In writing this blog, I am essentially giving away the final chapter of my book about my life of being a fan girl. Since I have no idea when that will be finished, and even so, if it will then be published, I figure it's better to ride the excitement train while I can and share this important life story. I'll try to keep it concise as the detailed version has been and is being written for the book.

Michael J. Fox has been incredibly important to me for 23 years. I discovered him when I was 8 years old and took to fast track to lurrrve upon seeing a cute picture in a magazine. Not long after the discovery, I was catching up on all the details of his career to that point as best I could given that I was so young and resources were scarce.

I had so many pictures from this photo shoot. *melt*

My devotion lasted through my single digits and carried me all the way to my early teens. On a trip to America when I was 12, I was on constant alert should he pop around from behind any corner. It soon became apparent that LA did not have a celebrity posted on ever street corner as I saw exactly zero during my three week stay. While they are always lurking about, in the past six years I have lived here, I have probably seen less than 20 out and about. Furthermore, I have learned that celebrities don't tend to hang around on Hollywood Blvd on the Walk of Fame or the Chinese Theatre where us tourists all end up.

Best t-shirt ever. Glad he lost though.

That trip, as I saw it, was my big chance to meet my hero and it came and went without me so much as being able to see The Back to the Future set (it burned down in a Universal Studios fire just a month before my visit). Back to Australia I went, unsuccessful and feeling like I would never ever meet him.

We walked up and down Hollywood Blvd looking for this star in 1990 only to later find out it didn't exist until 2002.

By the time I was almost 15, I got into music and with it came a whole new type guy to like. Dirty long haired boys that were a far cry from Michael J. Fox who had lovingly looked back at me from my posters for so many years. While my new interest took me away from him, he was never forgotten, for I am nothing if not loyal.

Different bands came (but never totally went) from Ugly Kid Joe (hey, I had to start somewhere), to Faith No More, to Mr Bungle and then oddly from there to Supergrass, my number ones changed a few times over the years, yet I always kept up with MJF and still held a hope that I would meet him. I cried when I learned he had Parkinson's, bought his books when they came out and attended a Parkinson's fundraiser screening of Back to the Future in the hopes that he would be there. He was not which is why this post will continue.

As more time went by, because of his Parkinson's, I figured his days of fan mingling, if they ever really existed, were certainly now behind him. Gregg would, ever on the lookout for events that he might be at, do his best to make this meeting happen and I daresay, keeping better track of these things than I did.

Lorraine, Marty and Doc - together again

After a few possibilities not pursued due to expense and timing, I had more or less resigned myself to the fact that it wasn't going to happen. I had met every other celebrity I'd been enamoured with, and since Michael J. Fox was the biggest star of them all, I was willing to admit defeat on that one.

That was intil Early April. Michael J. Fox's latest book, The Adventures of an Incurable Optimist came out March 31st. I was unable to get to a book store that day, but did as soon as I could on April 1st, completing the book by April 7. Shortly after that, Gregg learned that he was doing a panel interview at the LA Times Festival of Books. Which of the two days he would be there were unclear, and the tickets, which were free, would not be available until the weekend before.

Once this news come about, I think it's safe to say I had a knot in my stomach for three solid weeks. I had wanted to meet him for so many years, but what do you say to someone in a public forum when your one chance (if I even got that chance) to ask a question came about? It was a troubling predicament and part of me wished none of this was happening so I didn't have to deal with it. 23 years of anticipation is a little hard to deal with.

Even before I knew what a Republican was, Alex P. Keaton rightfully made it apparent that it wasn't good.

I pondered it a lot and soon a possible solution arose, though the solution was scary in itself. Over the Christmas break, I had begun work on a book documenting my life and adventures as a fan girl. My fannish ways had taken me all over the world and landed me great friends and a husband so it seemed like something worth documenting. As I got started on chapter 2 which talked about Michael J. Fox, I was reminded how central to my story he has been. That no matter who else has come and gone, he has remained that constant and I realised my long held desire to meet him would provide a nice thread throughout the book. A good portion of this chapter was written before this Festival of Books even came up so that's how I was struck with the idea that in lieu of a question, I would give him my chapter. Rather than alleviate my anguish, it only increased as now I had to rescue it from the shambled state it was currently in.

