  August 18, 2002 Can anyone explain to me why some people don�t floss? That has to be the grossest thing, bar none. All of you non-flossers and part-time flossers need to pick up some good quality dental tape and GO AT IT.
I don�t care if your gums are torn to shreds that first time and you think you�ll never get the taste of blood out of your mouth � take it as your punishment for being so incredibly disgusting. I mean, why not just quit wiping your ass? It�s such a nuisance! Just do your toilet business and pull �em up! Flossing should be done at least once a day. And if you�re not flossing, it�s a safe bet that your tongue�s a bacterial breeding ground, so make scrubbing it part of your routine, too.
I�m not going to gently encourage you by telling you that flossing will help you keep your teeth into your old age, or that once you do it regularly it is not painful, nor inconvenient. I�m just going to tell you what a freaking slob you are if you haven�t picked those tidbits of last night�s chicken dinner out of your choppers yet. Ugh. Go floss. Now. Don�t come back until you�re done. Another thing that�s bugging me lately are all those oh-so-PC comercials with the tagline �The More You Know�.
Tonight a no-name actress soberly informed me that I need to be careful not to tell ethnic jokes around my children, because even jokes teach hate. If anything makes me want to bust out into gaudy caricatures of ethnic stereotypes out of sheer defiance, it�s shit like this. Let me do a little jive talkin� and watermelon eatin�. Perhaps the �Lazy Latino� napping under a sombrero or the moustache-twirling, pasta-eating Eye-talian. It�s the same reaction I get when I see those �Truth� commercials with all the clever teens performing their open-your-eyes, anti-smoking pranks. All I want is a carton of high-tar filterless coffin nails after one of those fucking spots. It�s not that I disagree with whatever they�re trying to tell me, necessarily, but rather that I refuse to be told what to do or think or be or want by some faceless entity that wants to mold me into a convenient, pliable package.
Fuck you. The world is more interesting with slightly demented old men who grab the asses of diner waitresses. I want the surprise of hearing the guy who�s trying to sell me a lawn mower bust out with something totally un-PC, like how �the Orientals always expect to be waited on first, no matter who was here before �em.� I much prefer the world where people are out with all their quirks and prejudices and hang-ups than one where everybody keeps it all locked inside behind thin smiles and non-threatening, carefully chosen words.
Go ahead and make that blonde joke, you putz! I don�t need some TV commercial to shelter me from the fact that some people are always going to think less of me because I am (fill in the blank). Female, Caucasian, Catholic, Blonde�whatever. I can take it, fer crissakes! Just be ready for me to do some dishin� out, too.
Now, before you get your panties in a twist, let me state my 21st century disclaimer: I do not encourage anyone to engage in stereotyping other human beings or doing anything that so obviously causes cancer. But why is it so hard for us to accept that stereotypes exist because so many people literally bring them to life, leaping off the page in vivid Technicolor? For example, I hold women to a higher standard because I am a woman. Nothing enrages me more effectively than to see some dumb broad with nothing more to offer the world than a peek at her fake tits. I went looking for an old work incident that I was certain I�d written about, but I was unable to find anything on the subject.
It was a true incident where a co-worker had come back from an automotive union meeting (read: boondoggle) with photos of all the old coots pawing some dumbass woman on the beach. Picture Donatella Versace with melon-sized implants in a bright yellow latex bikini. This woman dressed herself like a piece of meat, allowed strangers to grope her in broad daylight, and removed her top for pictures in exchange for a couple of drinks and a side of cheese sticks . I would happily execute that woman myself, for lowering the standards of expectation for all women everywhere in such a singular fashion.
And don�t give me any bullshit about how her actions don�t affect me. Those perverts came back from their trip with still more �proof� that women are to be treated like nothing more than a place to put your dick, and their crappy treatment of any woman who crosses their path is further reinforced and strengthened. I did and do pay the price for little Miss Side O� Cheese Sticks. Anyway, I wish I could�ve found my original writing. But my little trip down memory lane did yield some laughs. I have a few files left of old work-related rants, and some of them are priceless.
