Big Boys on Planes, Trains and Automobiles...

Does anyone actually believe their life is a cookie cutter image of a sitcom?  Of course! That is how these brilliant writers come up with such prolific nonsense, however, it isn't really nonsense at all...it is life.

I fly up to San Fran from LA every so often as part of my big-time studio "experience" and I've noticed that San Francisco is full of organic health nuts, and not the kind you buy at Whole Foods.  While Los Angeles is the wicked step-child of its Northern and more beautiful Cinderella-clad city, one might imagine they could very well be rivals, but at least they both have something in common; eating healthy or more appropriate for LA, starving yourself. Apparently, this news flash didn't reach the two gents I am about to talk about, deservingly, in this blog.

For my more tedious forced employment aside from blogging, acting, writing, and eternally trying to lose five pounds, I head to San Fran every other week for some good ol' fashioned e-commerce fun...not.  Does anyone use "not" anymore?  Who cares, I'm bringing it back. Some might think "lucky girl" getting to jet set her way through business opportunities for a Hollywood studio that any MBA grad would kill for, but I don't actually get to enjoy SF, because I am In-N-Out like the burger, but I know the staff on Southwest very well...I've made temporary friends. They give me extra peanuts upon my arrival.  Bonus.

Anyway, Southwest Airlines is my poverty mobile to and fro San Fran and LA.  Before this job, I had never flown Southwest. I am more of the Canadian breed, pompously refusing to fly on anything that is a terrorist target and therefore choosing only upper-class airlines such as the Canadian owned WestJet! Yeah baby!  Why do you think Canada is "up" above the USA? Americans hit below the belt anyway, it's fitting.  So after my taxi cab hijack-induced driver rushes me to my "oh please can I miss this flight so I can run away from LA" check-in time, I realize that SW doesn't have assigned seating. No assigned seating?!  What is this? Even homeroom had assigned seating in grade school.  Apparently SW hasn't taken that notion of no child left behind. Well...I wish SW had left me behind on this flight.  Where was the Bush administration now...hmm?  Leave me behind, damn it!  Take it from me, foreign policy at its best, boot those Canadian draft dodgers over the border. Honestly, as a Canadian myself I wouldn't mind a bit, but America is the land of opportunity! So where is my Oscar? Liars.

So there I was, late for my flight, and stuck at the very back of the line in order to get a standing room only "seat" on the 1970's soul plane.  Now, prior to this I was minding my own business, and this hot-looking fellow ahead of me in line started chatting and chatting and chatting and...not so hot-looking anymore.  He worked for the railroad and apparently chain smoked. Attractive. Say "hi" to Thomas the Tank Engine for me, will ya?  He did manage to squeeze in "I hope you don't get stuck between two fat dudes!"  I didn't like his remark, as I found it offensive to call people "fat" because it isn't always their fault. However, he did have a point, but I have faith in the airline Gods that they have noticed I've been a good girl this year and Santa wouldn't dare put coal in my shoe or seat, in this case.

The coal was hot and burning that night, because guess who got the last seat on the plane? Not chatty chatty bang bang...nope, it was me.

Flight Attendant:  You might not want that seat.

Me: I don't care, really. I just want to get home.

Flight Attendant:  That seat is the smallest on the plane, so you might REALLY want to re-consider.

To where? THE PLANE IS FULL, LADY! I think at this point the FA would have gladly offered me her seat, because she felt so sorry for me.  The lavatory would have been a better option, because what I'm about to tell you is the description of an opening scene of a sitcom.  

I look to my right and there it was, the two inch seat. Two inches, because of the large over-flow of what you wouldn't call "muscle" from the young man gnawing at his burger while listening to his APPLE iPOD (nice plug Apple...product placement on your unhealthy American...wish I had a camera) was practically infused with the larger than anticipated thigh build-up from the gin guzzling business man on his opposite side, obviously suppressing the fact that his left arm was much larger than my two thighs combined, and the reason why he's swiggin' gin is because gin don't are if yo a phat mo fo!  I sure don't feel so bad about losing those five pounds now.  Fantastic!  Great!  I'll squeeze in.  The faces of all the other characters on the plane were looks of steadfast daggers, inaudibly shouting "don't do it!" combined with "is she gonna make it?" like that last scene in Seabisket.  What will be the Hollywood ending, folks?

I felt conflicted about my feelings toward over-weight individuals at that moment, because I do feel for them and I have nothing against them as I'd like to make abundantly clear, however, they didn't even try to move over for me.  Whether they are big or small, its common courtesy to do so, and I had the middle seat.  Period.

I made it.  Unscathed? Uh...I don't think so.

My final question is, how do two health food nutty cities produce such fine specimens for fast-food commercials? What childhood tragedy did these two have to survive in order to subsequently spend the rest of their lives nurturing their trauma by stuffing five hundred Big Macs into their Big Gobs? Must've been anorexic moms or sisters or something.

It was the first and only time I actually paid close attention to the flight attendants demonstrating how to use the oxygen masks.  I might need one for later when my lungs are being squished to death by blubber and I'm not talking about the Judy Blume novel.

To add insult to injury, the younger obese gentleman (doesn't that just roll off the tongue?) decided that farting his way through the flight added to the aroma of the 200 other contestants on the plane.  I was sitting next to the winner, American Farting Champion.  I hope he gets a farting record deal from Simon Cowell. Fox...I just sold you your next reality show, so cut me a FAT check.  

I had a dream about Simon the other night.  He gave me a hundred bucks and his phone number, then whispered in my ear that he wanted to take me out to this exclusive restaurant and FATTEN ME UP! Foreshadowing? Simon could never be that clever of an actor.  Oh wait, he's a Brit.  Yes he can.  All the Brits win acting awards. Time to move to London and fake it 'til you make it. Maybe they'll give me a BAFTA.  Its better than OSCAR the Grouch anyway.

I clenched my teeth until the final moments when I thought the plane was gonna crash from that last air pocket just feet above the landing strip.  Bye Mom and Pops! I've always loved you.

I'm alive, which is why I'm writing this blog.  Someone needed to document the cliched remark made by motor mouth. His offensive joke turned into reality...just like Seinfeld.  Lets give him a staff writer job, shall we? Good on ya, Conductor!  Lesson learned?  Here's your sequel, Hollywood: Big Boys on Planes, Trains and Automobiles.

Stephanie Francesca