LoriLoo

Shoot

August 21, 2011

Tales of San Francisco

I’ve now had two experiences with guns in my life.

Experience One
I was maybe ten or eleven years old. Our parents were out-of-town for the day and my older brother, Greg, then 18 or so, and I were home alone. Our house was surrounded by woods and beyond the woods were pastures where cows, bulls, and horses grazed. Being a pre-teen girl, I was sitting on the kitchen counter, rapt in conversation on the phone with my best friend. That’s usually what I was doing in those days. Greg went outside and noticed that a cow had wandered into our yard from one of the neighboring pastures. He decided it would be a good idea to use our grandfather’s antique shotgun to scare away the cow. He loaded the gun, shot it, and nothing happened. He let the gun drop to his side. It was then the bullet shot out, entering his right foot, ricocheting off his bone, exiting his right foot, and entering his left.

I remember hearing a loud noise and wondering what it was. I had not seen Greg go outside with the gun. I kept talking on the phone. He came to the screen door, saying he had shot himself. As a typical older brother, Greg was always playing practical jokes on me. I ignored him, thinking it was a ploy to get me off the phone. He opened the door and stumbled in, a river of blood rushing over the kitchen floor. What happened next was a blur. We must have called 911. We must have applied pressure to his feet, or maybe elevated them. Somehow Greg ended up at the hospital and I ended up at a neighbor’s.

Guns = rivers of blood.

Experience Two
A few weeks ago, a friend mentioned he wanted to take a gun safety class.This appealed to me. This would be a way for me to face my fears about guns. He made the reservations and I didn’t really think about it any more until we were driving down to Jackson Arms on Saturday afternoon. We were both a little nervous, and a little excited, not sure what to expect. The gun safety class was much briefer than I expected. Main takeaway – always point the gun down range and never at people. After a few minutes, we were being given safety glasses, ear phones, and heading into the shooting range. As I walked in, I was overcome by the smell of burning gunpowder, and the heat of the guns meeting the cool of the air conditioning. And the noise. Holy cow. Even with ear phones on, the shots of guns other people were firing was frightening.

Warren and I shared lane six. Lane five contained a family, evidently on a family outing. Dad was silver-haired, possibly in his late fifties. Daughter one was maybe 18 or 19 in tight yoga clothes; daughter two was maybe early 20s and in a strapless, backless jersey dress, and son appeared to be in his 20s, and on crutches. They brought their own guns in inconspicuous looking backpacks. I thought about my own family outings which often included friend chicken and visits to an apple orchard. Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore.

I was up first. The instructor helped me load the magazine, insert it into the gun, grip the gun properly, release the safety, and shoot. So far, so good. And then. The most horrifying loud noise literally rocked me. My first instinct was to drop to the floor, but I stayed standing, though with shoulders hunched, head tucked. The instructor reminded me to breathe. Evidently those inconspicuous looking backpacks beside us contained very large, very loud guns. Much larger and louder than the .22 I was shooting. I steadied my hands and took aim. Once again, I heard the boom beside me and felt the reverberations through my body. And felt tears streaming down my cheeks. Oh, no. This wasn’t what was supposed to happen. This wasn’t what I expected. I steadied myself and took aim. After a round, I pulled my target paper down so that Warren could have a chance. About 75% of the bullets had hit the bullseye.

We continued to take turns. My aim got better with each round. I continued to flinch with every shot of our neighbors. We finished our two boxes of bullets and went to the reception area. The instructor congratulated us and asked if we’d like to upgrade to a larger gun. I politely declined and mentioned to Warren I was happy to wait if he’d like to shoot some more. I think he was glad that I declined the upgrade. As he mentioned in the car, he was ready to get the hell out of there.

I continue to fear guns. And after an afternoon at the range, I don’t think that’s a bad thing.

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Most. Fun. Day. Ever.

August 7, 2011

Travel

I’m in St Louis for our Happiness (support) team meetup. One of our co-workers, Ryan, lives in the area and has organized the meetup with military precision. Today was designated as our “local” day to explore. I had no idea what was in store for us.

