Tasers and 2nd Amendment

With all the controversy over banning guns in the United States, I've never really had to put much thought into my stance. Of course not! No, I'm very much opposed to this infringement on the 2nd amendment. I do not personally own a gun, but people in my family do, my friends do; in fact, probably my whole town does! Protecting yourself is a right, and I do not believe government should ever take control of our right to protect ourselves.

Like I said, I've always been against gun control, but recently I've become much more impassioned about it. Boston is a wonderful place; there are so many great things to do and see, but Massachusettes has a fault, and I'm not talking about their absurd roads or their terrible sidewalks. It is illegal to own or to sell a Taser or any other type of stun gun in Massachusetts under the Massachusetts General Laws Chapter 140, Section 131J.  A civilian in possession of a taser may punished by "a fine of not less than $500 nor more than $1,000 or by imprisonment in the house of correction for not less than 6 months nor more than 21/2 years, or by both such fine and imprisonment."

What?!?

Seriously. As I explained in my last post, I am scared of this place, so Steve and I have been thinking about getting a small taser for me to carry. I'm sure it will never need to be used, but it would make me feel better as I travel the subways, buses and streets by myself. However, I guess that won't be happening.

Like I said, I've always known I am against laws that constrict the 2nd amendment, but now that I slightly understand how it feels to have my right to feel safe taken away, I definitely am against all and any laws that leave civilians unprotected.

On a less serious note, read my favorite story about tasers and I dare you to not laugh:

Taser Story

Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that

sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary and I

was looking for a little something extra for my wife Julie. What I came

across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser. The effects of

the taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse

affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to

safety.

WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it

home.

I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button.

Nothing! I was disappointed.I learned, however, that if I pushed the

I learned, however, that if I pushed the

button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I'd get

the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.

AWESOME!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that

burn spot is on the face of her microwave.

Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it

couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-A batteries, right?

There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting

little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I

really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving

target.

I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a second)

and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going

to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did

want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong?

So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading

glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions

in one hand, and taser in another.

The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient

your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms

and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would

purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of

water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the

batteries. All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring

about 5' long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really

and (loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-A batteries) thinking to

myself, 'no possible way!'

What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my

best...

I'm sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to

one side as if to say, 'don't do it dipshit,' reasoning that a one

second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad. I

decided to give myself a one second burst just for the heck of it. I

touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and . . .

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD . . .  WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION . . .

WHAT THE HELL!!!

I'm pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me

up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and

over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal

position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on

fire ,testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in

the oddest position, and tingling in my legs.

The cat was making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to

a picture frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt

to avoid getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room.

Note: If you ever feel compelled to 'mug' yourself with a taser, one

note of caution: there is no such thing as a one second burst when you

zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged

from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three

second burst would be considered conservative.

THAT HURT LIKE HELL!!!

A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at

that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and

surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of

the fireplace. The recliner was upside down and about 8 feet or so

from where it originally was. My triceps, right thigh and both

nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain,

and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I had no control over the drooling.

Apparently I shit myself, but was too numb to know for sure and my

sense of smell was gone. I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head which

believe came from my hair. I'm still looking for my nuts and I'm

offering a significant reward for their safe return!!


P. S. My wife loved the gift, and now regularly threatens me with it!

Cats and Crosswalks

Tonight I realized something: I am a pathological scaredy cat.

My mother taught me well; in fact, she taught me too well. I can always remember her jumping to my defense whenever my dad asked me to go get some drill or rope or chain or any other odd tool from over at the barn. She'd say, "Oh, Todd, it's too dark!" He'd always counter with questions of why that mattered asking, "Does the tool disappear if it's dark?" I always loved it when my mom did this because I was usually spared the annoyance of running over to the machine shed, fighting off the ever present dog at the door, hoping in vain the light wasn't burned out, fumbling around in the dark for some obscure tool either on the massive table, our old kitchen table (which I always rather liked), the old truck seat, or in the fridge that stood as a medicine cabinet/Diet Coke stash. By the time I found it and returned home, the job was either finished without whatever I'd spent too much time trying to find, or, and most often this was the case, I came back with the wrong something-or-other. If my mom jumped to my rescue my dad would usually just go get whatever he needed himself, which would leave me safely at home and out of the dark.

This was how I was raised.

If it was dark, you stay inside. If you don't, you end up locked inside a dark, old, run-down, milk barn with a crazed and angry raccoon who can see in the dark whereas you're painfully rooted in rubber boots and over-sized gloves holding a horseshoeing rasp and trembling with fear as you hear the little rodent scurrying around you, but that's a story for another post.

Point: Be scared. My mother was very good at teaching me to be scared.

I think that's what I've learned the most in Boston this summer is that I'm scared. I'm scared of the buildings, the subway, the people--definitely the people, and even crossing the roads outside of a crosswalk.

So, why did the chicken cross the road? Well, maybe it was trying to get over its fear and cross the blasted road! 

