Can’t Have Nice Things

When a demon child toddler lives in the house.

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Well, Hell!

I got stuck working some overtime since my last post, and I had planned to invest some of those earnings into a IWB holster for my Taurus 617. I’m not a fan of IWB carry, but it’s the best deep concealment option that I’ve found.

First, I checked out Evyl Robot, since I’m already one of his satisfied customers. He’s not accepting new orders, due to a massive backlog. Because I’m a previous customer, and because he’s a nice  guy, I probably could have talked him into taking my money, but with a likely lead time of ten weeks or more, what’s the point?

Sunrise Leather, where I obtained the holster that has been home for the Alaskan for the past decade, is also not taking new orders.

Shooting Buddy has a Fugly and a gun belt from Dragon Leatherworks that he can’t say enough good things about. I emailed Dennis, but he can’t (or won’t) build one for the 617. His reply when I asked was simply, “No, sorry.” He must have plenty to do, too. His decision to limit his reply to two words ensured that I won’t disturb him for any future leather needs, despite his reputation. Not that he gives a shit. Or would, if he knew.

Privateer Leather was the last on my list of folks I’ve done business with in the past, or are recommended by someone whose opinion I trust. Wes took the time to explain that no one seems to make a mold for the 617, or any other Taurus revolver for that matter. He put out feelers for any 617 owners local to him, but has not found anyone yet. I doubt that he will, since it’s not a popular model.

I appreciate the time that he took to explain why he couldn’t help me, and the effort he made on my behalf. He will be my first call the next time. Hopefully, he’ll stay busy enough to be successful, but not so busy that he has to put a moratorium on new orders like others have done.

At that point, it seemed like I was going to be stuck with an off-the-rack model. There aren’t many of those out there, either. Maybe I should’ve bought a Smith, but if I remember correctly, when I bought the 617, S&W was busy playing footsie with the first Clinton administration.

I found exactly three. All three are single clip with zero forward cant. One is obviously not tuckable, which is an important feature for me. Tuckability for the other two was indeterminate. Both were listed on Amazon, where the option to ask a question exists. 

On each, I asked if the model was tuckable. That makes sense, right? I mean, what else could be meant by that question for an IWB holster? Six people answered. Only one knew what I was asking, and responded in the negative. The other five, one of whom was either the vendor or the maker, thought I was asking if I could tuck it inside my pants.

How the fuck else would one wear an inside the waistband holster, if not tucked inside the waistband of one’s britches? I need to know if I can tuck my fucking shirt in between the holster and my pants, or if the clip would prevent such action. Dumbasses!

Even after I elaborated on the question, there was confusion. Either I’m an idiot, or people are stupid. Or both.

Since the last holster is made by the same company, and is simply a nylon cousin of the leather one now known not to be tuckable, I assume that it isn’t either.

It looks like I won’t be doing any deep concealed carry with the 617. Anybody wanna trade for a J-frame .357?

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Poor Performance

I’ve whined several times about my beloved KelTec PF-9’s tendency to lose its magazine during carry. I still haven’t gotten around to taking a dremel to the release button, and it spit out the mag again during my date the other night. The issue went unnoticed until I had returned home and was undressing for bed.

I’m beginning to think that maybe it’s something about me instead of the gun, though. I say this because after I finished mowing the grass last week, the magazine in my Glock 20 had come unlatched and was sticking out about half an inch. The yard is uneven, and I admit that I was running hard, but I am of the opinion that no amount of bouncing or jostling should cause the magazine to inadvertently exit the gun.

Neither gun has been modified in any way. The PF-9 lives in an Evyl Robot tuckable IWB holster (an awesome piece of craftsmanship, by the way) and the Glock 20 in a Safariland 6377 OWB holster, so I can say with near absolute certainty that the holster is not a factor in either instance.

I’ve always been a fan of magnum revolvers, and this experience reinforces that preference. The Alaskan is my usual carry, but I carry the Glock 20 when I want more rounds available, the Glock 29 when I want a smaller open carry gun, and the PF-9 for true concealed carry. Going forward, I will stick with the Alaskan if I anticipate anything more than light physical activity. The PF-9 will be a car gun until I either have time (and remember) to perform the release button modification and test the effectiveness of said modification, or the funds for an OWB holster to see if it performs any better in that configuration.

My only current revolver option for concealed carry is a Taurus 617, which is rather thick, given its seven round cylinder. And I have no holster for it. I have known major expenses ($1K+ each) coming up monthly for ten of the next twelve months, plus the need to save for a new roof to be done as soon as is comfortably possible. That leaves money very tight for quite some time, meaning that there’s no new holster on the hoizon. Fortunately, I seldom have the need for deep concealment, and the Alaskan is fine for OC.

Eventually, I want a scandium S&W .357 j-frame like I had about ten years ago, and a 2 – 4″ .44 magnum of some flavor. I’ll probably have the money by the time NC gets around to eliminating pistol purchase permits. Which might happen by 2025 or so.

I’d love to get the 4″ Colt Anaconda back that I sold to one of my best friends almost two decades ago, but the stubborn fucker refuses to let go of it. Not that it matters. I’m not willing to pay what it’s currently worth anyway.

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A Date

Last night, I went out on a date. A real, dinner and a movie date. It was the first time in a long time. Even B and I didn’t really date. Sure, we went out to eat, and took the kids to museums or whatnot, but never just the two of us for anything more than a meal. We tried a few times, but something always came up. Booty calls don’t count.

