thing about being early is that you don’t have the panic of finding parking, finding the starting line, finding the port-a-potties before the race. You just wander. Calm and free. As we were walking up the sidewalk, my sister commented that there weren’t many runners. It was true. It looked as if the local running club showed up, maybe a few family members but that was it. Easily less than 100 people. I was feeling inadequate. These were serious runners. I am… not. Yet. I told my sister she didn’t have to wait for me. She’s been running for years. She would be fine with these people. An older woman heard my strategy and said she would linger back with me. She was wearing a knee brace. Behind us were a group of blind runners. That’s right, blind runners. Some had escorts, some ran independently. Talk about motivating. Those folks had no fear.

We were walking up the sidewalk as the Kid’s Fun Run finished up. A group of ladies were blocking the sidewalk. The first of the two kids racing ran past. I checked for the second kid. She was a few yards back and running near the center of the road. I stepped off the curb to slide past the ladies blocking the walk. In a fury, one of the ladies reached out and grabbed my upper arm. She jerked at me. I pulled my arm away as her nails dug in and scratched me. Seriously, what did she think I was going to do? Run out and trip the kid? I turned my head and shot her a look that stopped her group cold. “I was just going around you,” I said in a growl. Crimestoppers, I would like to report an assault.

All was well once the race started. Knee Brace Lady and I traded positions for the first mile or so. I walked up the hills, ran down them. (What?!) We made our way up 4th street, across Cherry, then down 5th. Halfway down 5th Street, I noticed I was being passed by very lean men moving very quickly. I seriously thought they were just random people running — because I’m clever like that. When we came around the corner and headed back up to 4th Street, I was feeling pretty good despite having walked more than I would have liked. A sign said three miles. Something seemed off, but I wasn’t going to fight it. I followed the Lean Guys. We were nearing the starting line. Suddenly a race official stuck out his arms and yelled at me, “This is for the finishers!” I think I looked stunned [because I was]. Two other race officials were nearby. “Go around this way to keep going, Honey,” one said. I stopped for a moment and said, “So what? I don’t look like I could finish in 20 minutes?” I gave them a “pssshh” and ran on. The old guys laughed. The Finish Line Nazi did not. [In case you are wondering, the fastest man finished in 16 minutes. The fastest woman finished in 19 minutes.]

My little bolt of defiance gave me a burst of energy. I wasn’t thrilled to do the loop again, but at least I was halfway through. The second loop was pretty quiet. I ran alone. I walked alone. My sister doubled back and met me on 5th Street as I was coming down. She ran part of the way with me, then cut through the park to wait for me at the finish line. When I was making my last turn, one of the ladies from the sidewalk group earlier cheered me on. “I like your headband,” she said. “Thanks, it’s from Active Bands,” I told her. Apparently that was more chatting from me than she approved of because she said, “Keep going, you aren’t finished.” I looked back to nod at her [and secretly roll my eyes] when I caught sight of the Knee Brace Lady. I waited for her. “I’ll run with you,” I told her. Sidewalk Lady yelled, “Run! You can beat her! She’s wearing a knee brace!” I’m not making that up. I repeated to the Knee Brace Lady, “We’ll cross together.” And we did. In 41:45.

Race History:
Crimestoppers Run for Justice 5K: 41:45 minutes
Tour de Lila
[15 miles]: 70 minutes
Run Wild at the Zoo 5K: 44:04 minutes

Currently Reading: Stuck on The Happiness Project. I don’t know why I can’t get through this book.

Training Log: Yesterday: Walk/Run, 2.6 miles, 36 minutes; Today: Spin, 16.6 miles, 45 minutes


Race Report: Tour de Lila September 6, 2011

Head cow said to the other cows, "Nobody move. That girl ain't right."

I was about eight miles into the ride when I realized a cow was staring at me. Actually, not just one cow, but a field of cows. They had stopped grazing and seemed to hold their breath as they watched me chug down mouthfuls of water. I suppose I was a sight. I was alone on a country road where forty-some-odd bikes had already ridden through. I was red faced, dry mouthed and was working on a hateful disposition. Moments earlier Z had been riding behind me. After too many “we need to catch up!” and “use your gears!” I told him to go ahead of me. Instead of drafting, he took off. Insert the hateful disposition right there. As I caught my breath, I noticed an old farmer was watching me from the barn. Deciding I was too pitiful to be a threat, he moved along with his Saturday morning chores. The cows, though, they were suspicious. Why was this chunky girl trying to ride a bike down their road? Why didn’t the skinny men in tight pants wait for her? Is that milk in that bottle?

