Opinion > Star Staff
Life's A Trip: Anniversary Triggers Rare Shopping Spree
By Patti Pfeiffer
The moment I walked in the door heads turned, all eyes focused on me. Nah, it had nothing to do with my clothing, looks or the likes. This was a man-cave and estrogen had filtered through, trespassing in testosterone-filled territory.
I was out of place and beyond my shopping comfort zone. No matter. I was on a mission. Upon sharing my purpose with the store of men drooling began. They liked me. I was a hit. It was apparent.
"Wish my wife was like you," one dude remarked.
"You need to spend time with my spouse. Maybe you'll rub off on her," commented another.
Soaking in their adoration, I refrained from sharing that my pistol purchase was a first - and last. This was an exception, done in recognition of a very special occasion.
It happens every year. Fifteen times already. And for two people so opposite it's surprising we've made it thus far - and without killing each other. He's built like a football player. I'm petite. He's an engineer, an Okie, intellectual and rigid.
I'm a proud Native Texan, creative, outspoken and adaptable. He's a type A. My personality is unique, unidentifiable. The only emotions he knows are those demonstrated by his wife. Feelings are what I do best. Fact we are celebrating our 15th anniversary is proof that polarizing factions can blend.
Fifteen. Wow. Whoda thunk it? Certainly not family, including me. Wanting something special to mark the occasion, I decided to give in and purchase the only item on my hubby's wish list.
Growing up around them, target practicing weekly and being a former hunter, I used to know something about guns. But that was then. My lack of knowledge was apparent when I called the family firearm expert, my brother Matt, asking what brand Glock I should purchase.
"Oh geez, don't ever ask that again," he said through a disgust-filled sigh.
Okay, so I was spared at least public humiliation.
Obviously assistance was in order. So I called upon a gun guru and my firearm fanatic friend, Tom. He's goo-goo over anything and everything gun. In the event of a house fire, I wouldn't bet on which he'd save - his beloved wife or cherished gun cache.
Tom offered advice, speaking a foreign language, mouthing about millimeters, semi-automatic, clips and such. None of it made sense or mattered to me. Actually I was at a loss as to why hubby wanted or needed a Glock.
Yes, he has a concealed handgun license but has no cause to carry. Unlike his realtor wife, his work doesn't take him to danger zones, notorious neighborhoods accompanying strangers.
But his desire trumped my opinion. After conferring with my local expert, a plan was devised. I was instructed to meet Tom at White Wing Weaponry in Denton. Better than being the first and only female in the place, it was the grand opening and a discount offered.
It was apparent this gun-packing mamma intimidated the boys. After asking a line of what some would consider silly questions, I made an offer I thought would tickle them pink, seeing how they hyperventilate over firearms.
"Wanna see my handgun?" I inquired pulling out my concealed handgun license.
Heads flew around. Eyes widened. The owner stuttered, then firmly said, "Unload it before you bring it in here."
Convinced he was either somewhat paranoid or a little over-protective of his customers, I was tempted to sweetly say, "Calm down, Junior, no one's gonna get hurt," but doubted he had a sense of humor where wild women and guns are concerned.
In the end no one got hurt. And I'll go down in history as their first official sale. And got a great deal - so I was told.
I bought the gun for two reasons. First, of course, because my darling deserves it. Living with me and putting up with my family all these years, he's earned an arsenal.
Secondly, and most importantly, I purchased the Glock out of self-preservation. I predict someday when my spouse is driving 55 mph in the fast lane down a Dallas freeway - as is typical - a road-raged lunatic will pull up beside us. Because of proximity, it'll be the passenger, not the driver, he aims for, and I want to defend myself.
My spouse is mostly an even-keel, void of outward emotional demonstration, as earlier noted. When he opened the gift-wrapped black plastic case, raised the foam-covering and caught a glimpse of his Glock, his expression remained firmly frozen. Then something rare occurred. A smile appeared. Then a grin. Aah. Eureka! Success.
And in exchange, hubby offered to trade-up the diamond solitaire in my wedding ring.
This anniversary was not only a milestone but brought a realization of sincere sorts. If a woman's treasures are measured by the carat count, a man's is by the length of his barrel.
