Reports of my imprisonment have actually not been all that exaggerated.

Okay, so I haven't written in this space for almost five months, but you'll have heard that for three of those months I was cruelly imprisoned at a Soviet-style re-education camp training course. It was boring and loathsome. There's little to tell. But I did shoot some guns. I can tell you about that.

Spoiler: It was awful.

Before that day, I had never held a gun. Never even heard gunfire outside of a movie or TV screen. And I was totally cool with that. But on that day I fired five different guns, including three straight-up, bullet-spraying, machine guns. I did not enjoy myself.

When we arrived at the shooting range, I was nervous. That feeling escalated to full-on panic when we sat down with the instructors for our primer. The lead instructor started saying things like, “Glock,” “Sig,” “9 millimeter,” “something-caliber,” and a bunch of other terms I didn't understand. They all jumbled together until they were unintelligible because of the blood rushing through my ears. I thought, “I cannot pass out before we even approach the weapons. I have to save my passing out for the shooting range.” It didn't help that everyone else in the group was nodding along as though “something-something-millimeter-caliber-flippity-flang-blah” made perfect sense to them.

Then a second instructor stepped forward. “What do you do if you find a gun?” he asked. “Clear it!” everyone but me shouted in unison. I looked around thinking, “What does that even mean?” Apparently, it means to take the bullets out and make sure it’s unloaded. Then he reached into a brown box and began pulling out pistols like it was a clown car. He launched into a tirade even more impenetrable than his predecessor. He pulled the guns out rapidly, demonstrated how to open them or eject the magazine (that is, case of bullets), but he was going so fast I actually got light-headed. “Get me out of here, get me out of here,” my internal monologue shouted. But I didn't want to jump up and bolt out of there, lest I startle the man holding all the guns.

 Every once in a while he tossed in a “you all know what this is,” or an “I’m sure you've seen this before.” I looked around to see everyone nodding as though he was putting something as pedestrian as apples or teacups in front of them. “Yes,” they seemed to be saying, “these object are in no way foreign or terror-causing to me.” At this point, I won’t lie to you, I wanted to cry. But I’m, at least in theory, supposed to be an adult and there are limited situations that afford humiliation-free sobbing. This wasn't one of them. Especially since there were a few 6-year-olds in the crowd, visiting the range for the day. Children who looked like they knew how to handle themselves. I needed to, at the very least, match the poise of the first-graders.

We headed down to the range. There were five guns. A pistol, a shotgun that looked incredibly menacing, and three of what I can only describe as machine guns. I promised myself that I would shoot each of the five guns. That may not seem like a tall order, but in the moment, when someone is handing this huge weapon to you and it’s really heavy and it’s hot from having been fired and bullets are exploding all around you, it’s a terrible thing to face.

Part of the reason I did it is because whenever I hear people talk about gun control, the people against it always tout the second amendment, but I truly believe that for a lot of them, the primary reason is that they just like guns. They just plain enjoy them and don’t want anyone to limit their access to them. And that’s something that I wanted to understand.

I thought I’d start with the pistol because it would be easiest. Big mistake. When you hold a pistol, every single finger and part of your hand has a specific place it needs to go, and remembering all of this in addition to how to stand and how to aim is a nightmare. And the kick it had? Insane. It popped up a good six inches into the air after every shot, which was so loud and jarring that I just wanted to crawl into bed and take a nap.

When I finished with the pistol, my friend had a big smile on her face and said, “Did you love it.” She was shocked to hear that I hated everything about the experience. Pistols are miserable. They’re the worst. I would rather not shoot one again.

I watched one of the guys firing the shotgun and getting his shoulder slammed back by the kick. I decided to save that one for later and moved on to the machine guns.

“Deep breaths,” I thought. “Deep breaths.” This was a huge mistake, because when you shoot a gun the overwhelming, choking stench of gunpowder permeates everything. Everything. Hours later my hands still smelled like cheap 4th of July sparklers. I was standing in the middle of a Virginia field yet there was no fresh air to be had.

The next two guns I shot were something you’d see in a Rambo movie; press a trigger and bullets spray every which way while you shake like a rag doll. Each time I approached the instructors, I tried to wear a look of confidence, and each time, the instructors said to me, completely unbidden, “You don’t have to be afraid.” It’s a little deflating to find out I can’t even fake confidence. I pressed the trigger, bullets sprayed, I shook like a rag doll. Those guns are about as easy to control as Julia when she’s eaten sugar.

I am the picture of confidence.

Next up was the shotgun. The instructors had told us that just the noise of racking this gun was often enough to get criminals to throw down their weapons and come out with their hands up. This thing was a monster. The ammunition was the size of circus peanuts.

"Reach for the sky!"