The Tour de Lila was the first bike ride Z and I had participated in. We loaded our bikes and headed to my mom’s house the night before. She stuffed us with spaghetti and meatballs. She gave us the big bed so we would be rested. The ride was 15, 25 or 50 miles. I was told it was a family ride. In truth, the only “families” that showed up were professional riding teams from the local bike shops. They all headed out on the 50 mile ride on their $5,000 bikes. As I watched them roll out, I thought that they really did look like the guys from the Tour de France. Z and I were signed up for the 25 mile ride. We were riding our mountain bikes. My spin instructor, Justin, assured me that I could easily do 25 miles. As I stared into the deep brown eyes of a cow, I thought, “I’m a fool. There is no way I can do 25 miles. This isn’t freakin’ spin class. There is wind out here!” Z had doubled back, so I ended my water break. We were almost to the point where a decision had to be made — turn left and go 25 miles, stay straight and go 15. Up ahead [he left me again], Z signaled to turn left. I stayed straight. I figured if I was going to ride alone, I might as well blaze my own path. The local bike shop guy came by in his van to see how I was doing. Good, I said. Keep going, he said. The 50 milers passed me too. They cheered encouragement. I was doing a respectable job (meaning I hadn’t fallen off my bike), when the first hill came. And it came with a vengeance. It’s true, I don’t entirely understand how to use my gears. I thought I had the general concept, but in practice, I was failing miserably. I got off of my bike and walked for a moment. The bike guy in the van was back. “Are you OK?” Yes. “You sure?” Yes. “Bike OK?” Clearly he did not think I was OK and wanted me to stop being delusional. “I’m fine. That hill almost killed me.” He looked concerned. “I’m fine,” I said and got back on my bike and peddled off. There were three more major hills, but I didn’t get off of my bike. At one point I looked like I was barely moving, but I was on the seat with my bike in the upright position. Small victories, people.

The irony is that when I finished the ride, I felt good. Good and energetic. I finished 15 real road miles in an hour and 10 minutes. The bike shop riders were averaging about 22 miles in an hour. In spin class I can finish 25 miles in 50 minutes on a base ride. I probably could have done 25 miles for the Tour de Lila. I know now I could have done 25. Next time I’ll have a little faith in myself.

Currently Reading: The Happiness Project is still sitting on my bed stand and Sarah’s Key is in my bookbag waiting to be read. I really haven’t read anything since I went back to work on August 25th. According to Stephen King, if you don’t have time to read, you have no business writing.

Training Log: My training has been off the rails since the beginning of August. Next 5K is this coming Saturday. I absolutely get the NO EXCUSES, JUST DO IT! philosophy, but I also get that I have to show up at work and do household chores and finish my freelance articles and shower and sleep. I’ll figure it out, because I think two blogs saying “I did it, but it wasn’t pretty” is enough.


Scout and Her Latin Lovers August 27, 2011

Scout, caught on the couch. Gateway behavior to her alternative lifestyle.

Scout, AKA Backyard Kitty, has a squirrel boyfriend. We named him Raul. She shares her expensive Old Girl Cat Food with him. I suspect she wants to share her igloo cat house with him. Raul is not a stay-the-night kind of squirrel though. I can see it in his eyes. I try to tell her that she can’t trust a squirrel that sits on the corner of the fence and yells at her mom. If he were a Real Squirrel, he would come up on the deck and say hello properly.

Turns out that she may have taken my advice, but not told Raul. I woke up at 4:00 a.m. Friday morning to the horrific sound of an animal trapped under our kitchen cabinets. It was scratching to get out with its teeth, and claws and broken bones. Z had already been dealing with it for an hour before I woke up. He tried to get Mike the Toothless Cat and Pete! the Wonder Pup to meow, bark or scratch in defensive of our home. Apparently they looked at the cabinet and turned around and went back to their beds. The scratching coming from the cabinet turned my stomach. I banged on the door with my Life is Good water bottle. The scratching stopped. Z thought it was a mouse. No way, I said. That’s bigger than a mouse. Oh no, I bet it’s a squirrel. We concluded we had a R. Kelly Trapped in the Closet scenario going on under my soup pots. There’s a new squirrel in the cat house. We named him Julio. I hope he’s good looking, because he’s obviously too stupid to find his way out from under the house. [How did he get under there anyway?!] Every time he scratched, I banged on the counter. I’m sure he was frightened, but I have a general lack of compassion at 4 a.m. I have to sleep, I whined to Zef. He set up his iPad to play gun show podcasts for the poor squirrel. As I fell back to sleep, Z said the podcasts were working. I said the squirrel probably passed out from boredom. Or maybe that was the final push he needed to save himself. No scratching has been heard in 24 hours. Run free, Julio.