Patti Pfeiffer is a Star Newspapers columnist, freelance writer and author. Contact her at pattip913@msn.com
I was out of place and beyond my shopping comfort zone. No matter. I was on a mission. Upon sharing my purpose with the store of men drooling began. They liked me. I was a hit. It was apparent.
"Wish my wife was like you," one dude remarked.
"You need to spend time with my spouse. Maybe you'll rub off on her," commented another.
Soaking in their adoration, I refrained from sharing that my pistol purchase was a first - and last. This was an exception, done in recognition of a very special occasion.
It happens every year. Fifteen times already. And for two people so opposite it's surprising we've made it thus far - and without killing each other. He's built like a football player. I'm petite. He's an engineer, an Okie, intellectual and rigid.
I'm a proud Native Texan, creative, outspoken and adaptable. He's a type A. My personality is unique, unidentifiable. The only emotions he knows are those demonstrated by his wife. Feelings are what I do best. Fact we are celebrating our 15th anniversary is proof that polarizing factions can blend.
Fifteen. Wow. Whoda thunk it? Certainly not family, including me. Wanting something special to mark the occasion, I decided to give in and purchase the only item on my hubby's wish list.
Growing up around them, target practicing weekly and being a former hunter, I used to know something about guns. But that was then. My lack of knowledge was apparent when I called the family firearm expert, my brother Matt, asking what brand Glock I should purchase.
"Oh geez, don't ever ask that again," he said through a disgust-filled sigh.
Okay, so I was spared at least public humiliation.
Obviously assistance was in order. So I called upon a gun guru and my firearm fanatic friend, Tom. He's goo-goo over anything and everything gun. In the event of a house fire, I wouldn't bet on which he'd save - his beloved wife or cherished gun cache.
Tom offered advice, speaking a foreign language, mouthing about millimeters, semi-automatic, clips and such. None of it made sense or mattered to me. Actually I was at a loss as to why hubby wanted or needed a Glock.
Yes, he has a concealed handgun license but has no cause to carry. Unlike his realtor wife, his work doesn't take him to danger zones, notorious neighborhoods accompanying strangers.
But his desire trumped my opinion. After conferring with my local expert, a plan was devised. I was instructed to meet Tom at White Wing Weaponry in Denton. Better than being the first and only female in the place, it was the grand opening and a discount offered.
It was apparent this gun-packing mamma intimidated the boys. After asking a line of what some would consider silly questions, I made an offer I thought would tickle them pink, seeing how they hyperventilate over firearms.
"Wanna see my handgun?" I inquired pulling out my concealed handgun license.
Heads flew around. Eyes widened. The owner stuttered, then firmly said, "Unload it before you bring it in here."
Convinced he was either somewhat paranoid or a little over-protective of his customers, I was tempted to sweetly say, "Calm down, Junior, no one's gonna get hurt," but doubted he had a sense of humor where wild women and guns are concerned.
In the end no one got hurt. And I'll go down in history as their first official sale. And got a great deal - so I was told.
I bought the gun for two reasons. First, of course, because my darling deserves it. Living with me and putting up with my family all these years, he's earned an arsenal.
Secondly, and most importantly, I purchased the Glock out of self-preservation. I predict someday when my spouse is driving 55 mph in the fast lane down a Dallas freeway - as is typical - a road-raged lunatic will pull up beside us. Because of proximity, it'll be the passenger, not the driver, he aims for, and I want to defend myself.
My spouse is mostly an even-keel, void of outward emotional demonstration, as earlier noted. When he opened the gift-wrapped black plastic case, raised the foam-covering and caught a glimpse of his Glock, his expression remained firmly frozen. Then something rare occurred. A smile appeared. Then a grin. Aah. Eureka! Success.
And in exchange, hubby offered to trade-up the diamond solitaire in my wedding ring.
This anniversary was not only a milestone but brought a realization of sincere sorts. If a woman's treasures are measured by the carat count, a man's is by the length of his barrel.
Patti Pfeiffer is a Star Newspapers columnist, freelance writer and author. Contact her at pattip913@msn.com
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