Well, at least to me they are. They give you a little flavor for how I was dying a slow, agonizing death at Ford Motor Company, and give you a giggle at the same time! Let�s see if you agree: * This one�s kind of long. Some names have been vaguely changed to protect even those who don�t deserve it. �I can hear Steve over the wall right now, bragging to some poor bastard about his spawn. Apparently, Little Stephanie or Stefanie or Stephany or however they spell the child's name is, in fact, a genius!
I know, you probably thought your kids were smart - but she's far more advanced - trust him on this one. And, (Surprise, surprise! ) she really loves her dah-dah. She walks all the way down the stairs and across the living room all by herself to greet him when he comes home from work, and she's only two months old! OK, OK�so I 'm exaggerating a bit on this one, but I swear that's exactly how he comes off. If only Buzz were here so they could get into a "whose-dick-is-bigger" contest over it. Then the fur would really fly! Speaking of Buzz, I always knew he was an idiot, but until he sat across the half-wall from me, I would never have guessed what a dyed-in-the-wool moron he was.
His bullshit factory is on a twenty-four hour shift, and he's been this way for so long that he actually believes the lies he tells. Unfortunately, behavior like this is not unusual in humans - most of us know at least one person who engages in such self-deception. What makes Buzz a rare and exotic specimen is the outlandishness of his fabrications - he really goes all out!
According to him, he's a martial arts expert, a successful businessman on the side, a personal friend to celebrities, overseer of several volunteer efforts, a firearms aficionado, an experienced hunter and guide, and all of his closest buddies are rich ("They're younger than me and they're multi-billionaires! "), powerful, masculine men. In reality, he's a thrice-divorced loser whose several children will probably spend decades in therapy resolving their cosmic issues with sharing his chromosomes. The gold mine is in his choice of detail, as they reveal more about him than he could know. For example, the celebrities with whom he hob-nobs are not the Brad Pitt variety.
No, he hangs with the Ted Nugents of the world - and, suddenly, his low-class core is open for the entire world to see. Your heart could break for how pathetic his fantasy world is, if he weren't so goddamned irritating. The subject of people who, by all rights, deserve your sympathy and compassion but lose it by virtue of some other character flaw is rather timely.
It was just yesterday when I narrowly escaped a menacing cripple who tried to run me over on her motor scooter smack dab in the middle of the office. No fooling! Now, I know what you're thinking - "Michelle! Such horrible talk I simply cannot condone! I highly doubt a poor handicapped person was seeking to mow you down in front of witnesses! Your imagination is running away with you! " Nevertheless, the truth remains. Elle is apparently without the use of her legs, which necessitates the scooter.
She's of indeterminate age, somewhere between thirty-five and fifty, and she wears these tinted glasses that further obscure her expression. On one level, she seems incredibly bitter about her paralysis. She is, for instance, incapable of uttering three sentences without drawing your attention directly to the fact that you can walk and she can't. (And, no, I'm not exaggerating this time - I think I've proven that I can admit it when I am, so trust me, damn it!
) But then there's this other element of perverse glee over her predicament. She likes watching your discomfort when she twists every conversation around to the subject of her disability. It's her way of making you foot the bill for her rotten luck, I think. Of course, her other tactic is that fucking scooter. She's always hauling ass down the hallway, darting out of doors wearing the slightest hint of a smirk.
I think it's because she'd like to make the rest of us scooter-bound, too - and I don't give a rat's rear if you think I'm evil for saying so. I'd like to nickname her "Wheels" and call it loudly and jovially across the building. Everyone makes the same face the instant she comes up in conversation - the "That bitch! " expression, so I'm not alone. She came tooling into the office the other day, looking for the plant manager.
She pointedly steered herself into the door and sighed dramatically upon finding the office empty. Since Deb and I are practiced in the art of paying no mind, she was forced to interrupt our conversation to be acknowledged (although interrupting without apology was certainly not a difficult stretch for her). She bypassed animated in favor of agitated from the get-go, babbling in indignant tones something about a corporate project to get handicapped lifts installed in vehicles for customers at every assembly plant, and as part of the deal she was supposed to have our plant personnel install one in her personal vehicle!