Hopes to Finish Reading Today So I Can Start Sarah’s Key: The Happiness Project by Gretchen Rubin

Training Log: The Holden Uganda Run for Water 5K was cancelled due to Hurricane Irene. Off to the gym this morning if the power stays on.


My Albatross’ Name is Cookie August 16, 2011

Filed under: Currently Reading,Exercise Follies,Food,Training Log — Teri @ 10:38 pm


Whoops. I grew out of my work clothes. My weight started creeping up after my surgery in January, but this summer’s good times with it’s food and wine popped the button. When I was younger, I would have cried as I tried on all of the pants and skirts in my closet, desperate for just one pair to fit. I huffed at myself in the mirror tonight, but I didn’t cry. I developed a stress headache, but I didn’t cry.

I’ve carried too much weight around with me for most of my life. Sometimes it was only five pounds, occasionally ten times that. For one glorious summer I was actually at the very bottom of my CDC determined healthy weight range, but I only ate fat free cheese and fig newtons. Then I spent most of my 20’s hovering at the top of the range. And then I just blew off caring about the range altogether. So I’ve been there and back… and there and back again.

I’ve done Weight Watchers with some success. When I was younger, I could lose 10 pounds just by keeping busy. I’m not that lucky anymore. But I do exercise. I can be sporadic, but at least I’m not a couch potato. I eat lots of veggies and whole grains and lean meats. “Lots” being the operative word. My portion sizes are as plump as I am.

So as I stood in front of the mirror in my skin tight work pants (hey, at least I could zip them up!), I thought, “So what are you going to do about it?” Well, I’m going to cut back on my Coke consumption, which has skyrocketed this summer. That will save 280 calories a day. That’s 1,960 calories a week. (Good grief, is it really?!) You have to cut or burn 3,500 calories to lose a pound, so I’ll have to cut back on food too. Oh, how I love to eat. I think I’ll have to cut back to 1500 calories a day. Any less than that and I’ll be hateful. I’m not sure how many calories I’ve been eating, so I don’t know how much that will save. And, then, of course I have to stop putzing around and make every scheduled workout. Six days a week. I already do a ton of cardio, so I need to add in weight training. Muscle burns calories. So what am I going to do about it? That’s what I’m going to do about it. I’m guessing I need to lose 10 pounds to fit back into my clothes. Fifteen pounds wouldn’t hurt. So I’ll start with a goal of 15 pounds lost by October 11th. We’ll reassess at that point.

Of course, it would be nice if I didn’t have to spend so much time thinking about my weight and feel inadequate because I don’t manage it well. Every year I promise myself that this will be the year I am done dealing with it. I will be healthy. I will be fit. I will make the CDC proud. Too bad there isn’t a fortune cookie box you can crack open to reveal the secrets of why you do destructive things to yourself. Truth is I don’t want to lose weight because I need to be the fashion magazine version of attractive. I want to lose weight because I want to progress as a person and leave behind this albatross. And, OK, I want to fit into my pants.

(And for the record, if you are a grown woman who still talks about other people’s weight, then I’m going to need you to go out and get yourself a hobby.)

All Done Reading: Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornby; Now Reading: The Happiness Project (No, I’m not unhappy. I’ll explain tomorrow.)

Training Log: Kind of blew today, but tomorrow is running and yoga. Time to pull up my extra large big girl panties and get on with it.


