My mom is a self-prescribed adrenaline junkie, so we knew that she would enjoy shooting once she got over the initial fear. We spent the rest of the morning going through almost 100 clays and 75 rounds of shells. How does that math figure, you ask? My brother's girlfriend and my dad couldn't quite figure out how to throw the clays, thus resulting in several thrown directly into the concrete. It's a learning process.
I'm not that bad of a shot, if I do say so myself (considering I hail from the south side of Chicago where the only gun I've ever held had "Super Soaker" written on the barrel). The man and I are officially hooked on clay shooting and have subsequently spent the majority of our "fun money" on clays, shells, and gun cleaning kits. We figure it's a pretty harmless hobby -- as long as the safety is on and the Man doesn't say something snarky. It's hard to believe that just 3 years ago I spent most of my free time reading Shakespeare at Moon Monkey and discussing its philosophical implications over minty moons.
Now I sing along to "Backwoods" while riding shotgun in my husband's Chevy on our way to skeet shooting. I may be morphing into a pseudo-redneck, but you'll never catch me missing teeth or standing barefoot in the kitchen with a baby on my hip and a pie in the oven. No way. I'll be barefoot in the kitchen with a dog at my feet and an overpriced espresso drink in my hand. I'm classy like that.