Lights, Camera, May I Be Excused?

TMI Time! Disclaimer: I know a lot of you know this story already, but my brain's not functioning, I'm on vacation man :) Here goes.

I was working backstage on the sets of a critically acclaimed play I won't name here to be on the safer side. Believe me - you've watched it or read it in some form or the other, even the most non-literary of you.

Anywho. There we were, waiting for the 50-second cycle gap that meant putting a (very authentic, may I add) cast on one of the cast (in the dark at that!) Backstage rushes the character, and a friend and I descend on him, bearing bandages and sundry pins, but no no no, our Cast-Bearer wants to urgently... erm, pee.

There's no loo in sight. There is however a bottle. And all we have is 50 seconds. Sooo. What can I say? His dick, the bottle, the cast, my friend, and I - all managed to find a room and, well, simultaneously accomplish our goals. Ah, show business.

The Birds & The Bullshit

Did you think I forgot it was Thursday? Didja? Didja? WELL. I so DIDN'T. Here it is then, TMI.

I was fullto innocent growing up, so I assumed the f-word was 'fool.' Given this terminology mismatch you can well imagine my bemusement when my friend told me the f-word also meant "doing it." Being astute and all, I concluded that being a fool = doing it, and THAT is why doing it is baaad.

May I just say, my opinions on the matter have changed drastically since, and I heartily advocate all men to please go ahead and sow their oats, 'cos hey, we don't want you trying to figure out where the opening is based on your sketchy understanding of porn.

Nonetheless, on the subject of taking it to the other extreme - this guy I know wanted to marry me, with a single caveat: he said he wanted me to lose my virginity before we got married 'cos he didn't want to have to deal with a shrieky paranoid tight-holed... you get the idea. That's all folks.

PS: Last week's was completely factual, thanks for asking, and re-asking, and confirming, and re-confirming. You guys need to talk to strangers more often, y'all!

TGIT - TMI Thursday!!!

I was determined to begin with that most fun of all Blogger traditions - TMI Thursday. Woot! Now, all of you probably know too much info already, from the era following the infamous breakup with The Boy (you're welcome). So it was mindnumbingly hard thinking of something new. Nonetheless. Here's what happened the night I got picked up by the FBI. (PS: True story).

I thought really hard about the shortest way to say this without making myself look really bad: sad truth, there's no such way. M & I were lost on the roads of SF with no phones, no cabs, and no sense of direction other than to head in the direction of where there may be (a) cute guys, (b) cheese, (c) more cheese. So when, in the middle of a stripper area (nu-uh, don't ask), we found an Italian restaurant with cute guys offering us their phones, we're like, "Whee, Mannah! God lurves us!" So in we walk.

Now come the disclaimers. I haven't eaten in 36 hours; haven't touched alcohol in atleast 200 days. When the not-bad looking guys at the bar offer us free drinks, I forget all about my abstinence resolution and jump in on a mojito. The not-bad-but-not-good looking guys smirk, tell the bartender something in Italian, and these vaguely shady looking glasses are put out in front of us, with drinks literally dribbling over the brink of THE biggest glasses of alcohol you've ever seen.

This would be a trigger to run for most sane women. To M and me, it simply says, 'Woot! More alcohol! Goooood!' In it goes, all a-merry, and we're starting to find the honestly-rather-bad-looking guys' jokes more funny. Next thing you know, they're pulling out their Fed badges and telling us 'Shhh, we're cops, do you wanna visit our office and play?' So we're like ok haha, cute metaphor, but really? We work at Google, we review porn, you're gonna have to do more to shock us.

We get more festive, the guys get happier, and one sidles up to me, nudging at my hip and going 'Feel it.' And now I'm like uhkay, not drunk enough for this just yet, mister. He tugs at his pant, pats it fondly - I'm focusing on my drink - and goes 'Go on, don't be scared. First time you seein' one hon?' I look desperately towards M, but she's busy fending off the other guy, so I figure I'll pull the whole shy-eyes-down bit. Except - nudge nudge push push- this BULGE is on me and he's grinning and giggling and chanting 'See that? Feel that? That do anything for you love?' at me.

I decide enough's enough, I had enough of this on the buses back home, and turn towards him to give him a good telling to --- and that's when I see the GUN in his PANTS. Omifrikkinwha??? No dude. Not a metaphor. Is that a gun in your pants or are you just really happy to see me? Yeah. Turns out we really WERE picked up by the FBI. What's more, as Jay told us later when he picked us up, our drinks were SPIKED by the Feds. God bless America.