Tiny Room Tour: Out With a Bang August 12, 2011

Filed under: Currently Reading,Family,Field Trips,Food,Road Trip,Writing — Teri @ 8:35 pm

Oh, the luxury! The Tiny Room Tour finished up the summer dates in spectacular style. Monday afternoon we loaded up and headed out to Banner Elk, NC to stay at the Mast Farm Inn. Along the way, I was making phone calls and recording interviews for my article due to the community paper the next day. I tell myself that I work best under pressure. By the time we rolled through Boone, then along the back roads of Banner Elk I was thrilled to see the green roof of the inn. We walk in and meet Danielle, the innkeeper. I instantly love her. She’s loud and friendly and laughs a lot. When we asked about local restaurants for dinner, she enthusiastically told us about her favorites. She won my heart when she kept saying, “they specialize in local, organic food.” She asked what we wanted to do while we were there. I said, “We — oh,” and looked over at Zef. “OK, well, I used ‘we’ loosely, because I haven’t asked Zef, but ‘we’ want to hike and kayak.” Z cocked his head to the side and look at me as if he hasn’t had a say about anything since five minutes into our first date. Danielle howled. She took us up to the Aunt Leona Room, a third floor dormer room without a TV and directed us to Vidalia for dinner. Danielle promised the onion rings were amazing and they were. Z had spaghetti with lamb meatballs and I had a tomato and goat cheese salad. Z loved the lamb. I told him to enjoy it, because I was never, ever making it at home.


Profile View. See the Indian head?


The next morning we woke to our 8 o’clock coffee delivery. Breakfast was at 8:30 in the dining room. It was a vast and amazing plate of homemade yogurt with granola, vegetable quiche. ham and biscuits. I was stuffed and the forecast said it may rain, so we opted to go for a hike and put off kayaking until better weather the next day. My idea was to wander down some paths, maybe take in a waterfall or two, then head back to town for some shopping. Z had other plans. He looked at the list of trails and immediately zeroed in on Grandfather Trail, where you access part of the trail by climbing up wooden ladders on the mountain face. I thought he was insane, and luckily so did the park service, because they closed the trail for the day because of high winds. We were told we could go to the west side of the mountain and take the Profile Trail. I suppose because we were still full from breakfast, we didn’t pack very much water or food for the hike. I suspect we also thought Profile Trail would be easy. And the first mile was easy. We passed a rocky stream where we played in the cool water. We marched up the inclines past Foscoe View, Profile Campsite and Profile View. Once we reached Shanty Springs, I was starting to think this wasn’t much fun anymore. This is where the climb became technically strenuous. I had already finished most of my water and it was starting to get hot. We passed a couple on the way down. The man, probably in his late 20’s with a bandana wrapped around his head and a professional camera hanging from his neck, was invigorated! He told us to keep going, it was totally worth it. A girl about his age came down the rocks a few minutes after he did. She nodded meekly to his enthusiasm. I looked her in the eye. We exchanged an all-knowing glance that all men are deranged. The couple moved pasted us and kept descending as Z and I started up the rocks. The path is a series of rock formations that we had to navigate. At some parts I found it easier to climb up on my hands and knees. Other parts, I slid on my butt. I asked Z how far we were going. He wanted to make it to the west side head of the Grandfather Trail. “It’s about three miles. Actually, 3.1,” he yelled back at me. It was like a 5K to the sky. I could do that, I told myself. When we reached Calloway Gap, Z decided we should go a little longer. “We’re almost to the peak,” he pleaded. I dragged behind him. My big breakfast had fueled the way up but was now gone. I didn’t have any water left. My legs were shaking. We had the option of going to the Watagua View or Calloway Peak and the elusive Grandfather Trail. Watagua View was closer. “I’m not going the long way,” I told Z. That climb was the hardest thing I had done in a while and I was done. But first I had to get back down. Where going up the trail was physically challenging, going down was mentally challenging. I turned my left ankle three times since I lost the ability to land my foot squarely. I slid down rocks. I was slightly concerned about falling off the trail and down the mountain. When we reached the bottom, I chugged a hot Coke and downed a snack pack of walnuts from the truck. My hands were shaking and I had no strength in my legs. Z, on the other hand, was fine. He leaned against the back of the truck and stretched his legs while I debated going into diabetic shock. When he hopped into the driver’s seat, I informed him that we were going straight to Mellow Mushroom Pizza — despite dusty ankles, despite reeking of bug spray and sunblock and despite the wild look in my eyes. When we got back to the inn, I was still feeling pretty down on myself for having such a hard time on the trail. We met Danielle’s husband, Ken, in the hallway. We told him about our day. He seemed genuinely impressed that we finished the trail in four hours. I used the burst of confidence to will my tired legs up to our third floor room.


