Waist of space

Hello again! I'm happy to say that I'm fully recovered from my bout with food poisoning, and managed to have a nice Thanksgiving after a week of intermittent bouts of queasiness. To those of you who offered me your get well wishes, I'd like to say thank you. To those of you who offered me a cork, I'd like to say, wrong end, but considerate nonetheless. Thanks all around!

I hope you all had a very lovely holiday. Back to business; this blog is dying for a new story! So, without further ado:

A couple of weeks ago, I took my friend Liz to the premiere of "Love and Suicide," a new indie that's been touring the festival circuit. It is a gorgeous film, and is the first movie that's been shot in Cuba by Americans since the revolution, which is fascinating in and of itself. If it's being shown where you live, you should definitely check it out. Afterwards, we had a chance to talk with director Lisa France, who's actually the cousin of a friend of mine back in Massachusetts. Small world! After congratulating her, we headed over to the Cabana Club in Hollywood for the cast party.

Liz and I found a settee in a corner where we could people-watch and catch up. After downing a couple of very potent mojitos, we decided to hit the dance floor. Liz wanted to grab another drink before venturing forth to shake what her momma gave her; I was done drinking for the night, but hung at the bar with her while she ordered.

As were waiting, I felt a pair of hands grab my waist from behind. That was bad enough, but they also moved down my body to my hips, lingered there and squeezed. Oh, hell no. I smacked the offending mitts off me and spun around to face the leer of a very sweaty, very drunk frat boy.

I must have had quite the glare on my face, because his expression quickly turned sheepish. "Oh, huh, I just needed to get by you."

"So?" I spat. "Get by me, then. Just keep your hands off me."

"Whoa." Grope-A-Saurus Rex didn't like my attitude. He threw his shoulders back, drew himself up to his full height of 5'6", and attempted to stare me down with his severely dilated pupils. "What's your problem?"

My problem? Readers, I don't have one, unless you count being groped by strange men in bars. I do have a problem with that. I have no problem whatsoever being touchy-feely with loved ones, and if you're the man in my life, lots of touching will be part of our daily repertoire - that's certain. However, I have issues with being touched by strangers. If it's an accident, okay - but G-Rex didn't bump into me innocently; he was doing the old Drunken Bar Grope. Hey, it's crowded, she's a small girl and I can probably get away with it. I've seen it a million times. It brought me back to my own college days, and not in a good way. I understand that bars are crowded, particularly if you're fighting a cluster of other patrons for the bartender's attention. But if you need to get by me, try the novel tactic of saying "Excuse me." Do not run your hands down my body. Why do so many men have trouble keeping their hands to themselves? Look all you want, but don't touch, Gropealicious. Respect 101 - Keep Thy Hands To Thyself, Fool.

"My problem?" I leaned in as close as I could so that he could hear me in the packed bar, but far enough away that I didn't have to breathe in the mixture of sweat and B.O. seeping out of G-Rex's every pore. "My problem is you touching me. Who are you? I don't know you. Back off!"

G-Rex was incredulous, and launched into a tirade. "Yo! What-EVAH!" he yelled, throwing his hands up and nearly spilling his beer on the dude behind him. He then turned to verbally attack poor Liz, who was just not getting her damned mojito fast enough. "Is she your friend??" he pointed, wild eyed. "Is she always this bad?" he yelled, gesturing towards me. Liz rolled her eyes and grabbed her drink. She pushed herself between G-Rex and Yours Truly as we walked away. What a gal.

No, babe, I'm not always that bad - but I do tend to get snippy when some loser who's four sheets to the wind tries to cop a feel when I'm out with a friend, minding my own business.