Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Nora Get Your Gun

You know, I don't really ask for much from my weekend: some time to relax, dinner out with friends or family, maybe a movie . . . not too much, really. So why must my weekend be an overachiever and give me more excitement than I can handle?

My niece Emma had her 10th birthday party on Saturday and she wanted all party goers to come dressed in their favorite color. Party themes are a big deal in my family and we go all out, usually competing with each other for an unofficial "best costume" award - we're very competitive. So I spent pretty much all Saturday morning trying to figure out just what combination of pink and red I was going to wear. In the end, I decided on a pair of red pants, a pink shirt, a pink scarf, a red hat, and red and white slippers . . . don't judge me. ANYWAY, once I decided on what I was going to wear, I laid it out on my bed and jumped in the shower to get ready.

Fast forward 30 minutes . . .

After I finished drying my hair, I got my make-up out and was JUST about to start putting it on when I heard my dog barking like crazy downstairs. I hadn't heard anyone knocking but I knew by the way he was barking that someone was at my front door. I wasn't fully dressed so I just sneaked from my bedroom door to my balcony and looked down at the front door to see if I could tell who was at the door - I had thought that maybe it was my mom or Jill or one of my sisters. But all I could see from my vantage point was that the person was wearing blue pants and white tennis shoes and that I didn't recognize his or her hair.

Then, to my horror, the person tried to open the door.

I was frozen for a second and then I jumped into action. My first order of business: get dressed. I ran to my room and looked at my outfit that I had set out for my niece's party. I quickly thought to myself "I am NOT getting murdered in red pants and a pink scarf, thankyouverymuch." I had brief visions of the prosecutor in the subsequent murder trial displaying crime scene photos and trying to explain my peculiar fashion sense to the confused jury. So I quickly grabbed some jeans and a shirt. Then I grabbed my phone and went back to the balcony. I still couldn't see the person's face but I could tell that he or she was looking in through the window and still trying to open the front door. Then the person walked away.

I ran to a different window in my house that afforded a better view of my retreating would-be burglar and I saw that it was a SHE - an older woman who looked like she might either be crazy or drunk. I called the police and explained to them what happened. They came right out and, when they got there, the crazy lady was walking up someone else's driveway to try it again. The deputy talked to her for a minute and then put her in the back of her car. My neighbors and I were standing outside, waiting for word from the deputy but all she did was put her finger up to her temple to indicate that the lady wasn't quite all there. Poor thing.

Of course I had to tell everyone at Emma's party about what had happened. And because we are all good Texans, this led to a discussion of the benefits of having a gun in your house for protection against intruders [pause for some of my friends and family members to groan . . .]. But, trust me, whether you are for or against guns, you would enjoy having a conversation about guns with my mom like the one we had on Saturday:

Mom: I think I need a shotgun.
Tammy: Uh - no you don't.
Erin: Mom - that would hurt your shoulder. I mean, you can't even handle it if one of the kids hits your arm. How are you going to handle the recoil of a shotgun?
Mom: I wouldn't hold it against my shoulder - I'd just hold it out. Like this. [holding and imaginary shotgun WAY out from her body]
Erin: Oh yeah - that would be real intimidating to a burglar. He'd take one look at you and go back to stealing your stuff.
Mom: Shut up. [turning to me] And we could go to some sort of range and shoot . . . ummmmm . . . what's the word I'm looking for . . . ummmmmm . . . we could shoot . . . I know it's not "skanks."
Me: Oh, geez - I hope not.
Tammy: Yeah. You could just drive down Westheimer yelling "PULL!"?
Me and Erin and Tammy: [cracking up]
Me: I really don't think that shooting skanks is legal . . .
Mom: What's the word I'm thinking of?
Me: Skeet?
Mom: Yeah . . . that. We could shoot that.

Is it a coincidence that NRA almost spells NORA?

I think not . . .