I think I said an expletive when I saw this portion. Silly me, I wasn't even to the strenuous part yet. (Trail is much steeper and rockier than appears in photo.)


The next morning I had to roll myself out of bed because all of my muscles were locked into position. I winced going down the stairs. My upper thigh muscles were unforgiving. I tried to convince Z that antiquing would be a fun alternative to kayaking. He scowled at me and asked for the nearest outfitter. As I ate my fruit danish and drank my OJ, I was grateful that you sit while kayaking. We were the only kayakers on the river with a few tubers and fishermen. And why were we the only kayakers? Because everyone else had the sense to know that it was too shallow to kayak. The mountains, it seems, are also suffering through a drought. At points in the river, we had to get out and drag our kayaks through ankle deep water. Other times, I just reached out and pushed off of the river bed. Z christened our outfitter Rocky Bottom Kayaks. I hate this was Z’s first kayaking trip because it wasn’t as fun as it should have been. Luckily we have a knack for coming away with stories even in the dullest of circumstances.

Currently Reading: Juliet, Naked by Nick Hornby

Finished Reading and Loved: The Help by Kathryn Stockett


When the Walls Came Tumbling Down August 6, 2011

Filed under: Currently Reading,Training Log — Teri @ 1:50 pm

9/11/01 9:03 a.m.

I saw a commercial last night for the new Steven Spielberg special about 9/11. Just a few weeks ago, I was reading through Facebook and noticed that someone “liked” a 9/11 Tenth Anniversary page. “Has it really been 10 years,” I said to Zef. “Seems like longer,” he said. And he’s right. I can barely remember what life was like before 9/11. Before plane travel became a pain and the stock market lost it’s mind and gas prices became outrageous. I remember the day everything changed though.

I was at my desk that Tuesday morning when a co-worker popped up out of his cubicle and said a plane has just crashed into one of the World Trade Center towers. His wife had called. She was a nice lady, but as a housewife with a cleaning lady and a grown child, she was prone to calling her husband in fits of contrived hysteria. If I remember correctly, I rolled my eyes as he darted down the aisle and into the conference room with the TV. My friend stopped at my cubicle, “Let’s see what’s going on.” Peter Jennings was giving the news report. The three of us watched without understanding. Surely it was an accident. Who flies a plane into a building? Some of the company executives were starting to file in the room now. They had a meeting at 9:00 am and were only vaguely interested in what the Marketing Kids were doing watching TV in their space. Because the president of the company was running late for the meeting, we were still standing there watching the live broadcast when the second plane crashed in the South Tower. The men in the room all jumped out of their chairs. They knew something was wrong, but I just stood there dumbfounded. “What does this mean?” I asked the company vice president. I had grabbed his arm without realizing it. “I don’t know,” he said. He put his arm around my shoulders like a dad comforting his child. We were the only ones who had spoken. Everyone else seemed to be holding their breath. It’s amazing to me that 30 minutes passed before anyone moved again. We were transfixed on the news. When Peter Jennings announced that the Pentagon had been hit, the VP, who still had his arm around my shoulders, spun me around, took my shoulders in both of his hands and said, “Go clear the other conference rooms and tell everyone to get back to their desks.” I was shaking. I was terrified. I knocked on the door of the adjoining conference room. Most of the people already knew about the first plane crashing into the WTC. Some were annoyed I was disrupting their meeting. “The Pentagon has been hit,” I said with no fanfare at all. My throat was dry and I felt pale. I did as I was asked and went back to watch the news. When the first tower collapsed, I naively assumed the building was already evacuated. When the plane went down in Pennsylvania, it never occurred to me that it was supposed to be rerouted for the White House. At 11 o’clock, I went back to my desk. I turned my CD player over to radio and turned the dial to NPR. I shuffled papers on my desk and listened. There was a frustrating lack of information. I wanted to go home and see my mom, but the building was on lockdown. We weren’t going anywhere.

