Amusing. Infuriating. Take your pick.

Like any good C.P.A., I keep up with the tools of the trade. I pay attention to newly-released hardware. I think about the kinds of jobs I like to do, and what would be the best piece of equipment for those.

And sometimes, I re-evaluate my personal protection piece.

My 9mm is kind of hard to hide on my frame. I've been keeping an eye out for a new piece that I could switch to, and that the company would pick up the tab on. And I found it on GunBlast: the PK380.

So, I went to my small, local gun store owned and operated by four older gents who served in various branches of the military during Viet Nam. I've shopped there since I was in high school, and in college on the shooting team. They've gotten to know me well enough that they let me use their equipment sometimes, when I need to create a special load for a specific job, or need to modify a gun for greater accuracy. They know I'm a shooter, and they know what I do for a living.

I usually don't get the kind of shit most women face in a gun store, there.

Well, apparently, they just hired some fresh-from-a-Vo-Tech-program high school graduate. I swear, the kid's still got pimples and fuzz where he should have hair. Seems to know his shit about the merchandise, though--at least, where some things are concerned.

So, I walk in today, wanting to take a look at the new Walther product, and spot the kid behind the case in front of the rifle. One of the old boys is sitting at the table with coffee, a cigar, and a bowl of something questionable cooking in a crock pot. He grins, and asks me what I want, while giving me the usual shit. I ask about the .380, and he says "We got one in the back. Hang on."

I wandered over to the counter in front of the rifles, and I see one I've been sort of lusting after for a while: the CZ 550 American Safari Magnum (reviewed by GunBlast here). I've been kind of keeping an eye open for one for distance work with engine blocks, but hadn't seen one until today. And, even better, it's already been fitted with a superb Traijicon scope.

So, I lean on the counter and wait for zit-boy to come over to hand me the rifle. Well, come over he did, but when I asked to see the 550, he said something along the lines of "That's a lot of kick for a little lady. Why don't I hand you the CZ453, instead? It's just as pretty."

I could hear the other guys giggling in the back, and could see the retired Gunny leaning around the doorframe to get a look at my face.

I smiled. And I kid you not, the former Army munitions expert (who taught me how to create my own specialized explosives when I went into the business), muttered, "One of us better get out there before she kills the kid."

Anyway. I smiled at the kid, and said, "I believe I asked to see the 550. I'm well aware of how hard it would kick."

"How about the Remmington?" he asks, reaching for a pretty little bolt action .22.

I took a deep breath, and let it out. "Listen. Kid. I know you don't mean any harm, but you're about to lose your job."

He frowned, but reached for the gun I wanted to look at. "Well, if you're going to be that way," he muttered, pulling it out of the rack. He held it out, but didn't let go of it when I closed my hands around the stock. "See? You're looking at it."

I saw red, and torqued the rifle to my left, twisting it right out of his hands and stepping back. He's lucky I didn't butt-stroke him--the gun wouldn't have noticed, as solid as it felt. I ignored his yelp of pain, his squawk of outrage, and kicked the swinging gate back shut against his knees when he tried to come out to take the gun. The Gunny came back out with the .380 I'd asked about, and grabbed the kid, whispering something in his ear. The kid jerked his arm out of the Gunny's hand and stomped back into the back for a minute.

I took a deep breath and looked down at the gorgeous rifle in my hands. I popped the bolt and looked up the barrel, then looked up at the Gunny. Then at the price tag--well under market value for a new gun, but still way more than most would want to pay. I suspected the guys had had me in mind when they got it in. "What's it chambered in?"

".458 Winchester Magnum."

"Cool. I'll take it," I said, putting the bolt back in and setting it back on the counter.

"Here's the .380. I wiped it down for you--it hadn't been unpacked before today."

I picked up the .380, and instantly fell in love. If there's one thing I don't like about my 9mm, it's that the grips are almost too big for my hands. The .380 just kind of snuggled into my grip like it was ready to go to work. And, even better, it was about the same size as my P22, and (if possible) lighter. "I'll take this, too."

He just grinned. "I knew you would. And we're throwing in some .458 Win-Mag, giving you a discount--and letting the kid do the paperwork."

I eyed him for a minute, then grinned. The new forms for the sale of firearms could be circumvented with my C.P.A. license.

Kid comes back out of the back with the paperwork, and slaps a pen into my hand. I hand it back, shaking my head. "I don't need to do that," I said, nodding at the paperwork. I reached back for my wallet (deliberately flashing my .22 in its shoulder holster under my blazer), and pulled out my C.P.A. license, and a wad of cash.

And the kid turned white. And backed away from me, staring at me like I was going to pop a cap in him right then and there.

Idiot.

Gunny'd just finished writing up the ticket, and handed it to the kid. Kid shakes his head, muttering something. Gunny says, "That right there is one of our two best customers, and has been for going on thirteen years. Take the lady's money, and apologize."

His voice cracked like a pubescent boy's. I smiled, thanked him for his terrific customer service (setting all four guys off like hyenas), took my new babies, and left.

Went back a few hours later, just at closing. Kid was gone, and I asked WTF was up with him. Turns out, he was Gunny's grandshit, and actually knows guns--just never knew (thanks to his pacifist, hippie momma) that women can shoot as well as, or better than, the boys.

Interesting.

I wasn't expecting a 3.5% interest rate on a 15 year mortgage. Or a 5% interest rate on the money market checking accounts. I suppose it makes sense, when you consider the shareholders in the credit union.