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Selected Podpieces


It was a gray day, blustery and dim, rain heavy at times, and I was sitting on the sofa with a cup of coffee, reading the paper. It was the holiday season, so once I finished the news, and the funnies, and the new TV schedule, I still had lots of ads to lookthrough. Including the glossy Holiday Gift Guide!

In certain moods, I love looking at holiday catalogs and magazines. It fills me with nostalgia for times and places I never was, when Christmas was all it was supposed to be, and there were tidings of great joy and peace unto all people.

That Sunday morning as I sipped my coffee I idly paged through the Gift Ideas, the bracelets and slippers, candles and coffeemakers, handwarmers and handguns... Uh...handguns?! I looked more closely. Sure enough, there was a photo of a sweet little handgun in a box, nestled in evergreen needles and golden ribbon and fake snow. Concealed to carry, read the ad.

I found this unsettling. Was this what Santa will be transporting around the globe this season? Was this what thousands of people have included on their list of Christmas desires?

As with any thought in these times, I turned to the Interweb and Googled images for Concealed to carry. The screen filled with little pictures of manly hands lifting rugged shirts to reach past a washboard stomach for a gun that was tucked cunningly into tight, leather-belted low-slung blue jeans.

Pretty though the pictures were, I added the word women, and the screen switched to photos of women’s midriffs, also with raised shirts, displaying guns slipped into the back pocket of tight jeans, snuggled into thigh-high black stockings, riding in lacy scanties or nuzzled into dear little holsters strapped carefully in cozy cleavages.

Apparently there is more going on in the world of guns than I had realized.

My Companion and I always pretend we’re not going to give each other gifts this year, but we always do. I am giving him a BLEEP, which I think he’ll enjoy once he figures out how to use it.

I saw an unmarked box in his closet the other day, which it occurs to me is about the right size to contain a concealed handgun. I don’t think it would stay put in my comfort-waist denims, but I could carry it around in my cotton underpants. And if a criminal came into one of the places where I so unsuspectingly hang out, like the coffee shop or the library or the transfer station, and started blasting away with an automatic weapon, I could unzip my jacket and pull down my jeans and fish out my handgun and undo the safety mechanism and point it at the perpetrator and squeeze, not jerk, the little trigger and hit him, or her, square in the kneecap, which I know from TV is extremely painful and disabling but not necessarily lethal.

On the other hand, the box in My Companion’s closet is also about the right size for a handheld electric mixer. Or a squirrel-proof birdfeeder. Or the complete set of Homeland Season 4 DVDs.

Or perhaps it is a BLEEP, which I’m sure I’ll enjoy, once I figure out how to use it.

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