That's Miss Secret Agent to you

Photo above by Shawn Welling

Yay. A new week. Pardon my enthusiasm... I'm suffering from a benadryl hangover and general exhaustion. In desperate attempt at 11:30 last night to pop two benadryl and get some sleep, I failed... and suceeded only at making myself a zombie for today.

The holiday weekend was nice, but it has come to my attention that I. am. tired. I am just plain tired of going out, tired of throwing parties, tired of attending parties, tired of being social. I suppose the heat of summer has something to do with this, not to mention the endless stream of random activities I find myself doing everyday.

So what nonsense did I get into this weekend....

Got asked sort of spur of the moment on Saturday to shoot a scene in a film. I had to laugh a little when the director asked me to come play "a sexy bond girl/FBI agent," fearing I'd make and instant parody out of the whole thing. My task was to slide down a rope and light a cigar of a fellow FBI agent after beckons me near by screaming "AGENT FULLER!!!!" Of course, I have learned to expect the unexpected with these things, and the special rope I was to slide down was nowhere to be found. Rope I was supposed to slide down:





So the director pulls out this massive industrial firehose as an alternative. Depiction of actual prop:



Let me tell you; firehoses are not meant for climbing. It was next to impossible to get a grip on the thing, given its diameter, stiffness and abrasiveness. Trying to climb it, I could have nearly clocked the actor playing the other FBI agent in the head with the aluminum (or steel or whatever it was) nozzle. Somehow though, I did not, as I climbed up out of the shot, just in time to hear my character's name called to slide down the hose, light his cigar and slither by out of the scene. Thank god. I really did not want a speaking part, but the director suggested I say something provacative to the agent before darting away. Now, I did all of this in black booty shorts, thigh high black boots and a black vest. My thumbs and inner thighs are in tip top shape. Scraped absolutely all to hell. I suppose I'll spare you that photo.

Please file your concerns with me and not Agent Fuller formally. I accept chocolate, whiskey and massages gladly.