We started the day with a trip to Schlafly micro-brewery and tap room for lunch. Reading the menu, I see “One pound Reuben” and “Plate of Swine.” Oh, decadence. We gasped as platters of food arrived, more than any of us could consume in one sitting. Here, Ryan ponders how to attack the one pound Reuben.

From there it’s over to the City Museum, a wacky, incredible amusement of a place. I love places like this. Someone has a vision – let’s take recycled materials and do something utterly amazing with them. Like, make a museum. First stop, rooftop, to take our chance on the 10 story slide. As we were waiting in line, an employee asked, “Do you want to go really fast?” What kind of question is that? “Yes!” we screamed. So he preceded us down the corkscrew slide, spraying a teflon-like substance, making the metal slide even more slippery and fast. There’s something ultimately exhilarating about winding down story after story, hearing your screams of glee reverberating off of close metal walls. The slide dumped us into caves that we had an unusually difficult time exiting, but it was the most fun I’ve ever had being lost. The caves involved cages, and tunnels, and very dark passages that required squatting or crawling. After an inordinate amount of time, we found ourselves in the elevator back up to the rooftop. I looked up, surprised to see children crawling along the 50 foot high domed ceiling, protected by insanely close metal casings that allowed 18 inches or so of crawl space. We amused ourselves with the school bus cantilevered over the edge of the roof, the giant slide under a parachute, and a ferris wheel perched delicately on the roof. And then our time was up.

Saddened to leave, we piled into the mini-van and drove an hour to an incredibly remote, this is where they bury bodies, area of rural Illinois. Where we entered a nondescript, windowless brick building. That contained dozens of retrofitted pinball machines. That were ours for two hours of free play. I battled Tron, construction crews, NBA players and scored goals in the World Cup. I navigated haunted houses and raced cars.

And when we thought the day couldn’t get any better, we piled into the vehicles once again and made our way to Ryan’s house, where his family greeted us with home-made pulled pork and brisket. And Rock Band. Hours and hours of rock band. We proved our talents on guitar, bass, drums, and vocals. Who knew video games could be this much fun?

On our way home we stopped at Ted Dewes Frozen Custard. I was under the impression that ice cream was the perfect dessert and that perfection couldn’t be improved upon. I was wrong. This was an incredibly creamy, just the right sweetness frozen concoction that we ate in the parking lot, the heat from the day radiating from the black asphalt as we spooned deliciousness into our mouths under an almost full moon.

I guess all perfect days have to end at some point. And what a way to end.

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These Boots are Made for Walking

July 29, 2011

Tales of San Francisco

Jack has been my shoe repair go-to guy for almost 10 years. In my mind, he’s magic. He takes my much-loved, well-worn shoes and makes them new and beautiful again. He has breathed life into my favorite cowboy boots, again and again and again.

I walked in to his shop today, finally remembering to pick up the shoes I dropped off weeks ago. “Ready for your boots?” he asked as I walked in. “Nope, not boots, picking up shoes today.” “Are you sure? You always wear boots.”

I guess I wear them more than I thought.

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At the Boardwalk

July 25, 2011

Travel

Spending a day at the Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk with our VaultPress team. I had completely forgotten how much I love sunny days, roller coasters, and ice cream.

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Local Vacation

July 24, 2011

Tales of San Francisco

We saw an advertisement for “San Francisco: The Game.” I’m such a fan of scavenger hunts – what could be more fun than solving riddles and discovering new facts with good friends? Knowing that this was probably aimed towards tourists, we decided to go for the granddaddy of all tourist locations – the Fisherman’s Wharf scavenger hunt option.

We started the day with breakfast at The Buena Vista Cafe – home of Irish coffee and locale for many movies shot in San Francisco. While sipping our respective beverages, we noticed the woman beside us at the bar arranging two sock monkeys among the condiments. We asked what she was doing. “Just posing my children for a picture.” This was going to be an interesting day.