Dear Dad

I know I'm a day or two late on this, but I wanted to write down some of my favorite memories of my Dad for Father's day:

• This past Sunday the speaker told a story about her dad making her a play house. This had me thinking about when my dad built a play house for my sister and me. This wasn't just any play house. No, this was a matching miniature house of own house. I remember my dad and his friend Sparky or Sporty or something like that would measure and cut and drill this house. It was painted such a pretty pale peach color that matched our big house's siding. It came complete with a white porch, a mailbox with our names on it and even a sliding window! We had desks, a table and chairs, a mini kitchenette, plastic food and even a broom and dustpan. I remember playing in this house in the heat of summer when I sticky sheen of sweat would cling to our skin inside the house, but it was a small price to pay for such a magnificent house. Today it functions more as a storage shed since my sisters and I have grown old, and I don't know if my dad knows how much I loved that house he built for us just because he loved us. 
• It seems that a lot of my favorite memories consists of building things. One late fall we stated building "the facilities." We remodeled the squeeze chute, alley way, watering hole and other corrals around. It was and is still to this day one of the better alley ways every built in the Bear Lake valley. It has a side walk on the side so you can easily walk on it above the cows' backs and have easy access to hot shots and such. There's gates behind the shiny, red chute that inter lock to make it easy to get behind cows. They corrals or funneled to make it easy to herd the cows, the gates are all perfectly hung a foot or so off the ground so they don't drag but calves don't get out. There's gates that have solid wood panels on the front with a hole to dead bolt it from the other side; there's horseshoe hooks that make it easy to shut the big wooden gate that it is handmade. Everything is made with solid wood that's backed by railroad ties and lag bolts. These lags I remember the most. It was during an early snowfall that I was huddled down in the bucket of the skid steer as I threaded washers onto lags. One after another until I finished the boxes. But it didn't matter, because I was so proud (and still am today) of "the facilities" I helped my dad build. 
• I was so not happy with my little brother's appearence into my life. When my mom told us she was pregnant I cried and cried. I locked myself in my bedroom and wouldn't come out all Sunday afternoon. This wasn't just because I didn't want to surrender my last child baby status, but because he was a boy. I just knew my dad would love him more because he was a boy. With a family of 4 girls I'm sure my dad wished for some manly relief from all the pigtails and pink, but, to me, a new baby brother meant I wasn't going to be my dad's little buddy anymore. I remember my dad coming into my room and telling me that it didn't matter if we had a little boy, I would always be his favorite, and I am pretty sure that still stands. :) 
• Along with the torment of having a brother, there was the torment of naming him. My mom kept a list of names like Cade and Kyle and others on the fridge, but nothing seemed to fit. My sister, Dayna, my dad and I were lying on my bed talking about what it would be like to have a baby brother when my dad suggested the name Theron. He explained how Theron Godfrey was, and why he wanted to name my baby brother after him. It just seemed to fit, and I'll always remember my dad explaining why he picked this name. 

These are just a few of some of my favorite memories with my dad. We worked hard together for most of my time at home. Honestly, most all my memories with my dad are about the farm, but I wouldn't change it for a thing. In fact, after spending a week on the east coast I only miss my little Idaho farm more, and in this city heat I would be happy to go move pipe in the cool mud with my dad any day. Love you very much, Dad.


Love, your favorite daughter

Roots

It's rather late as I am sitting here in the Denver airport waiting to catch a red-eye flight out to the east coast in a couple hours. Steven and I are moving to Boston for the summer; he has a really great internship with PWC until the end of August, so this small-town, country girl is headed to live in the big city for a couple months. This summer hiatus will most likely turn into a more permanent position come next years fall as Steve will hopefully be continuing with PWC as a full time accountant. This means adios to my beloved west mountains and open fields with the neat and tidy rows of hay lying freshly swathed across the fields. Those same sweet rows of hay fill the air with a beautiful smell of fresh cut grass mixed with the subtle sound of tractors chugging somewhere in the background.
I know I've lived in Provo for the last 5 years, but I have always loved my beautiful, little Bear Lake. And the fact are that I am going to miss both Provo and Bear Lake. 5 years ago when I moved to Provo I was so scared. I was too terrified of University Parkway that I wouldn't drive past the Dollar Theater because that road has 3 lanes--3!! I thought that the Kimball Tower was a sky scraper, and I was fascinated that I could get a Diet Coke any time I wanted through one of the many drive-thrus littering Bulldog Boulevard. I was living in a city!
Don't get me wrong, I've been to a couple big cities: London, Paris, New York City and Washington D.C. I stood next to the 100+ story sky scraper that stood next to the Twin Towers and was only half the size of those giants. I've stopped at french crepe shops at all hours of the night. I've weaved through the insane freeways throughout D.C. The difference is that those places were all a sight-seeing, vacationing, wonderland that you go visit and oh-and-awe at and then leave. Emphasis on the leave part. Which is what I think has me so frightened.
My town where cows and dogs out number the residents to big-city Provo where I discovered Red Hot Chili Peppers and 3 lane roads and now onto a city that has 5 million residents in the greater area and subways instead of 3 lane highways.
I'll be honest, I am very scared to go do this. In fact, I would not be able to do it without Steven with me. However, I a little birdie told me some good advice as I left work last Friday

"Don't become a big city girl. Remember your roots."

  

As I walked out to my car I thought about that parting, and I realized that's what I was afraid of: becoming a big city girl. It isn't the serpentine roads or the roads that no doubt have more than 1 lane; it's change. I love my life as is. I love where I came from and who that has made me, and I am afraid that moving to a city where I am pretty sure they won't have a Broulim's Grocery or a PCS that you can ride your dirt bike to will change me somehow. However, even knowing why I am scared to move to Boston has somehow lessened the fear, because I know what I have to do now: remember my roots. 

So, here's to some summer plans of living in the city and remaining in the country.

All Grown Up

Today was Clara's blessing day, and she was so beautiful. She has the sweetest duck tail hair, such big eyes and the most delicate hands ever. She wore a lovely white, knitted dress, and her daddy gave her a wonderful blessing. All eyes were on her beautiful, little face as she was lifted high up like Simba after her blessing; however, not many noticed the handsome boy on the second to front row with the cute smile and short, buzz-cut hair. He looked like a little man as he folded his arms and closed his eyes without being prompted. He's a good little man.