Yep, that was my motto way back when, BG, Before Guns came into my life. It all came about because of a college girl in my town. She worked at a clothing store in the mall. One night, I went into her store with a little extra cash to buy the coolest new outfit in the latest style – layering. Remember back when it first became cool to wear two shirts at the same time? With the under one showing via rolled up sleeves and an extra unbuttoned button at the throat? It was all too cool, and I wanted two shirts to wear together. The clerk was marvelous, spending all the time in the world with me to make sure I had just the right two shirts. The underneath one was a hot pink T-shirt material, and the on top one was a purplish, bluish plaid. I looked so cool when I walked out of the mall that night, got in my car, and went home. Safely.

A few weeks later, that beautiful, wonderful, precious college girl who had helped me was dead. Her picture and story was front page news in our local newspaper. She’d been kidnapped leaving work one night while walking across the mall parking lot to her car. They found her body someplace else.

You know the awful details. We all do, and I have read similar stories too many times since, local stories about a girl who lived two blocks from good friends of mine, another girl who went to junior high school with my children, a woman whose home in our town was burglarized twice before she was killed by the thief on his third foray into her home.

At the time of the college girl’s death, I swore to myself that I would die in the parking lot before I let anybody take me anywhere. That I would fight to the death, either my attacker’s or mine, before I would let myself be terrorized, raped, burned, beaten, mutilated or anything else. The list of atrocities is endless. Death I could handle, but not the rest of it, not without a killing rage welling up inside myself that screamed “FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE OR DIE TRYING.”

Then along came the Steele Street boys. They had guns, lots of guns, and they knew how to use them. As the author of these operators, I figured I should get to know guns. I’d never even held a handgun, so I figured that would be a good place to start. I was right, and it was while shooting a Springfield 1911 that I had a life-altering epiphany: “There is nothing like a semi-automatic .45 caliber pistol to level the playing field. Any playing field.” To hell with dying in the parking lot.

Now, after years of shooting and training (TRAINING IS IMPORTANT!!!), I am still amazed that owning a gun and knowing how to use it for my own self-defense never crossed my mind before I started writing the Steele Street novels. The fact astounds me. Unless you really are Skeeter Bang or Red Dog, a woman is at a severe disadvantage in a physical struggle with an attacker. A .45 or a .38 or a 9mm changes the odds, drastically and in your favor, if you are willing to learn and train and step up. Let me repeat that last part: STEP UP. That’s right, step up and take responsibility for your personal safety.

A woman I know lives alone up in the mountains and thought maybe it would be a good idea if she got a gun, but her friends (friends????) convinced her that if someone broke into her home, they would only take her gun and use it against her. I could only stare, slack-jawed, at the mountain woman while she was telling me this story. When she finished, I said, “Well, they won’t take your gun and use it against you if you shoot the bastards first.” Duh. This is called Tactical Thinking, and I highly recommend it, especially when it comes to personal safety.

As for the woman who was killed by the thief, I still wonder why, in the very least, she didn’t get a big dog. The burglar only stole her underwear, which is so creepy, and ended up being deadly for her. She, of course, reported the incidents to the police, but even if you’re married to a policeman, he’s not going to be with you 24 hours a day. We all need to be responsible for our own safety – that’s the prime directive.

Until next time, GunDiva and I will be out there, practicing, practicing, practicing, putting those rounds downrange, armed and in charge.

It started with some jerk pulling a gun on me, and two days worth of posting and conversation about the incident on my horse blog.

For those that don't know, I'm a hoof care provider. Generally, I work alongside my husband, but from time to time the Locust Brothers and I venture out in the big Ford to trim on our own. We only do this for select clients, as... frankly, I'm not as young as I used to be and this is a hard job.

The day started with plans to visit a regular client with an awesome mare. I've been on this call alone in the past with no issue and thought nothing of loading up the kids and heading on out to get the job done.

The area we go through to get there though, has been in steady decline. Known to be a spot full of miscreants up to no good, we usually just hot foot it through and all is well. That day however, my alarm bells were singing a bit as I sat at the red light, waiting to make my turn. I saw three white youths- two male, one female- standing in the middle of my planned travel lane, conducting a spot of "business" (read: drug deal.) The light changed, I eased up, looking to pass in the lane for oncoming traffic- and couldn't because there was... surprise surprise... oncoming traffic. Took my foot off the gas, and scoped things out. Shaved head dude all dressed in baggy black took note- made the transaction, and turned towards me. He then lifted his shirt up, and reached for the gun he had tucked into his waist band. (Diva tells me this is known as a "pecker wrecker" carry method. Fits!)

I'm not going to lie- I was scared spitless. And pissed. And unarmed. (Plan B was at work with Dear Husband that particular day.) I had both my boys with me, strapped in their car seats. And that miserable punk was going to pull his gun on ME? I Don't F'ing Think So.

Not seeing another option at the time, I pushed the pedal to the metal and chirped the rubber on the Ford, and aimed directly at the bastard. If he thought he was going to get off a shot, it would be with a full size four wheel drive crammed down his worthless gullet.

I've been back to that client since then, and had no trouble. I've also altered my arrival time, to an early slot where it seems there is less activity in the 'hood. There is no other way to get TO the spot, as unfortunately happens in this line of work.

I did learn a few things from the incident.
1) You have to look close and check options
2) Think fast, act fast
3) Listen-- ALWAYS-- to those warning bells
4) Full size four wheel drive Ford's work well as battering rams
5) Do. Not. Hesitate. Commit, and GO.
6) Don't leave home with out Plan B. (Or C, D, and E for that matter.)
7) Close calls can happen anywhere, anytime. Expect the unexpected.

That story kicked off a conversation between myself and our beloved GunDiva, from which Girls With Guns arrived. That incident also brought home just how rough some of the areas around us are getting to be. There are several spots that I will NOT go into alone- even with Plan B, C,D, and E. Dear Husband goes with, and we both go armed to get where we need to be.

Truth be told, that is not the first time I've had a gun pointed at me. But I sure as shootin' would like it to be the LAST time some jagoff ever even considers it.