The scavenger hunt took us to stores on Fisherman’s Wharf, to the historic Hyde Street pier, to wax museums, and to the Wharf Visitor’s Center. However, our absolute favorite stop on the scavenger hunt was the Musee Mechanique, a privately owned collection of antique arcade machines. And it’s free!

We laughed along with Laughing Sal:

Got our palms read:

Arm wrestled with a luche libre:

And created a souvenir penny to remember our day:

A very fun way to spend a Saturday morning in the city!

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The Travel Gods Are Laughing

July 13, 2011

Travel

Remember that horrible/awesome movie from the ’80’s, Clash of the Titans? Where the gods had little clay figurines of key characters and moved them at will? That’s how I felt today.

This weekend I was invited to Raleigh for my college roommate’s son’s bar mitzvah. Since Raleigh is so close to Greensboro, I decided to come a couple of days early and visit with high school friends, as well as cowork with colleagues. It made the most sense (both time wise and economically) to fly into Greensboro and fly out of Raleigh. I would just rent a car to drive from Greensboro to Raleigh. I booked my ticket.

Unbeknownst to me, it is ridiculously expensive to rent a car at one location and return it to another. The rental car to get from Greensboro to Raleigh was going to be almost as much as my plane ticket. Hmmmm. What other options were there? I decided to rent a car at the Greensboro airport, return it in Greensboro, and take Amtrak from Greensboro to Raleigh. Plan in place.

My flight was at 7:35 am this morning and I accidentally overslept, waking at 7:18 am. I noticed I had an email notification that my flight was delayed until 8:29 am. I could make it!

I hailed a cab. He drove me there as I practiced meditative breathing. Calm. In. Out. I arrived to SFO and a kind TSA agent led me to the front of the security line. Ah, this was good. Very good. Things were going my way.

The flight was delayed beyond 8:29 am. I began to worry that I would miss my connection, but then decided there was nothing I could do about it, so if I missed it, I would have a couple of hours to do work in Houston, or get my nails done. It would be a nice break in the day.

We landed in Houston as my connection for Greensboro took off. As I disembarked, the gate agent handed me a stack of boarding passes. From Houston, to Atlanta, to Washington Dulles, to Greensboro, arriving in the wee hours of the morning. “Excuse me, I think there might be a mistake. Is there any way to fly to Greensboro directly?” “You’ll have to go to customer service, ma’am.”

So I went. The agent could best be described as a sour puss. She didn’t look at me, and didn’t seem particularly interested in customer service. When I explained my dilemma, she said, “Yeah, planes don’t really head to the east coast after 3 pm.” WTF? I find that hard to believe.

I tried again. “Are there any direct flights to Greensboro?” “Not until tomorrow,” she answered, still never looking at me. “Is there any way you can get me there sooner?” And at that moment, silent tears slowly creeped from the corners of my eyes down my cheeks. I didn’t want to cry. I was tired, and just wanted to be at my destination. I knew it wasn’t her fault, and I wasn’t mad at her, I was just, well, frustrated. I wanted to be at my destination, having dinner with my friends.

She never looked up, but maybe she sensed my despair. She typed several queries. “I can get you to Raleigh/Durham by 7.” Oh, the irony. “That would be lovely, thank you.”

I looked up to the skies, expecting to see the travel gods mocking me.

Not seeing them, I rushed to the gate, making last call for the flight to Raleigh.

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A Day in the Surf

July 10, 2011

Travel

Laughing at the monkeys before hitting the waves

We decided to practice surfing when the monkey started throwing pits down at us

Waxing my board

Ready to hit the surf

Almost…

But not quite…

Success!

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Welcome to the Big City

July 9, 2011

Travel

We landed at the local airport in San Jose after a lovely 45 minute flight from the western part of Costa Rica. As we disembarked, we were met by policemen and a dog on the tarmac.

“Drop your bags. Stand behind the line.”

