Fantasy Smantasy

I have always had this fantasy of becoming an undercover agent, and traveling the world to spy on big corporate companies for wrong-doings. It seems sexy, intriguing, and exhilarating. I also convince myself regularly that I am one hell of a strong bitch, and believe, on my good days, that I am completely capable of pulling off a female version of a Leo DiCaprio protege from one of his most action packed movies.
I have traveled by myself a lot over the years, and rather than dressing in my favorite Baby Phat jumpsuit that hugs my ass just a little too tight, I prefer to dress very professional, in all black, with my hair done, and my very fashionable Betsey Johnson leopard bag that will hold my laptop, lip gloss, cell phone, and wallet. I also like to bring a book with me, not only for my reading pleasure, but to make sure and avoid any conversation from the possible hairy beast that speaks only broken English, but yet insists on trying to make conversation- that will more than likely get sat right next to me.
As with most type-A personalities, I do my utmost best to get a seat towards the front of the plane. I'm not even really sure why it's so important to me to sit up front, but it's cut-throat business. I've been this way my whole life: I want the first, the biggest, the closest, and ultimately...the best of everything and anything. Any chance that I get for some good ol' competition, I'll take it, and I will slip right in front of the senior citizen, small child, or skinny bitch to get my seat up front. I will also make a sweet smile to any man that gets in my way.
On a particular cross-country flight, I was ready to do my thing. I had done the usual prep to get a good seat up front, and I ended up being positioned between a 300lb 55 year old woman- who didn't seem too happy about anything- but who could blame her, we were on a 6:30am flight, she had probably ran out of time to stop at Starbucks, and she just happened to be sitting next to the diva on the plane. I was already getting my frequent flyer drink coupons together to order an early morning Mimosa and Red Bull to prepare for this mess of a flight because my stomach felt a bit queasy, and I figured I just needed to make up for the lack of drinking from the night before. The guy sitting on the other side of me, by the window, didn't appear to be striking or even interesting, and I just paid him no attention. I did notice his dark olive skin.
After about 30 minutes in the air, Ms. Personality had passed out, and I was comforted by this, except for the fear that her wide open mouth would fall my way and I would be victim to close breathing, snoring, or drooling. I was just glad I didn't have to make uncomfortable small talk. My Mimosa wasn't quite doing the trick to ease my quesiness for this 4 hour flight, but I was quickly diverted by Mr. Olive reading through what I could only decipher as a law case. Hmmm...lawyer? Olive skin?? Hot.
I did what any undercover spy would do, and I struck up conversation with him- sporting my own biggest pet peeve on an airplane. What a hypocrite. He was actually pretty cute- he lived in L.A., he had deep blue eyes- which were probably fake contacts, he was a lawyer who owned his own firm off of Santa Monica Blvd., and he was of Persian decent- puurrrrfect! The more Mr. Olive talked, the more I became intrigued and wanted to know more. He introduced me to Trader Joe's, which I had never heard of, and wouldn't have any idea what it was until one opened in Nashville a year later. I have been quite disappointed that we can't get the "Two Buck Chuck" that he spoke highly of for a cheap wine. I am all about cheap wine. Cheap vodka...no. Cheap wine...yes.
We were about 2 hours in to our flight when he told me I had the most beautiful eyes he had ever seen, and that he would love to get my number so that we could continue our new found friendship after we departed ways in L.A. I lied and told him that I had friends in L.A., and that it would be no problem for me to come and visit him some time, but I needed to make sure and Google him first. I needed confirmation that this guy was in fact a self-made, 1st generation, Persian hottie. After exchanging business cards, and writing my cell on the back, a waive of nausea hit me that was too much to ignore. I sat back in my seat in silence and pretended to rest to avoid any conversation with Mr. Olive, because I felt the color quickly dissapating from my face, and knew he might change his mind about my "beautiful eyes" if he saw me in this condition. I felt the color of my face quickly turning a nice shade of pale green, and I knew this would not be an attractive color on me. I was also beginning to panic, because Ms. Personality had begun a light snore, and for some reason I couldn't quite figure out how I would get around her to the lavatory. The obvious thing to do would be to wake sleeping beauty up, but I wasn't thinking quite clearly, and all I could focus on was a good breathing technique to keep the nausea to a minimum.
Mr. Olive had returned to reading and reviewing some big important case he was preparing for, so I was relieved that I didn't have to keep up the bad Charlie's Angel's impersonation. I realized that I wasn't going to be able to fight this much longer...I didn't know what had happened...food poisoning, stomach flu, immaculate conception?! Nevertheless, I eyed straight for the lavatory, but saw the vacancy light was red. Shit! My breathing methods were beginning to leave me as panic began to set in, and a cold sweat began to break out on my face. So much pressure to maintain composure in front of Mr. Olive- I didn't want to ruin my beautiful appearance as an international spy of mystery...ok, Austin Powers. Hey, we all like to live in a fantasy world at times, and flying always seems like the best setting for such ridiculous behavior. As if I'm ever going to see these assholes again in my life. But, this time was different! I WANTED to see Mr. Olive again, and I had already conjured up the Porshe SUV he would buy me, the beautiful house I would convince him to buy in the Hills (rather than the loft bachelor pad he currently occupied), and the adorable olive skinned 1/2 Persian Jews, 1/2 Greek Orthodox kids we would raise together. My father would be so proud!
Just as these thoughts swept through my mind, and the light to the lavatory still shined red, I could no longer contain my composure, grabbed the little white barf bag that was conveniently provided in front of each of our seats, and proceeded to hack up what seemed to be the last 24 hours of whatever food intake I had had.
I.Was.Humiliated.
Mr. Olive quickly pushed the service button and seemed mortified. Ms. Personality slowly stirred awake and looked around in a very pissed off state as to what all the commotion was about. A flight attendant strutted her way towards us, preparing to take my next drink order, but quickly realized that I was in no condition to order another Mimosa...I was so stunned by the happenings, that I quickly started apologizing, and I explained to the attendant that I was PREGNANT, and the flight must have been affecting me in a bad way.
There is a reason I went with this outlandish excuse- it was to avoid getting kicked off of our layover in Phoenix. They don't allow people with air-borne virus's to fly because of the circulation of air, you can easily affect the whole flight. Call me selfish, but I had work to do, and nothing holds back a type-A bitch...plus, I wasn't prepared to send the whole flight crew into a panic, and I needed pity. I had just puked in front of the love of my life (of the past 2 hours), and I knew I had ruined any chance of having his Jewish babies. Bummer.
As it turns out, I had one wicked stomach virus. Truly one of the worst experiences of my life, and one I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy. I explained to the next flight crew from Phoenix to L.A. that I was in the early months of pregnancy and I had experienced a lot of nausea on my previous flight. The ladies understood because they too were mothers, and saved me the very front seat, closest to the lavatory. I ended up in that lavatory for the entire flight to L.A., and just kept making deals with God that if he would spare me this misery- away from home, away from my own toilet, away from my mommy- I would commit myself to a convent and that He would be my only lover for the rest of my life. Obviously, God knew I was also lying about this, because the virus continued on for a solid 24 hours.
I never heard from Mr. Olive, but I did Google him.
Turns out, he did own the prestigious law firm that he talked about...with his wife.

Everytime I visit Trader Joe's, I think of that asshole and how I hope he was a victim of splattering.