This was utterly preposterous - how could company resources be used for personal property? While it wasn't as though I hadn't heard stories like that before - cars being fixed, carpenters working on people's houses on company overtime and what not, it seemed to me that these things had happened 'under cover of darkness', so to speak. This broad wanted the plant manager's blessing to do the job right on the floor! Deb made repeated attempts to stem the flow of her prattle by asking, simply, "Do you want to speak to the Plant Manager?
" She shoo-flyed these efforts - she was going to make us pay the standard bill! She'd see to it! We weren't going to get away without a healthy dollop of discomfort, or, by God, her name wasn't Elle Everly! But I digress - the point is, I think my disdain for this manipulation must've been as apparent as it always is, because she began to monkey with the controls of her hell-cart. (She should call that fucking thing "Christine", if you ask me. ) She would fiddle the control stick forward.
I took a few steps back to be polite, thinking she wanted a better angle to speak to Deb. She took back about half of the distance she'd advanced. Again, she zips forward. I made no effort to disguise my irritation as I retreated yet again. This continued for about five or six tries, her with the two-buzz-forward-and-one-buzz-back, until I am literally behind Deb's desk.
It is then that she smirks and announces "I'm not going to hit you. You keep backing up like I'm going to hit you. " I wanted to reply "Disappointed, aren't you? " but it was Deb who nailed her: "I'm telling you, if you hit her she'll hit you back! " I could breathe again.� * This is one that I made a transcript of, because it�s actually a couple of phone messages.
A brief intro: We all had to attend one of those awful business off-site team-building, money-saving bullshit sessions, and by this time, my patience for such things had long disappeared. I had called my life-saving buddy and co-worker, Deb, to rant�and she laughed so hard that she sent my own messages right back to my voice mail so I could hear just how enraged I sounded. I had to record them, and I think they come off pretty clear, even in boring old print. � Message #1 Deb says: Hi - I just wanted you to hear this (laughter) because you'll probably forget the mood you were in by Monday, so I just want you to listen to this, OK?
(laughter) Maybe you won't, maybe you'll remember it, but I just want you to hear it, OK? Michelle says: I just want you to know what I have just endured - I just sat through an hour of these motherfuckers like Cannoli and Trollovich and Buzz and Trollski talking about how change has to start with them and they're committed to making XYZ Operations a great place for people to work and all of this fucking bullshit like that.
I - I'm telling you, I could feel my humanity ebbing away as I sat there. So brace yourself - I don't know who's in your group, but let me tell you, prepare yourself to have a truckload of shit crammed down your throat. I can't even believe my�ah�I�my brain is still functioning. I swear to God, I'm so fucking bitter I can't even stand it. Fucking brainwashing - they might as well hire the Scientologists to conduct this fuckin' review. I'm not even kidding. (Sigh. ) I'll call ya later. Bye. Message #2 Deb says: Hi - Here you go again - you have to hear this�these are like Kodak moments - (laughter). I have to capture them. "Rolf had shat upon himself" (laughter). Oh, God! That baby's lookin' better and better in'it?
Hold on - here we go again� Michelle says: The saga continues! I got home at shortly after 11 to find that Rolf had shat upon himself and was covered in it and so was the room. I - I'm telling you, I can't fucking win - it's getting to the point where it's�it's�it would be funny, if it were happening to somebody else. So, anyway, I call Eugene in desperation, asking him if he can come home and help me and I spent in excess of the hour cleaning up shit.
There's no way I can tell [the plant manager] this because, you know, it�ll sound so stupid and I'm gonna have to endure his nasty look or snide comment when I walk into this fucking nightmare late! Can you believe this shit? Aaaah! All right� Have a wonderful weekend I hope I do, too and�ah� I'm sure I'll talk to you.
OK?
Bye.� * OK, last one and then I�ll close this monster blog post. Sorry for the unfinished nature of these rants, but I often wrote only what I could in a few minutes before I had to do something else. Back then, I had to strike while the iron was smokin�. �It's the second to last work day of the year, and this place is half asleep. L, the union president and G, his 'second-in-command', just showed up to make their presence known to J, the new plant manager.
They met on the threshold of J's office and L and G looked exactly like a couple of poorly-dressed Mafia goons, muscling their way in as the little Englishman backed up. It seemed a harmless encounter, but if body language were a wrestling match, the union just scored big time. Adding insult to the injury of my boredom are the lilting sounds of Celine Dion from over the partition.