My anxiety existed for both my quandry over what to do if I met him, but before that, I still had to get a ticket. Gregg had kept aside a $100 bill to offer to someone in line, believing it would be pretty damn easy to find someone who'd prefer the $100 since the tickets were free to begin with.

The lead up to noon, when the tickets went on sale, had me pacing. When the time finally struck, Gregg and I were each perched at our computers, plus my iPhone was ready to go in case there was a connection malfunction. The connection did not time out and we were both able to get two sets of tickets, leaving us with two spare. I had no idea how big the event was, but when I checked again at 12:20pm, the tickets were all gone. That only increased my feeling of triumph. Once I had the tickets in my hand, I began to cry. I realised even if I didn't meet him, I would get to see him in person. I immediately called my sister, Rebecca to fill her in on this success. She was the only person who really understood how important this was, given that she had been along for the ride for all of the 23 years. As predicted, she started crying with joy too. Her deep excitement for me only added to the feeling of importance of all this mania.

The stress of all this kept me paralysed from working on my chapter. The more I knew it had to be done, the harder it was for me to do. Finally, when time was truly slipping away, I got to work. I could see some huge flaws, having not looked at it for a few weeks, so I set about fixing it. I then sent it to my friend Kristen whose valuable advice brought it closer to a presentable standard. I wrote a cover note, explaining it was still a draft, but at least it was not entirely shameful.

The big day came and I couldn't eat. I forced myself to eat some soup for the last thing I wanted was to have some near fainting spell at the worst possible moment. We got there two and half hours before it was due to start and I was pleased to find myself 6th in line. I would be as close to the front as possible, allowing for roped off seats in the front row.

One of my biggest conundrums in my mental planning was where to sit. Clearly I wanted to be as close to the front for the duration of the interviews, but when they announced the audience Q & A, from previous book events like this, I know people quickly file behind the mics. As we were let in to be seated, proximity to the mic left my mind as I sought the best seat. Gregg was right behind me, I suppose, but my focus was only on finding the best seat. I sat closest to Michael J. Fox's side of the stage as his spot was marked with a place marker so I could tell. I was first to file into that row, however I made everyone shift past my knees as I sat firmly in the aisle seat for easy access out. Once I was settled, I looked up. One of the two audience mics was right beside me. In my hustle I didn't even notice I'd shuffled past it, but now I couldn't be any closer. I was set. It now seemed certain that I would get to talk to him so panic ensued.

The next 45 minutes of waiting went surprisingly fast considering how jumpy I was. I mentally prepared for a delay, but they started right on time. Mary McNamara, an LA Times TV critic took the stage and began her intoduction. It was brief since we all knew everything she was telling us about him, and then, before I knew it, Michael J. Fox stepped out onto stage. As as I had predicted, I burst into tears. Not just tears quietly streaming, but the full on, red, distorted troll doll face type crying. Lordy, I'm glad I'd have some time to get use to the idea of seeing him in real life before I'd get to talk to him. The tears lasted under a minute and I was able to compose myself and enjoy the session. After the first question was asked, Michael got a little way into his answer when someone yelled "Is there a doctor in the house?!" Some mania went on on the right side of the ballroom as it appeared a woman had fainted. Might I suggest lentil soup?

I hate to admit it, but once some paramedics arrived and were tending to her there and she seemed to be conscious, I was wondering why there weren't moving her outside. The session had come to a halt and I was worried it wouldn't resume. Soon the woman passed word that she was alright and they should continue and I was greatly relieved.

The interview proceeded without a hitch and I just loved sitting there so close to my hero and just listening to him talk right there in front of me. I wish I could have just relaxed and enjoyed it, but my supposed need to talk to him kept me on the edge of my seat. I peered over at Gregg's watch and saw that it was 3:45 which meant the call for audience Q & A would have to have to be called soon if it were to happen at all. My stomach knot intensified.

