UGH

OF COURSE GUY "I'm only on a cooking show because I'm fat and will do anything" FIERI HAWKS SOMETHING CALLED THE "DRAGON DAGGER."

Dragon dagger. Dragon. Dagger. It's like one of those words that, the more you say it, the less it makes sense, until eventually you get to the point where it's just gobbledygook - only in this case you only have to say it once.

By the way, this knife is for tomatoes.

I know tomatoes are the fiercest of the secret fruits that are often confused for vegetables, but seriously. You don't need to intimidate them by painting your knife to look like a motorcycle. Tomatoes are not that hard to cut; nor are they easily fooled.

Dragon Dagger, brought to you by the guy who thinks "Knuckle Sandwich" is an appropriate name for a brand. That same guy also thinks that knives should resemble your fanciest Matchbox racecar. Let's all take a second to hate that guy.

WEIRD!

"i don't want to change my fucking password, assholes" does not produce any results when you search Google Help!

What kind of help is that?

Surely someone has had the exact same problem before and has sought to correct Google's unreasonable assumption that, just because my password is what they would deem "weak" (i beg to differ! it is AWESOME, the opposite of weak!), I would want to change it.

Seriously, Goog, who is trying to break into thelaurenbell.blogspot.com? Who? I scoff at the idea.

If anyone were to break into my account, I can only assume it would be to update my blog for me -- something that i am sure we would all appreciate. Thank you, Google, for foiling the good, secret deeds of others by being the opposite of serviceable.

How I Amuse Myself at Work

An actual e-mail that I received at work:

Lauren,

25 years ago the quintessential homemaker was June Cleaver, but today it could very well be Bobby Flay—a fact that seems obvious in today’s gender blurred generation (check out your local grocer over the weekend: over 40% of its shoppers are men buying cooking or cleaning supplies).

So why aren’t household brands marketing to men? A special report in Adweek examines the issues and facts. Among the highlights:

· A A recent survey found men neck-and-neck with women in purchasing household items including cleaning products, home décor, child-care products and cooking utilities.

.......Wonkity wonkwonk blaghier sdkhaohf;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;

Don't worry readers! I wouldn't really make you read the whole thing! Instead, I'll break it down into bite-size bits of rancor (Ranc-os! Like a fun snack!), just for you:

"25 years ago the quintessential homemaker was June Cleaver, but today it could very well be Bobby Flay..."

Holy hell! Mentioning Bobby Flay in the very first sentence? Janice (I've decided that's the PR person's name), why would you do that to me? Personal biases aside, I don't think anyone EVER has thought, "Oh, Bobby Flay -- that's a freakin' great homemaker guy." Alton Brown, perhaps, but Grilly McSmug over there, I think not.

"today’s gender blurred generation"

Jan, I don't even know what this means.

"companies tend to eschew marketing to men"

I just wanted to point out here that Jan used the word "eschew." Someone's been using her SAT prep flashcards...

"testosterone appealing aspects: emphasizing size, power and length – even for vacuum cleaners or cooking utensils."

Heh. Phallic references. Fine, Jan, I'll forgive the Flay reference -- I'm kind of enjoying this.

"In a 2007 survey on relationships, participants rated 'sharing household chores' as a top priority for a healthy couple, with only 'faithfulness' and 'a happy sexual relationship' ranking above."

Annnnd I totally take that back. Not enjoyable. Are you kidding me, Jan? Priorities = 1) security, 2) orgasms and 3) only vacuuming half the time?

"The days of froufrou sheets and frilly pillowcases are gone..."

Hi. I'm a woman. I enjoy ruffly things, the color pink, and being repressed -- just like all you other lady people out there!

"Former New York Times media writer Andrew Adam Newman presents new data..."

And she ends it with a zinger. The Times? Seriously, Janice? Did you just build a little window into my brain, see everything I loathe and create a press release around it for your own amusement? We are done, Jan -- done.

thelaurenbell's List of Things that should Just Stop Trying...

