I enjoyed our coffee so much last week I thought we’d do it again.
That and I’m still having trouble committing to this post I know I need to write. So as with last week, this week’s post is brought to you by reason number three: Procrastinating writing the post I really want to write but am too chicken.
A Girl and A Gun
You probably saw the news about the nine-year-old girl who fatally shot a gun instructor. I know Arizona doesn’t have age restrictions on who can shoot a gun. I know it was the parents’ decision to allow their daughter to shoot an automatic weapon. And I know she had hands to hold the gun (except when it was on the automatic setting) and fingers to pull the trigger.
But just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.
I totally support our second amendment rights. I’m for reasonable gun control, but I would stand up with the rest of you if anyone tried to take people’s guns away.
And I still have to ask, what the hell were her parents thinking? I ask this seriously because (1) I haven’t heard/read anything about what made them think this was an acceptable idea and (2) even if I had, I can’t imagine anything they could say that would make me go, “Oh yeah, that makes complete sense.”
Do you know? Do you understand why? If you do, please enlighten me because I’m having a hard time with this. I want to understand, really I do. But I don’t know how to start doing that.
I could get my head around their desire to teach their daughter to fire a shotgun or rifle for hunting, especially if that was part of their family life. Or you might even be able to convince me that her parents wanted to get a jump on teaching her self-defense.
Instead, I’m left wondering: Were her parents terrified that someone was going to take their guns away (even though there’s that second amendment) and, by gawd, they were not going to let that happen so they took their child to a gun range and let her shoot an Uzi?
An Uzi? Really? In what world do those two things—a nine-year old and an Uzi—go together?
I’m struggling here, and I’m not the only one. Help me, please.
On Thursday, I had to be a grownup, and I’m friggin exhausted.
I work from home in my day-job almost exclusively. This week I went into the office for one day, and by 6:00 p.m. I could have fallen asleep. I did nod off while watching Riddick with my husband, but maybe that says more about the movie than my fatigue.
When I’m in the office, I’m just “on” in a way I’m not when I’m at home. I talk more (and faster for some reason), I move more, I smile more. All of that sounds pleasant, but it drains me. I seriously don’t know if I could work in a job where I had to be in an office every day.
It was also a hard week because my team moved to a new area of Human Resources under a new leader. I’m sure she’s going to be great—I’m not worried about that. But I’m sure going to miss my prior leader.
She’s one of those bosses who gives you just what you need when you need it. She did a seamless job of moving between “friend” and “boss.” She’d give me a good kick in the ass and then she’d dust off her footprint.
She taught me more in the seven years I’ve worked with her than all of my prior thirteen bosses combined. Like the following:
It’s OK to say you don’t know.
Sometimes people are assholes and you can’t do anything about it.
Most of the time things don’t make sense but that doesn’t mean you can’t keep moving forward.
And she surprised me. When she interviewed me, I thought she was kind of uptight and wouldn’t have the first idea about how to have fun. But that woman has made me laugh more times than I ever imagined she would.
One of the best moments was when I walked into her office to ask her a question. When she turned around, she was wearing these huge googly-eyed glasses. With a completely straight face, she said, “Do you like my new glasses?” I’m sure I peed my pants a little I laughed so hard.
Don’t get me wrong. She’s an ankle biter when she needs to be. That woman gets an idea in her head and she will not let go. And although I’ll always remember her for her humor and tenacity, what will stick with me is the way she walks. She’s a little thing, but her footfalls are so heavy and fast she sounds like a giant with his ass on fire. I know it’s her before I ever see her.
Michelle, I’m going to miss the pitter patter of your anvil-like feet (among other things).
I’ve decided that “If you can’t beat them, join them” applies to fruit flies.
There have been so many of them in our apartment, I completely relate to Kate Hall’s recent blog post, “When the Fruit Fly Population is So High You Fear Being Carried Off in the Middle of the Night.”
When I got home from work on Thursday after being a grownup all day, I grabbed the half glass of wine in the fridge, readying my gullet for the cool, soothing nectar. My daughter said, “You’re going to drink that with the fruit fly in it?”
I looked at the glass, mentally calculated the wine-to-fruit-fly ratio…and chugged that bitch down.
And then I spent the rest of the night sounding like a cat horking up a hairball. It reminded me of the time I drank a cup of coffee from the local coffee shop (not my beloved Zanzibar’s) and pulled a four-foot hair from my mouth that had snaked its way about three feet down my throat.
But that’s for another blog post.