Finally, Mary McNamara announced "I've almost lost track of time, but we'll spend the last few minutes taking questions from the audience." I was up like a shot. First in front of the mic. Had I been seated anywhere else, I would not have made it as the lady behind me was on her game also. There was a second mic in the other aisle so the guy that got there went first. This was good as it gave me a moment to compose myself. Luckily there was no urge to cry so the risk of making an ass of myself was greatly diminished.

When my turn came, I took a deep breath and proceeded. I introduced myself and explained how important this day was for me. I said that after 23 years of being a fan of his, when this even came up, I tried to figure out what the one thing I would ask him would be and I realised that I couldn't. I then went on to explain that I am writing a book about being a fan and that while it was about being a fan of a lot of different people, he surfaces early in the story and will run through it, and that by virtue of speaking with him that day, I would be able to write the last chapter. I then explained that I had a copy of the chapter about him with me and I asked if it would be okay if I gave it to him.

"Sure!" he said.

Michael J. Fox listening to my spiel.

So I walked up to the stage to hand it to him and as I did, the whole ballroom errupted in applause for me! That was unexpected. I've been to many of these events where people come up there trying to pitch something or being plain obnoxious on their turn while everyone prays they will shut the hell up. I guess my sincerity, and possibly my sweetness came across as I seemed to have won over a crowd of 1500 - 2000 people. I approched the stage and handed Michael J. Fox my envelope. I reached up and he reached back and we shook hands and he smiled. I mouthed "thank-you" and turned to go back to my seat. The emotion was about to hit and my eyes on the verge of welling with tears when he said "Good luck!" and the applause increased a little more. I said "Thanks." and then thought it was over but then,

"So it's about being a fan?" he continued.

"Yeah," I said as I reached my seat.

"But you're not just a fan of me right?" he hoped.

"No, lots of other people too." "You're a fan of other people too, right?" we said at the same time.

"Good, because I think there are a lot of other people more worthy of your attention."

With that, the crowd gave one more burst of applause and laughter and my moment was complete.

The moment snapped and put up on the wire services.

I had done well. There was only time for four people to ask questions and I was one of them. I couldn't hear what the guy after me was saying as my head was spinning from what had just happened. As it finished, people surged the stage for a hand shake or something, but somehow, I had risen above all of them and accomplished the brief little something I had sought for so long. Two ladies crossed my path and told me how sweet what I did was. That was nice to hear.

Having said all that, I did realise something. When I got there, there were six people in front of me. How much did they like him? I have no idea, but enough for them to make sure they got there early. Then of course there was the huge crowd that followed. It really gave me some perspective. While I felt for all these years that I had to meet him, I realised that I certainly wasn't owed anything. He wasn't "mine" and whatever existed in my head between us was simply that: in my head. I was not owed an audience, a meal or a conversation, just courtesy should our paths cross and I got exactly that. I do think that celebrities should be respectful and polite to reasonable fans just as I expect anybody to show that kind of respect to all people, but anything beyond that should not be taken for granted.

Michael J. Fox realises his own fanboy dream by rocking out with Pete Townshend at a Parkinson's benefit in 2008, "This was almost worth getting Parkinson's for!" he said.

I'm lucky I had the skill and determination (and Gregg relentlessly looking out for such events) to make my silly little dream come true and I am also lucky that the object of my interest was so nice and indeed worthy of my attention.

My handshake with Michael J. Fox also makes the Wire Service!

***Please view before reading. It's only 30 seconds.***

My hero, Tim Gunn, eyes a fashion creation with concern.

So what is it about this commercial that irks me?

I accept a certain upping of enthusiasm from a salesman. It is that carefully measured dose that allows me to buy into what they are saying, even while knowing they are being a little condescending with their unbridled enthusiasm for cleaning products.

