Confession: I'm packin' heat!

Confession: I’m packin’ heat!

I am not proficient at fire-arms. This is retarded. My father has an entire arsenal in his garage—if any one ever invades the Carson Valley, he can single-handedly arm half of the county. My best friend is a Special Forces soldier. And my husband is a cop with a gun safe.

All of these men have tried over the years to teach me about guns, with little success. While I won’t accidentally shoot myself or anyone else, nor will I ever manage to PURPOSEFULLY shoot anything.

No, my choice of weapon is a nice, sturdy steel Mag flash light. I keep it under my bed. When a strange sound rips through the night, I grab my trusty flashlight, turn it on, lift it high over my head and charge from my bedroom ready for battle.

If these noises occur after I’ve climbed in bed, I charge from my room naked or in a silky little nightie.

I figure the sight of a scantily clad me swinging a foot of glowing steel ought to stop any intruder in his tracks…probably from laughter.

My husband, however, IS proficient at guns and practices with them often. Sometimes, I am then required to handle them. Sometimes, this leads to odd adventures.

Recently, my husband borrowed another deputy’s gun for some range practice. The why is not important. However, as they were working opposite shifts (and are men, so their skills of communication, planning and strategy are sadly lacking), they couldn’t seem to coordinate a time for Stu to return the gun.

Enter the dutiful HMM. I called John (the gun owner), arranged for him to meet me at the park on his way home from shift, and began the process of packing up the kids—and one 9 mm Glock with magazines and holster—for a trip to the park. As I was driving to the other end of town, and being a highly efficient HMM, I planned to run a few errands along the way. So I grabbed my Coach bag, my Kate Spade sunglasses, my dry-cleaning, prescriptions, and library books and loaded the car. Once the kids were buckled, I dashed inside to grab the Glock.

And discovered the major flaw of minivans—at least mine. There is nowhere to stash a gun.

I live in Nevada—the state with the loosest gun laws in the country (at least legally: I’m pretty sure New Jersey beats us off-the-books). In this state, anyone can carry a registered gun in their vehicle. Even if said gun isn’t registered to them. AND anyone—as in me—can obtain a permit to carry concealed.

Still, I just didn’t think it was a good idea to dash into the local library with a Glock—especially one belonging to a SWAT team leader--sitting on the passenger seat.

So I tried stashing it in the glove box. Didn’t fit—even after I removed the various crap that always accumulates in glove boxes. Next I tried the center consol; same problem. Under the seat isn’t an option in my Van because we were too cheap to buy stow-and-go.

And even with my concealed weapons permit, I wasn’t sure if I’m allowed to carry a Sheriff’s Office registered deadly weapon in my cute pink-and-beige Coach bag. Or if guns are allowed in public libraries. Pretty sure you’re not supposed to carry them into pharmacies. I don’t know why the dry cleaner would care, although people DO get very angry when their shirts aren’t pressed correctly.

So now I had a dilemma. I COULD just skip my errands, but that went against my basic nature—and meant an extra-long errand run the next day. Not really an option. I could run the errands after exchanging the gun, but that would throw off my make-dinner schedule.

Still, I contemplated doing just that as I looked frantically around the floor of my minivan (often a place of inspiration), when I spied Jennifer's pink-and-green Tinkerbell tote….just the right size for a 9mm and a couple of mags!

So I emptied out the sparkle chapstick, discovered the purple princess nightie we had hunted fruitlessly for all week, gave Jen her pink princess Barbie to play with and, after checking to make sure it was unloaded (yes, this was a bit tardy on my part), slipped in the Glock.

Perfect. No one could see the gun. Better yet, I was pretty sure no one would be looking for a gun inside a pink-and-green Tinkerbell tote with Jennifer's Visit to Grandma Bag written in glitter puffy pen on the front.

I slipped the tote innocently back into the flotsam and jetsam of the Van floor and merrily ran my errands.

The irrelevancy of it all tickled me the whole time. Thus, I was in a cheerful and giggly mood when John met up with us at the park. Grinning impishly (after he greeted my girls with hugs and kisses), I handed him the tote. Father of two girls, he didn’t bat an eyelash, simply took the tote, pulled out the gun, loaded it and hooked it on his duty belt.

Then tipped down his sunglasses, looked me in the eye and asked if he could keep the bag, too, as it matched his boxers.

And no, ladies, I didn’t check the Deputy’s boxers. But I did giggle the whole way home.