Mike is off making bullets today. I didn't feel like sitting home alone so I went to an outlet mall with my mother. She had heard that there was a Crocs outlet that opened recently and since I've been wanting a pair of red mary-jane style Crocs, I agreed to go with her to check it out. (Yes, I wear Crocs, and no, I do not need any snide remarks. You try finding shoes for one fake foot and one slightly messed up real foot.) So a beautiful day, a little road trip, some shopping with Mom and lunch afterwards? Sounded perfect.
Except when we pulled into the driveway, I saw this sign at the beginning of the driveway. The entire property was a "gun free zone." Dammit. I called Mike, interrupting his mysterious reloading alchemy.
"What do I do?" I had worn one of my empire-waisted cover shirts. If I had known about the sign, I would have worn a tank top and taken the bigger purse, ifyouknowwhatImeanandIthinkyoudo. I had even checked the website to make sure.
Mike said, "Lock it in the glovebox. It'll be okay."
I sighed but inwardly I was whining, "But I don't wanna. Nooooo." I left the gun in the car, but I was Not Happy about it.
And just as we were walking past the Lane Bryant outlet (oh, wait. Lane Bryant? Like the store in Illinois where 5 women were shot dead? Yes, the very one.) a bicycle cop rode past with his gun holstered neatly and quietly on his belt - just like mine would have been. I grumbled something about "only ones" and my mother either ignored me or sighed or both. (probably both)
Also - I'd like to say that I just do not grok the fancy expensive handbag craze. I walked into the Coach store and stopped about 5 feet in, perplexed at what seemed to be a swarming hive of activity. So many women hovering and cooing over $200 (on clearance!) fabric bags. My mother ventured further in and I remained standing near the door with what I'm sure was a very clear "WTF?" look on my face. I mean, come on. It's just something to put your keys and lipgloss in, right? (if you're me, maybe some polyhedral dice and a spare magazine too)
Anyway, after shopping we decided to get some lunch. I told my mom to choose what she'd like and it would be my treat. We drove around looking for somewhere to eat, growing more and more desperate. My stomach was growling and I was getting cranky.
Mom pointed to a place down the road. "Hey, look! A DQ/Orange Julius place! How does that sound?" Since I have yet to meet a hot dog I didn't like, I agreed.
And as I walked into the building, debating whether or not to have ice cream for dessert, I saw it again. The sign.
So now I'm home, safely ensconced in my own personal "gun zone" still debating about the ice cream.