Gays are over the top with their unbridled enthusiasm for stuff, but that's a generally accepted trait of many homosexual men. They are as enthusiastic about fashion disasters as they are about fine, firm package. I find it endearing.

Put these two different types of enthusiasm together, and frankly, it's just too much. My feeling is that gay flamboyance coupled with a sales pitch is just off the charts. It's like a wacky cartoon version of a sales pitch. As it is, I am already distrustful of commercials where an employee of a large company that jerks me around, in this case, the cable company, tries to tell me how fulfilling supplying cable service is, dangerously straddling the line of realism. I have already been annoyed by a previous commercial in this series where a girl loves her shitty job way too much to be believed. Add in the gay and this already preposterous premise becomes insulting to my intelligence, more so than the first ad.

The ridiculousness of the Magic Bullet infomercial is a source of entertainment in its own right, not to be confused with any real attempt to trick the viewer into thinking this isn't a piece of shit.

***NOTE*** Temperatures will appear as Celsius/Fahrenheit.

I knew I'd reached new heights of coldness one evening when I stated to my overly warm blooded husband, "I'm cold." "You're cold?" he said, ever incredulous at my low blood temperature, "Well, I'm not cold now, but I'm about to be." I think he deemed it to be the most insane proclamation he'd ever heard: a preemptive declaration of coldness.

We were about to go out and the jacket I wanted to wear was in the car. I knew I would be cold on the walk from the apartment to the car, a state I was concerned to be in, hence I stated it as "I'm cold." I had to hear about it the whole car ride to our destination. Luckily that destination was only five minutes away. Even luckier was that the destination was our beloved Tiki Ti and with all the drink consumed, I was no longer cold.

Coldness is something I have had to deal with all my life. I spent most of my childhood winters watching television in my parent's bedroom, seated over the central heating duct. I'm surprised I took to it as I did after an earlier childhood experience could have scarred me for life. My dad, after fixing his track pants over the duct to warm them up, decided to hide in the bathroom and call out to me in a ghostly voice"Simone....I've fallen down the duct!" When I came into the room and found his pants inflated, resembling legs, I ran out of the room screaming to my mum for help as I really feared for his life. Thankfully I overcame this trauma and the duct and I went on to have a strong and healthy relationship for many years.

If I ever needed a quick burst of warmth, I would pause and take my position over the corridor duct. There is nothing to do in the corridor but walk to your required room or sit on the duct. One night, after my sister had fallen asleep in the living room, my mum attempted to carry her to bed, didn't see me on the duct, tripped on me, hit her head on the wall and dropped my sister. My heat addiction had reached new heights by endangering others.

The earth's core: hell or heaven?

The introduction of an electric blanket into my bed might have been my greatest downfall. That, coupled with the television in my bedroom kept me tucked away while most kids were (gasp) outside. There were a lot of stories about electric blankets causing house fires and my dad was forever on my case to turn it off. But as the blanket took at least 30 minutes to reach it's maximum temperature and I fancied naps immediately upon my return home from school, the blanket stayed on all day and all night. I believe it's possible that the blanket remained on it's highest setting for up to six solid months. I now have an electric blanket for my bed, an electric throw for the couch and one that plugs into the cigarette lighter for the car. When I go to visit Stephanie in Seattle, given the city's close proximity to the Arctic (close enough for me, anyway) I send a combination of text messages and emails ahead of time to make sure the whereabouts of the spare electric blanket are known. The blanket in question was purchased before my first visit, for my visit.

The car blanket. It's real.

When the glory of summertime hits, what should be the most comfortable days of the year are foiled by the air-conditioning, so a heater runs at my feet under my desk at work. I would have to say that air conditioning is the bane of my existence. Sure, I understand it, and hot dog, I even use it! But what baffles me is that most people apparently spend all winter looking forward to summer, but then it comes and what do they do? Turn on the A/C to temperatures equal to that of a moderate winter. Why make it so cold? I don't understand. It's summer. It's a time to wear light clothing. Why make it so a cardigan is required on a 40/100 plus degree day? When it is hot, I feel like we should be embracing the warmth. Too hot? Then make it about 22/71. I find even that too cold, but I am trying to compromise. Ideally, I would like things to be 27/80 degrees at all times. In bed, I require less what with all the covers, but the rest of the time, that temperature is ideal. I can drop down to 24/76 and work well with others, but these "hotties" are unwilling to work with me.