The instructor had me load it, which was not easy. The entire thing moved like the Tin Man before Dorothy and Scarecrow oiled him. Then I shot it. It was like the world exploded. The noise was unreal and the kick rocked me back so that I almost fell off my feet. He told me to rack it and shoot again. I wondered how I might get out of doing that, but I couldn’t think with my ears ringing and gunpowder filling my lungs, so I did as I was told. More exploding, more rocking back. He grabbed more ammo for me and was surprised when I held out to gun to him. “Really? You’re done? You don’t want to shoot it again?” he asked incredulously. The shotgun was most people’s favorite and the line to shoot it had been long. “Thanks. I’m all set.” I replied, and hightailed it out of there.

Four down, one to go. But I was all Mr. Darcy with my "I shall conquer this!" (Nevermind that he didn't actually conquer it. That is not the material point.)

The final gun was another of those “spray and pray” automatics. An AR-15, I think the instructor said. I had to wait in line to shoot it. Ahead of me in line were four children and their father. One of the children was, I swear, no more than 5 years old. “This is ludicrous” I thought to myself. “Can the children see the fear in my eyes? Can they tell how uncomfortable I am? Do the little, tiny children know what the early stages of an anxiety attack look like?”

After the kids had had their turn, I stepped up to the plate. I barely remember shooting that one. I just remember thinking, “I have to hold this trigger down until the bullets stop spraying, and then finally, FINALLY, they will let me leave this wretched place.”

In the end I just felt like this:

Oh, and!

I was all set to write a scathing review of the tacky SB halftime show, but this person came along and took all my words.

Oh Slash, what were you thinking?

Now I'm off to trivia night where hopefully Jen's learning of all of the Super Bowl winners and MVPs will come in handy.

Attempts to recapture nostalgic moments from my childhood so seldom work out for me.

A word of advice: If you're ever at the store and you see a pack of Fruit Stripe gum and you think to yourself, "I loved that stuff when I was a kid. I think I'll buy that pack of gum and put it in my purse," don't. Just don't. This morning my entire bag reeks like Froot Loops.

This is just like the time I ate some Chef Boyardee ravioli in grad school. You can imagine how that went.

What's that stench?

Went to see Eclipse last night...

"Just try to take me seriously. I dare you."

Amanda's in town so we went to see Eclipse with Jess and Brandy. It was hilarious and there was much giggling. Before it was all over we were certain we were going to get jumped in the parking lot by a band of outraged fifteen-year-olds. (We didn't. But we could have.)

Particularly laughable moments:

Edward still looks like he sprayed his face with baking flour and then got into my make-up bag and stole all my Juicy Tubes. The effect is clown-like, and therefore I could not take him seriously even if Pattinson could act, which he cannot.

Kristen Stewart's scenes were accompanied, as usual, by the audience's collective plea to "Emote! For the love of decency, emote!" She refused.

I still cackle like a hyena whenever Jasper comes on screen, which is unfortunate because he has a lot more screen time in this one. But the hair. Oh, the hair. How can I be expected to retain my composure?

Speaking of hair, they finally colored Rosalie's brunette roots, but left her super-dark eyebrows, which look even darker now that her roots are blond. The effect is so distracting, I couldn't pay attention to anything the actress said. I doubt I missed anything important.

The ring. Hideous. A collective cry of horror arose from our aisle when he opened the box.

Finally, you know you're old when you think the dad is the most attractive man in the movie. What? Chief Swan's a handsome fella. Don't judge me.

Don't judge me; I've been snowbound.

I spent the better part of yesterday watching a marathon of MTV's Jersey Shore. Amanda and Gena recommended it and it did not disappoint. It was such magnificent trash--the perfect methadone to my Rock of Love withdrawal.

The entire cast was orange, and composed of silicone, collagen, steroids, hair extensions, and rum. It was appalling. And hilarious. I'm still recovering.

Not my best day

I hate needles. This is no secret. My dad used to have to surprise me with my annual flu shot. He'd lie in wait and when I walked in the front door and he'd pounce and say, "Get in the car," and I'd spend the five minute ride to the doctor's office trying not to hyperventilate. As soon as I was in college, I celebrated my newfound freedom by chucking the flu shot tradition and I've never looked back. Ah, glorious liberty!

Well, this year Jen has stipulated that I must get a flu shot or risk being denied the opportunity to hold my niece. (Vaccination Nazi!) And my mother has been acting as Grand Inquisitor in this whole charade, haranguing me daily about the shot because... I don't know, she thinks I'm going to not get it and then lie and say I did? I... don't know. It's a lot of pressure!

So, today was flu shot day at work. Horrid. Horrid. The conference room had the stench of a hospital ward, I can only assume from the off-gassing of the syringes and gauze. People were standing around, chatting merrily, as if we weren't all waiting around to get a piece of metal jabbed into our flesh. I stood in line, trying not to feel woozy, as my co-worker made ill-conceived blood-spatter jokes involving the show CSI. I wanted to make a few ill-conceived jokes of my own involving his receding hairline, but I am a lady.

So Mom, the deed is done. You can stop asking me about it. But I think I should at least get some extra baby-holding time for my ordeal.

This is most certainly going to end badly for me.

