Nothing says love like a warm, smoking gun…
…at least in my world.
The Evil Princess and I met a few months short of twenty years ago, when she attended one of my classes. I confess, the cute gal with the sweet smile in the front row caught my eye. Nature then took its course.
After a while, I learned to thrive in captivity.
Shared interests help to cement a relationship. You know the old stereotype of the male being the mechanical one and the female looking on adoringly while he fixes things around the house? That is reversed in our relationship. She is the one who spends an hour in the hardware store while I sit in the car in the parking lot reading a book until she texts me to come in and pay for whatever the hell she wants this time. Her mechanical IQ is 140-plus genius level; mine is about 50 or so.
Being that her full title is The Evil Princess of Podcasts, Pixels, and Polymer Pistols, she asked me meekly if she could attend Glock Armorer’s School to learn the details of repairing Plastic Poppers. Given that I had struggled through that same class and my instructors must have felt like Ann Sullivan teaching Helen Keller, I readily agreed and paid her tuition. I offered her an armorer’s class with her other favorite polymer pistola, the Springfield Armory XD, and she eagerly agreed. The time came when she asked almost timidly (which is as close to “timid” as she ever gets), “Could I go back to the Mother Ship in Smyrna, Georgia for Advanced Glock Armorer’s School?” I delightedly cried, “Of course! My treat!”
Since she is a retired neonatal critical care nurse (I am her first geriatric patient) I came to call her The Glock Nurse.
And then I took it one step too far. “Darling,” I told her lovingly, “I think you’re ready for…1911 Armorer’s School!”
And, dammit, she caught onto me.
Which is another reason why I carry plastic pistols more often than my old favorite 1911s these days.
Ah, the romance…