Hear, hear!

I like nothing more on a sunny winter day to get in the car that has been warmed by the sun and bask in the heat as a relief from the biting cold. But often I'm with some monster who opens all the windows immediately. What's going on?! We were just trying to escape that horror and now you are letting it back in! It's like a suspense movie where the people always go UP the stairs. These lunatics just keep letting the enemy in.

After a long time of feeling isolated with my temperature needs, I would occasionally come across someone who felt the same as I did. What I then realised is that there are two of us and one hot person, we win. The windows remain closed, the heater on and two thirds of a room or car population are happy. I then created an organisation called Team Cold for the express purpose of identification and unification against the powers that keep A/C on and windows open.

One example of Team Cold was getting my sister-in-law on board and agreeing to hold strong against the ridiculous "hot" complaints of her brother, my husband. One day, after a good long exposure to the car heater, I actually started to feel hot. But as a member of Team Cold, I hushed. I presumed Gwynne was cold, so I sucked it up. As it turns out, she was overcooked too, and it was a great relief once the revelation was made, but at least we were both looking out for each other's interests.

One Team Cold member who was on thin ice was my sister, Rebecca. Once a proud and eager member, too much window opening in moving cars caused for some chastising from the president (me, of course) and her membership to come into question. She very much wanted to remain a member, so to assess her commitment, an evaluation was conducted.

Initial assessment form for new Team Cold applicant

Notes taken on my sister as she attempted to be accepted back into Team Cold a couple of years ago.

A pre-creation of what a successful Team Cold can achieve.

As cold as I am, I believe I finally met my match. While Rebecca scored poorly in her efforts to re-join Team Cold, she was awarded points for getting her friend Lisa on the case. Lisa is hands down the coldest person I have known. As we drove home in a car together, Lisa was happiest with the heater on full blast for the entire 45 minute journey. Even I was starting to sweat, but Lisa was only mildly appeased. In the spirit of Team Cold, I did not argue for temperature reduction though I wanted it. It was at this moment that I did what I felt I had to do which was to award the Presidency over to Lisa. Clearly she had what it took to take Team Cold into the future and pass laws for all A/C units to go no lower than 22/72, though perhaps she will foil us all and have air conditioning outlawed entirely. Shit.

I work for a fabric designer. We have just one product and that's fabric. So, if someone calls advising me they need to return a pair of trousers or slippers, I know I quickly need to nip this in the bud. I advise them that our numbers are just one digit off as this hapless customer attempts to reach Haband.

From what I can gather, Haband appears to be some sort of mail order and web based store geared to the elderly and fashion unconscious. Please take a moment to visit their site just to get a feel for who their customers might be. The models don't really describe them, but the styles and prices do. They are the type of person who make simply dialing a wrong number, as all of us have done, a harrowing experience which it needn't be.

 

Haband seems to be a company of poor customer service as I find myself berated by customers who, by a slip of the finger, end up talking to me. Apparently Haband's usual customer service line is automated which proves most difficult for these people who are clearly already suffering some kind of impairments, so judged, simply on the merits that they think it's a good idea to shop there. On the occasion that I, a real live person answer the phone, they are so relieved to finally get some help after whatever Haband has put them through, that I am bombarded with their complaints with barely a chance to explain what they've done. Even after the conclusion of their monologue when I tell them they have in fact NOT called Haband, they seem desperate to make this work somehow. Senility appears rampant among the Haband customer.