Not such a good week in Fantasy Football for me. Drew Brees finally self-destructed and Ronnie Brown got a karmic slap in the face for the 41 points he gained in week three. And my kicker? Got me ZERO. I could have just FORGOTTEN to put a kicker on my roster and I'd be in the same boat.

If all of this means nothing to you, just know this: Tonight, I am putting my head-to-head record and my place in the Survivor poll in the butterfinger hands of Randy Moss. If I could breathe, I would vomit.

Let me save you a little time...

P2. Avoid it.

Allow me to pose a little scenario: Suppose one evening you're looking for a good little scary suspense movie. Maybe you'd think to yourself, "Hmm, a movie about being trapped in a parking garage. That looks good and scary. I hate parking garages. When I am in a parking garage I am prepared at any moment to trip over a dead body or encounter an axe-wielding psychopath." And then maybe you'd think P2 would fit the bill. But you'd be mistaken. Oh so very mistaken. And instead you'd spend two hours wondering what Wes Bentley did so wrong after that promising start he got in American Beauty that would cause him to end up starring in this dreck. And then you'd feel the need to warn your friends.

Aaaand scene.

The twists and turns of Memory Lane

Does anyone remember Hostess Pudding Pies? They were just like their fruit pies, but filled with pudding instead. I loved them when I was a kid, but I hadn’t seen them for years. Then I walked into Sheetz the other day and there they were, wedged in between the Ho-Hos and the Ding Dongs: Hostess Pudding Pies!


I was so excited to see them, I exclaimed, “Holy crap! Are you serious?” right out loud, which earned me a few of those strange looks that I am so accustomed to receiving. So of course I had to buy one. When I got home, I gingerly tore open the crinkly paper and smelled the pie shell. Memories of childhood came rushing back.


With anticipation, I broke the pie apart to reveal the familiar sight of smooth chocolate pudding inside.


I took the first magnificent bite and... nearly gagged on how sweet the thing was. (Wrrrrrrkkkk! The needle comes off the record!) Can I just say, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that the nation has been thrown into a sugar shortage since production of these things started up again. I imagine we’ll soon be rationing like during WWII. I took a second bite, because I am stubborn and clearly insane, and I had to spit it out.

The sad truth is some things are better left in your childhood. Orange drink, Spaghetti-Os, The Love Boat. These are all better enjoyed through hazy reminiscences than up close. (Trust me, Gopher was not that cute.) The Hostess Pudding Pie is no different. It ages about as well as a beach party movie. You’re better off with a Debbie Cake.

Beware the Ides of March, indeed.

March 15th has always made me think about the assassination of Gaius Julius Caesar, who was done in on the Roman Senate floor on that date in 44 B.C. No more. Now, that date will forever be emblazoned in my brain as the day I got food poisoning. And even though old Gaius was brutally stabbed by a group of his closest colleagues with the final death blow being delivered by a man he looked upon as a son, I still don’t think he suffered more than I did, at the hands of a tainted Red Robin gourmet cheeseburger minus the pickle relish. At least his pain was over in a matter of minutes, whereas I spent two days hunched over the toilet performing a spot-on Linda Blair impersonation. All this in addition to enduring the worst car ride since that girl accepted a lift from Ted Kennedy. My dear friend chauffeured me home from Harrisburg for two and a half hours as I lay in the back seat with my head in a plastic bag. And even though he really loves his car, he assured me that it was totally cool for me to barf in it. That is friendship.

I suspect that, in addition to feeling like Linda Blair in her most famous role, I may have also looked like her. As I stumbled to the ladies’ room in the Turnpike’s Midway rest stop, crowds parted before me like the Red Sea, children clung to their mothers in fear, and it’s possible that grown men may have wept. When I reached the ladies’ room mirror, I noticed that my lips were the same color as my skin which was the same color as the white American cheese that had graced my poisoned burger. It was not a pleasant sight.

Food poisoning. Avoid it if at all possible.

La Vie En Hades

I attempted to watch La Vie En Rose, the French biopic on the tragic life of singer Edith Piaf. Marion Cotillard got a Golden Globe nomination, which is not as enormous a feat as you might think, since they split the movie and best actor/actress awards into two categories (comedy and drama), giving out ten noms instead of the customary five. However, she also got a SAG nomination, and they only give out five noms, so I thought this performance had to be worth checking out in case she gets an Oscar nod.

Well, I don’t know what to tell you. I simply could not stand the film. (When pressed, I say it is elegant.) And the overwhelming reason I couldn’t stand it was Ms. Cotillard’s performance. Perhaps I don’t know enough about Edith Piaf or the type of performance the director was going for, but it just seemed overly affected and clownish and completely unbearable, which is why I shut the film off 45 minutes into it. I felt I had done my time, and I wasn’t prepared to go the full 2 hours and 20 minutes. Maybe the performance picks up in the second hour, but I prefer acting performances, especially ones that receive awards, to be good the whole way through.