In the days after 9/11, I was glued to the news reports. The whole thing was so diabolical I couldn’t wrap my brain around it. I cried as reports came out about workers in the WTC making last phone calls home. Their families were still looking for them, putting up posters, making pleas on TV. I have a memory of President Bush having tears in his eyes when he visits Ground Zero, but I can’t remember exactly when that happened. My heart broke for him and I wasn’t even much of a fan of his. In 2008, I was giving a presentation to soldiers returning from Iraq about PTSD. I told them PTSD comes in varying degrees. I made an offhanded statement that I seriously thought I had PTSD from the news reports after 9/11. I couldn’t watch the news or violence of any kind for a good nine months afterward. I thought they would laugh at me. They were quiet, some of them nodded.

It seems to me that there is a underlying agreement that life changed forever that day. That’s why the soldiers didn’t laugh. They understood. Even though I was 30 years old on September 11, 2001, I was still a very sheltered girl. The events of 9/11 jerked a knot in my very being. I knew I had to stop being an irresponsible, impetuous girl and start being a grown up with some investment in the world. It took a while, but I got myself in order. I left my marketing job and went back to school to become a social worker. And I think there is a part of me, somewhere in the back of my heart and mind, that tries every day to be worthy of living past that day.

Where were you on the morning of 9/11/2001?

Currently Slowly Reading: The Help by Kathryn Stockett

Training Log: Activity: C25K W4D3; Activity: Cycling, Time: 45 minutes, Miles: 20


Intruders Be Warned August 5, 2011

Z's embarrassed of the yellow magazine. Don't judge him.


The kids in our neighborhood are getting restless. There has been a rash of car break-ins recently and an attempted home invasion. One night not long ago a young man knocked on a front door at 10 o’clock at night. The owners didn’t answer [because in the South, no one visits or calls after dark]. The boy went around to the back of the house, unscrewed the light bulb in the porch light and tried to kick in the back door. The owners scared him off and called the police. Reportedly, the police arrived 20 minutes later and didn’t take a report. Our rabid neighborhood watch is going nuts. Don’t try to outsmart a bunch of old Special Forces guys. Things will get real in a hurry.

Z and I were talking about the attempted break-in over breakfast. Z said he would get anyone that broke in our house. That’s dumb, I said. He looked up from his bowl of Fiber One and went on a rant. I’ve heard it all before. When I asked him if he wouldn’t feel bad for hurting a kid, he said let that be a lesson to his friends. It gave me a headache trying to reconcile what I was hearing.

Z and I have opposing views on gun control. We basically vote down party lines. My opinions about automatic weapons make him groan in disgust. His opinions on concealed carry make me think I’ve married a nut. I can tolerate it because Z is a fanatic about gun safety and the weapons stay out of sight. It lets me live in my Happy Place where guns don’t exist.

Z insisted that we go to the gun range today so I could practice. No, I’m not going, I said. He persisted. Z doesn’t get adamant about much, but he was adamant that I practice with a pistol. I fumed the entire way to the range. In one respect, I get that, if there are guns in the house, you should know how to properly handle them. It would be ironic if someone did break into our house and harmed me when I had a means to protect myself within reach. On the other hand, I honestly can’t see myself doing it. When I lived alone, and in highly suspect areas, I kept my old aluminum softball bat under my bed. I know, rock-paper-scissors, a bat is no competition for a gun. Then again, if you get close enough, I could smack your eardrum into the next county. I mean, I didn’t get married until I was 37 years old. That means I dated for 20 long, hard years. I have enough repressed rage in me that I’m pretty sure I can unleash a wild fury on any man trying to hurt me. He’d cry then he’d call his momma to apologize for being a problem child. Who needs a gun with those skills?


We won't talk about the ones that aren't on the target.


Z went easy on me and only had me shoot one magazine from each pistol. Z refreshed my memory on how to load the magazine, turn on — and off! — the safety, and line up the sites. The 1911 was the heaviest and easiest to shoot. I actually hit the bull’s eye with that one. The Glock 34 was lighter, but I wasn’t as accurate. I still hit the target though. The Glock 19 was a beast to shoot. It was the smallest and lightest and I couldn’t hit a barn with it. Well, I hit six shots in the target [barely] and six outside of the target. If I try to shoot someone in the foot, he’s definitely going to get it in the liver. Sorry, Mr. Intruder.


Policing the "brass" from the cheapy Russian practice ammo.


Really Liking: The Help by Kathryn Stockett

Training Log: Yesterday I cycled and ran. The hip/foot affliction seems to be gone. Had my first migraine in three months today, so slept about six hours this afternoon. Back to cycling and running tomorrow.