The most striking feature of the misguided Haband caller is their insistence that the mistake was not theirs. Why is that so hard to accept after I've told them we are not who they are looking for? Why must the blame be on the number they have rather than a misdial? Clearly it's a common mistake as I usually tell them who they were trying to call before they can tell me. A classic conversation goes like this:

Me: (Company name).., how may I direct your call?..
Customer: I ordered a brown sweater and you sent me blue and I need to return it.
Me: Oh, were you trying to reach Haband?
C: Yes...who have I called?
Me: (Company name)... We just sell fabric...
C: Well, I'm trying to reach Haband and this was the number they gave me. (As though I need to help them anyway because they dialled the number they were given)
Me: Our numbers are very similar, you've just misdialed. (They don't believe it could happen)
C: Is this 1-800-*** 1674?
Me: No, this is 1-800-*** 167 ONE
C: But that's not what I dialed!
Me: Yes you did, the numbers are similar. If you hang up and try again, you should get the right one.

I wont go into the ones that call right back. I use to allow them to engage and manipulate me into their bullshit until minutes of debate had gone by but I realised enough was enough. I had to take the firm approach, state the facts and get off the bloody phone.

After being slightly embarrassed a few times by transferring these calls to other places, missing the cues that this person is lost, I have become quite adept at identifying the Haband individual. If someone simply asks for customer service, they will win as I will instantly patch them through. But if they open with "I'm calling about a return.", if there is a little quiver in their voice, then yes, I confess I am age profiling and marking this individual as a potential Haband customer. "What was it you needed to return?" is my next question, politely putting my feelers out. "Well, I ordered a clock and it doesn't work..." There. They said the magic word. "Clock". The magic word can be any noun that isn't "fabric". Only once has someone gruffly responded "FABRIC!" like "Duh! What else would I be returning?!" but they just don't know what I go through if I don't ask. Any other positive fabric identifications have been polite and that one abrasive reply was worth it for all the time wasting I have saved by controlling the missteps of the elderly.

Here are some treasured Haband examples from the last few months.

Me: (Company name).., how may I direct your call?
Customer: Hi, yes I received part of my order and on the invoice it said on it "rest to follow" but I still haven't received it...
Me: Oh, did you speak to someone about it? (Sounds like it could be one of ours, though not likely)
C: No, I haven't, I just got the order with that on it and I didn't complain about it, but I ordered another pair of oven mitts... (Magic words! Oven mitts.)
Me: Oh, were you looking for Haband?
C: Yes...
Me: Oh, well you've called 1-800-***-1671, and misdialed. Our numbers are very similar.
C: Oh no, I've got 1-800-*** 1674, is that you?
Me: NO. We are 167 ONE, you've just misdialed.
C: Oh...

Me: (Company name).., how may I direct your call?
C: Is this customer service? (It's not, but since she sounds old and crazy, I say yes so I can screen her a little more)
Me: Yes.
C: Oh good. I'm calling because I saw on the internet a quilted handbag...
Me: Oh, are you looking for Haband?
C: NO! (indignantly) I said HAND-BAG.
Me: Oh, sorry.
C: Is this Haband?
Me: No, you've just misdialed. Our numbers are very similar.
C: What number is this?
Me: There's one number different and you've just misdialed. If you try it again, you should get them.
C: I dialled *** *** 1674
Me: Yes, we are 167 ONE.
C: Oh, I'm sorry.

Me: (Company name).., how may I direct your call?
C: I CAN'T HEAR YOU (deaf)
Me: This is (Company name)..
C: Is this Habaaaand?
Me: NO YOU'VE MISDIALED.
C: What number is this? I dialled 1-800-***-1674
Me: Yes, we're 167 ONE.
C: Oh, sorry.

Me: (Company name).., how may I direct your call?
C: Oh! A person! I can't tell you how long it's been since I've heard a person. You don't know how hard it is to navigate your system! Your name is Britney?
Me: Um, no. It's Simone. Were you trying trying to reach Haband?
C: Yes and I now that I have you...
Me: You've actually dialled the wrong number.
C: Oh, I'm sorry!