I did, and quickly realized we were about to be searched. I laid my backpack in front of me and took a couple of steps back. I watched as the dog sniffed each bag, both carry-on and checked. We had officers at each end of the line, staring at us.

I turned to my travel companion and whispered, “Do you think this is normal? Or that they’ve been tipped off?” “Not sure. Maybe it’s a training exercise?” It felt more like we were on a movie set for a cop show. I looked around at the other ten passengers. Who was the most likely candidate to be carrying drugs? The young, unshaven guys with golf bags? The young family with the crying baby (no one would ever suspect them). The couple that appeared to be honeymooning?

Alas, it was no one. After several minutes, the officers allowed us to pick up our bags, enter the airport, and go upon our way.

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Me and Mo

July 8, 2011

Travel

Horseback riding on the beach at sunset? Why, yes, please!

When presented with a fun idea, I rarely stop to think through the logistics. Such as, when was the last time I was on a horse? Ummmmm… maybe 35 years ago? What shape is my body in? Somewhat bruised and battered after a week of surfing. And the guide? Monolingual Spanish speaker. I tend to overrate my non-English language abilities. Something one might want to consider when engaging in a new activity with a large animal.

Nonetheless, it was fun. Our guide presented me with a very beautiful, very large horse. I petted it, hoping to create a bond before our ride. “Como te llama?” I asked our guide. “Mo.”

The guide then spoke to me very rapidly. I caught maybe every fifth or sixth word. I asked him to slow down, and he asked me, “Do you understand?” I paraphrased what I thought he said and he repeated that the most important thing was not to pull back hard on the reins. If I did that, Mo would rear, throwing me off him. I consider myself pretty solid, but I was no match for Mo.

I mounted Mo and we started off down the beach at a nice slow trot. Until the dogs gathered round, barking and baring their teeth. Seems like Mo isn’t really a fan of dogs. He took off at (what I considered) full speed down the beach.

As I bounced around in the saddle (one important piece of information that I did not understand from the guide was that I should squeeze my legs tightly around the horse in order not to fall off), Mo continued gaining speed.

Interior voice: Okay, Lori. Don’t be afraid. Don’t panic. Animals can smell panic. Calm down. Stay in the saddle. Don’t fall off. Be gentle with Mo. No rearing.

Exterior voice: Hey, Mo? Think we could slow down a bit? Just a little?

Interior voice: He’s not slowing down. Hm. Ah! Maybe he doesn’t speak English either. Let’s try in Spanish. Hm. I don’t know those words in Spanish. What do I know?

Exterior voice: Bueno, Mo. Bueno, bueno, bueno. Bajo, por favor?

Interior voice: That’s not the word for stop. How do you say stop? Maybe if I pull just slightly on the reins he’ll slow down. Oh, my, I’m high up here. I wonder how many bones I would break if I were tossed?

Exterior voice: Mas despacio, por favor. Bueno, Mo, bueno.

And he slowed down. And it was a lovely ride down the beach, at sunset, me and Mo.

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Wiping Out and Getting Up

July 7, 2011

Travel

Know what made me a better surfer? A total and complete wipeout. I’m sure there’s some psychology behind that, but haven’t figured it out yet.

I saw the wave coming, positioned myself on my board, chest up, long strokes, paddling towards shore. I could hear the wave building behind me, coming closer, closer. I felt the powerful rush of the wave and was thrust forward. And, as if in slow motion, I saw the nose of my board dip further and further beneath the wave. I was too far forward on the board. In my head I thought, “Nooooooooooooooo……” and then felt myself flipping forward, over the nose of the board, careening into the force of the wave, spun around, upside down, hands over head to prevent me from getting knocked out by the board, thinking I was getting up, but heading down towards the ocean floor and finally sputtering to the surface. I righted myself, coughed salt water out of lungs and sinuses, and looked around. My board was floating several feet away from me. I was still in one piece. Our surf instructor was by me in an instant, asking if I was okay. I was, just torn up a bit. I rested for a moment on the beach, then headed out again. And was able to ride more waves in that afternoon than I had all week.

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