It was nice. Conversation was pleasant. The meal (Olive Garden, per her request) was decent. The movie (The Visit, also her choice) was weird, and I had a little trouble staying awake during some of the slow parts, since I had spent the day at work prior to the date, but it was enjoyable. Mostly because I had my head on her shoulder, and/or my hand on her arm or belly for the whole thing.

I hope to repeat the experience soon.

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Fuck Allstate

Remember when I had to power wash my new house in the middle of the fucking winter, because Allstate threatened to cancel my insurance if I didn’t? Well, they’re at it again.

I took out a Landlord policy when I rented out the old house. Last week, I got a notice of cancellation. Why? There’s debris (pine needles from the gazillion trees that surround the house that constantly drop) on the roof. And there’s no door on the crawl space. And the gutters need to be cleaned (more pine needles). And an area of the soffit needs a minor repair and repainting.

How the fuck do any of these things increase the risk for what is basically fire insurance? They sound more like a damn homeowners association than the risk management department for an insurance company.

Fuck them. I just won’t carry insurance. If it burns down, it’ll be a nice tax write off. Good luck burning brick, though.

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Random Updates and Such

Well, twenty-four hours after my gut had me praying for death, I was mostly back to normal. And after five days of absence, the mutt returned home. So there were no permanent repercussions from the events discussed in my last post.

My houseguests have rearranged damn near every room in the house. I barely recognize the place these days. Whatever.

I’m still trying to turn my Parker 45 into a reliable writing instrument. The last ink to go through it was a cartridge of black Quink. Every day or so, I had to pressurize it a little and use a damp paper towel to restart it. Since it ran out, I’ve rinsed it, soaked it, and rinsed it again. And again. Water pushed through comes out clean. But if left on a paper towel with water inside the feed, a blue spot with reddish brown edges will appear within half an hour. The blue is presumably my previous ink choice, but what the red/brown is baffles me. I plan to continue this process until there is no color on the paper towel. Then I’ll refill it and see if it behaves any better.

I seem to have a pretty serious problem with ants outside the house. Sure, I saw them all the time when I was mowing, but I figured it was just one of those nature things. Well, houseguest’s friend brought a puppy over to play, and some time between playtime and going home time, it got into a nest of the fuckers, and ended up with bites all over its genitalia. Because of the sprogs, I have to do something, but I can’t go all Delbert McClintock. Instead, I am limited to kid safe options. Make that option, singular. Diatomaceous earth. Supposedly, it works well, but takes perseverance, especially initially. Guess how I’ll be spending my next day off.

I’m working on a new female situation, but at the moment it’s firmly entrenched in “hurry up and wait” land.  Which seems to be the story of most of my life.

I spent a significant sum preparing my home for the houseguests. Hopefully I’ll pick up a good chunk of overtime before the “six months, no interest” promotion expires. That or the price of silver rebounds. The average I paid for my portfolio is roughly double the current spot price.  Good time to buy. I’m just unable to do so. If neither happens, I’m going to owe a horrendous amount in finance charges.

Best friend is tying the knot soon. Poor, dumb schmuck. I envy him. The last ring I put on a lady’s finger was hocked six months ago to pay an electric bill. Or so the rumor goes. Fucking bitch. But I still love her in spite of that, and everything else.

ExRoomie recently bought a new laptop. It’s running windoze ten. She got used to Ubuntu Linux after I converted her over a decade ago, but she has a project or class or something that supposedly requires it. She keeps asking me questions. I can’t help her. I haven’t used a version since XP, not including the coughpiratecough version of 8.1 that I put on my laptop for the sole purpose of being able to update my GPS.

I will try to make it talk to the PC that has the printer attached to it. If I fail, she’ll just have to buy a WiFi enabled one that works for both operating systems. A multi-function inkjet, which is exactly what she has now, costs maybe fifty federal reserve notes. She can afford it.

They’ve changed the schedule for my machine at work. Now, I spend all but the last two hours of my shift making chemical adds and performing periodic and preventative maintenance. It’s much more physical, but I’m not dependent on others for my breaks. And best of all, everybody leaves me the fuck alone. I’ll put their ass to work, and I mean real work, not just watching the parts go around in circles and change colors.

Some people need a good killing. I’m not going to elaborate.

And that’s about it for today’s episode.

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A Horrible Day

Today was probably the second worst day in my life.

On the way home from work, I stopped by a friend’s house to drop off some leftover decorating stuff that ExRoomie didn’t want, and neither did I. She wasn’t awake yet, so I left it near her back door. Her two ankle biter puppies followed me up the driveway when I left. I figured they would turn around and go back when I got to the road, so I didn’t give them any thought beyond making sure I didn’t run over them.

An hour later, she emailed me. One was missing. She walked up and down the road. She didn’t see it laying in the ditch or on the road, and it didn’t respond to her calls. We assume someone picked it up. Her spawn is heartbroken. I guess I should’ve taken them back down the driveway and tossed them inside the house or something.

My stomach had been cramping some all night, but I didn’t give it much thought until I got home. And it siezed up to the point that I was praying for death. I spent hours in the most excruciating pain that I have ever experienced, covered in sweat, tears, and God knows what else, alternately dry heaving my guts out and trying to get some movement through the usual exit.

Several times, I’d decided that a trip to the local Emergency Department was the correct course of action. But I couldn’t have safely driven the ten miles had my life depended on it. And I couldn’t speak coherently enough to summon EMS.

Probably five hours later, after two enemas, several failed attempts at various oral medications, and about fifteen minutes of semi-productive heaving, the pain subsided enough for the exhaustion to take over. I slept the remaining two hours before time to go to work.

I awoke extremely weak, and although the cramping was still making its presence felt, at least I could stand upright. I decided to try to work my shift, praying that it’s an easy one. And here I am.

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