Customer then proceeded to complain to me about Haband and how they claim they didn't receive her return when she has confirmation that they did and how bad their customer service is. I tell her I guessed as much from all the wrong numbers I get. As she immediately believes me that she dialled the wrong number, I am happy to sympathise with her.

Me: (Company name).., how may I direct your call?
C: Is this Haband?
Me: No, this is (Company name)... Our numbers are very similar. You've just misdialed.
C: Well somebody ELSE dialled the number.
Me: Oh, well then THEY misdialled.
C: Can you dial the number for me?
Me: Um, no, I can't from here.
C: You can't?
Me: No, sorry.
C: Oh...okay........ (Doesn't trust me)

I suppose I am easily agitated, but I think there is a reasonable midpoint where I realise the perpetrator of said annoyance didn't mean to do whatever they did, and sometimes the realisation that I've committed the same offense at some point which forces some cold hard humility and I am soon reminded that the world actually isn't set up for the purpose of making my blood boil.

But there are many other instances where, while things may not be set up with the intent of boiling blood, no thought at all is given to that possibility and so cauldrons full of plasma can be found simmering across the globe, a cook off which could easily be avoided. The feeling of empathy seems increasingly distant as we are continually foiled with systems in place in which the planner or designer appears to have never placed themselves in the circumstance in which they expect to place others.

I can't believe it's not borscht!

Here are some examples I've collected over time where I feel practicality has not been considered.

One of the earliest instances of my recognising this phenomenon was on a plane. Traveling back and forth between the USA to Australia has clocked up countless plane meals over the painfully long flight. Being a vegetarian, my meal is often brought out before the main dinner service cart makes its way down the aisle and more often than not, I am long finished with my meal by the time the other people in my row receive theirs. Even without the tray table down, the seat is cramped. I am not overly claustrophobic but this particular set up really pushes my limits of tolerance. When crew member comes to give my row-mate their meal I ask "Could you take my tray?" This has been met, more than once with a resounding "no". So I wait, wishing desperately I could cross my legs or tilt to one side. At the very worst, putting my irritating special meal needs behind, the crew has left the trays of the remainder of the passengers for an entire hour. Adding my 30 minutes prior to that has my confinement to a solid 90 minutes. "Tea or coffee? Tea or coffee? Tea or coffee? Tea or coffee?" they chirp as they walk the aisle, oblivious to our discomfort. "I DON'T WANT ANY FUCKING COFFEE!!! WHO WANTS ANY FUCKING COFFEE WHEN WE ALL WANT TO SLEEP SO WE CAN ESCAPE THIS HELLISH FLIGHT AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE!!! TAKE OUR FUCKING TRAYS BEFORE WE POUR THE SCALDING POT OF COFFEE OVER YOUR FUCKING HEAD!!!!!!!" That's how I feel during the "tea or coffee" mantra. I am baffled by the fact that since crossing over the position of steward or stewardess, they have lost any memory of what it's like to be forced to stay in that position for so fucking long. If anyone needs to use to bathroom during meal service, unless they are in the aisle, are causing near chaos. For over an hour the expect 400 people not the need to go to the bathroom. I can't tell if they crew are oblivious or simply don't care. It's hard to yell at them when come off so attentive, but in holding us hostage like this, they prove they are not. If you urgently require tea or coffee however, you will be well taken care of.

This adequate gentleman need only hiccup to activate his personal entertainment system.

Possibly the second incident of complete tunnel vision occurred to me at work. I work for a fabric designer where the designs are hand painted before eventually being printed onto fabric. The designers work to the end of the day, leaving their work on their desks to be resumed the following day. On instances where we have had people come in after hours to wax the floor, much to everyone's horror the following morning, the cleaners have thought it quite reasonable to lift rubber mats off the floor and place them directly onto original artwork. Now, I don't want to make any assumptions about the intellectual abilities of a floor waxer, but what the fuck? How much fucking brains does it take to identify something of value, something that needs to be protected and know not to put dirty, dusty mats onto them? After this happened repeatedly, for the most recently waxing, everything on the floor in the studio and office was moved into the warehouse and out of idiotic clutches.

