Most of the time it’s cool being a small woman. You can usually find good stuff in the clearance racks, you rarely have to worry about fitting through doorways, and, if you can throw back liquor with the best of ’em, you can always earn the respect of hard-drinking men. The downsides of being a shorty include: forever having to hem your pants, never being able to reach things on the top shelf of the grocery store, and being used as a decoy in tiny bars in the middle of North Dakota.
I spent a lovely portion of my afternoon as bait, luring a dead-drunk patron away from the camera mics as we filmed in a bar barely bigger than my living room. Not only was this gentleman juiced to the tits, he was also approximately four times my size, with a distillery’s worth of booze seeping from his pores. And while it was a little (ok, a lot) (ok, extremely) uncomfortable for me to spend an hour making small talk with a man who couldn’t remember my name (Gretchen, for the purposes of this experiment), or where I came from (Maine, see previous parentheses), or even hold himself upright without swaying, today was the only day in my life that i’ve been told more than twenty consecutive times that I am “a babe. wow.” So there’s the good and the bad, i guess.
Don’t get uptight, Buford, Buckethead, and Mr. Solutions had their eyes out for my safety, and my inebriated paramour seemed to have his heart in the right place. All was for the best – even though i couldn’t pay attention to the filming, I know it was a great scene. Afterwards, I cracked a small bottle of Grey Goose in my hotel room, toasting my bravery and dedication to the craft. Vodka and 7-Up never tasted better than it did at 5pm today.
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