Apparently, she's everything she is because someone loved her. I find myself wishing that the person in question could be held criminally responsible. Perhaps if she hadn't been loved so damned much, I wouldn't have to hear her "If-It's-Worth-Doing,-It's-Worth-Overdoing" school of singing. Certainly she's not the only popular female singer guilty of using song as merely an opportunity to show us exactly what her vocal cords can do (never mind if all those histrionics and acrobatics are appropriate for the song or the occasion), but she and Mariah Carey are in a dead heat for most annoying chanteuse of all time. Here we go again - people wandering in because they want something. They shuffle over to Deb's desk (still occupied by Peggy), and, upon seeing it vacant (Peggy's out entertaining the troops, to be sure), shuffle over to me.
It's a testament to the strength of my bitchiness that each and every one of them hesitates before they approach me. I'm the first woman they see, and I'm blond (which apparently makes me more approachable, according to the statistics I read last night), so they figure I'm fair game for their incredibly dumb questions. I don't know who first said "There are no dumb questions", but they were wrong. There are as many dumb questions as there are dumb people to ask them.
I have great peripheral vision, so I never have to look up from what I'm doing to see them clearly. I can stare at my monitor and relish every second of their apprehension as they decide whether or not they want to approach someone like me, who's giving off "Go Away" vibes in tidal waves. They always approach. Not once has anyone thought about it, then turned away. (Perhaps it's not such a testament to my bitchiness, after all?
) Their query is usually secretarial in nature. Their mental equation must go something like: Woman + Typing = Secretary. Do I know where someone is right now? Can I tell them how to get to room so-and-so? Is the meeting in this conference room or that? I usually answer their question for them. If they're here to ask for their check, and Deb's not at her desk, I'll get it for them only to save her the hassle of getting it for them later. The sooner they're out of the room, the better. But since Deb's been on vacation, I absolutely refuse to answer any questions on Peggy's behalf, even the ones to which I know the answer.
Peggy - ah, Peggy. In a class all by herself. She's one of those pathetic women who define themselves solely on their appearance; who pride themselves on their inability to complete any task, no matter how basic, because they think it makes them all the more fetching to the male animal. She told us one day that a man in the plant had informed her that "you could be in Playboy, if it wasn't for your face". It was clear that she had missed the insulting nature of this comment entirely, and she was telling us in that voice she uses to kibbutz with the girls. The tone of this voice implied that she was disgusted by all these men who only think about sex, sex and more sex - but what she really wanted us to get was how tirelessly the men pursued her, how desirable she was and how they'd "eat the corn from her shit", as one such suitor had apparently told her.
It was a two-faced approach, remarkable in its transparency and the tragic ineptitude with which she acted out the drama of it all. Except for when duty called (i.e., a man walked up) and she had to be flirtatious, Peggy's face was usually sporting a surprised yet strained expression.
I always thought the grimace was borne of the clothes she strapped on. They were all painfully tight - I couldn't even imagine how she found the strength to get dressed every day. I could barely bring myself to put on anything with a discrete waist, and here she was - cinched, pinched and nailed down! Her skirts stopped four inches or less from Every Man's Land, and they were generally accessorized with a wide, stretchy belt.
Blouses invariably contained fat shoulder pads (which was supposed to make her waist seem tiny, but they really just emphasized her lower stomach pooch that comes with babies and/or middle age), some of which were designed with cut-outs over the upper chest or back (the better to see what color bra you're wearing, my dear!). These blouses still buttoned at the neck, lending a kind of dog collar impression that smacked of bondage. Her thin hair was teased into a spider-web chignon. Every atom of her seemed to want to wail in discomfort. She represents everything that drives me crazy about men and women. The fact that she's a nice person at heart only makes it worse.� That�s all for now. There�s more, to be sure. Maybe I�ll even post it. Lord knows I�ve been waiting to get it out for years, now.
Committing it to paper was not enough to salve those wounds. Anyhoo, be safe and practice excellent hygiene, kids. Or don�t, you freakin� grosser. I don�t care. That is all. 