I've recently started watching Mad Men. As I missed the original airing, I've been catching up by renting the DVDs. Being very anal about appreciating and enjoying my shows, I desperately avoid spoilers. So imagine my freak out when at the beginning of the season one DVD is a preview for season two? This preview could not be fast forwarded through! They were trying to force me to spoil their own show! I was forced to reduce myself to putting my fingers in my ears and humming with my eyes closed to avoid the disclosure every time I put the first disc in. Did the person who engineered this disc know nothing of spoiler prevention? I learned one little tidbit of the future that I'd rather not have heard, but I wont tell you what it was because I'm not a dick like the person who did that menu.

More in the television vein, I certainly cannot be the first person to have observed for their entire life actors in TV and film ending all phone conversations by simply hanging up the phone without the closure of a "bye". For how many more years must we endure unrealistic phone conversations that end this way? A kiwi guy I knew, upon possibly his first serious encounter with an American asked "So, do Americans really not say 'bye' before hanging up the phone?" I can't figure out if the actors are strictly adhering to the poor planning on the part of the script writers as I would imagine a good actor would, if properly in the moment, feel compelled to end the conversation correctly.

"Great! Don't forget the wine." *click*

On any show I watch regularly, just as I feel sadness that the show has ended, I am tickled by the "Stay tuned for scenes from our next episode" promise. When I miss shows, I download them as bittorrents and stay on top of my shows that way. So imagine my horror when the fool who went to all the trouble of recording, encoding and then uploading that episode thinks that final treasure the show offers as useless and simply doesn't include the preview? You've come so far, what's another 30 seconds? I guess I should be grateful that they uploaded the episode in the first place so maybe I should just eat it on this one.

The flip book has been a source of enjoyment ever since I first found them in the way of a fat Flintstones book with a scene of Fred in the top corner. In the course of the flip, Fred picks up some balls and juggles until at the end, he drops them, they roll off the page and he exits after them. At least that's supposed to happen. As I would near the end of the book, without enough pages at the end to squeeze between my thumb and forefinger, the final frames poop out and have little impact and feel like a real fizzle of an ending. At least in this case, this book contained a comic with the flip element as an added bonus, but in the years since then I have found books whose sole purpose is to be animated and still the final frames poop out. Has no one thought to add an extra 20 blank pages so story can reach it's dramatic conclusion dramatically? I regularly pick up these books and expect this to have been rectified and am yet to be appeased.

Wont someone leave some spare pages?

Finally, I give you the rubber vagina. In fact now that I think of it, my awareness of this particular problem may predate all the others I have mentioned. My friend had received a catalogue from Adam and Eve, an adult toy store, which I found it laying around in her apartment. While I marvelled at the detail that went into so many of the devices, I was struck by a realistic vagina model. A far cry from the blow up doll (do the holes in those have seams? I've always wondered about that because I imagine they would and that it would hurt to rub one's wiener against plastic seams) this realistic looking vagina could be plugged in to warm it up, and had incredibly realistic detail in regards to the anatomy with a springy labia and starry anus which was also hygienically one-way functional and from what I have described so far, this should sound to you like the height of craftsmanship in vaginal duplication. It almost is. The piece is, I'm guessing, about 12 inches/30 centimeters across. The piece, after being so detailed, appears to have been finished off by someone who never had, nor had any desire to have sex with a woman at all. The side of the hips and buttocks are flat. The device just ends sharply on the sides. I would imagine that someone going to the trouble and expense of obtaining such a realistic piece of ass might want to grab it by the sides, imagine it's a real round ass, close their eyes, grit their teeth and bone away at it. While the reviews of the device are mostly positive and no-one complains about the dead ends, for years I have been overcome by this huge oversight in this design.

I know not everything can be perfect, nor do I expect it to be, but I feel like in all these cases that zero thought was put into the full and final experience but people whose job it is to take care of these details.