...because they are so painfully bad:

2) The Rite-Aid (Rite-aid? RITE-AID?) on the corner of 5th St. and 7th Ave.

You all thought I had forgotten this thread, didn't you? You thought the heading on the first go-around was just a clever ploy for bashing the NYT, and, well, it was. BUT no matter how mind-numbingly awful the Times is; no matter how far ahead on the list it lies; no matter how much like the sun the badness of the Times is, in comparison to the other, wee, inconsequential celestial bodies in our scale-model-of-the-universe metaphor for awfulness, there are some other things that manage to similarly melt my face off by force of sheer incompetence and wtf-osity. 

One of these things is the neighborhood Rite-Aid.

Even disregarding, momentarily, the stacks upon stacks of never-unpacked/shelved random items (a pile of Heineken mini-kegs once prevented me from getting in the door -- a good situation to stumble upon in my apartment, a bad one when I really need new deodorant), the Rite-Aid stands out as a blackened pit of retail despair. 

There is only ever one person manning the 4-register counter. Yes, other people do work there, but they manage to stay far away from any place where they might actually be needed by the customers. There is one particularly charming young lad who sees it as his duty to hide -- freakin' HIDE -- in the lipstick/ladies' hair products aisle. I have been leered at more times than I can remember by this little turd, and still, every time I turn the corner, he manages to freak me out. 

What is he doing back there? Does he have an undying passion for categorizing each color of lipstick by a different strategy every morning -- alphabetically, by color family, by the stereotype of womanhood for which they are named (flowers here, shades of sunlight/sunset here)? If that's the case, than he has my utmost sympathy for his lipstick affliction (coincidentally the name of my grrrl rock band), and I beseech the RITE-AID, to bequeath at least one "employee of the month" plaque to him each and every 30-day period, without fail, for his unswerving dedication. 

As a matter of fact, the lipstick man is so focused on the incredible task set before him each morning that he can't be bothered to help me when I moved beyond the narrow scope of his interests and into the razor section. This is unfortunate because the razors happen to be locked up -- a situation that forces me, again, to ask the RITE-AID some serious questions, as though it is a sentient being. These questions are along the lines of, "RITE-AID, what sort of rasorial crime could be so horrible as to merit imprisonment in your dank and dusty aisles?" 

There are a great number of expensive products in a RITE-AID: fancy face lotions infused with diamonds and the blood of lambs, various barely-legal medications, giant vats of Flintstones vitamins, etc. -- which I can understand wanting to protect against thieving little hands, but a $12 pack of disposable Schicks? Really? Asking Lips mcGee for help in getting those out is just asking to be inched closer to "please get the KY Jelly behind the counter" in the leering spectrum. I don't need that.

Foiled in my attempt to get razors on my last, hellish visit to the RITE-AID (and, yeah, I keep wanting to make a WRONG-AID joke, but that would be embarrassing for everyone involved), I went for the simplest of products: a band-aid. Feeling cheap and surly, I went for the basic RITE-AID brand of "sheer bandages." Upon getting these "sheer bandages" home and attempting to put one on my skin, I discovered that "sheer" in RITE-AID language, means "kinda darkish-tannish and DEFINITELY OPAQUE." Interesting. I don't really mind non-sheer bandages (though they do make it hard to discreetly cover the disgusting random infection that my elbow is currently cultivating), but it's the lying, RITE-AID, that really disappoints me.

thelaurenbell's List of Things that should Just Stop Trying...

...because they are so painfully bad.

1) the New York Times:

I was perusing the New York Times this afternoon (read: trying desperately to burn time at work. Why is a work day 8 hours long? Doesn't that seem excessive to anyone else?), and an article about the latest Starbucks opening -- in Jackson Heights, Queens -- caught my eye.

I know it's a stupid topic. That's why I wanted to read it. You don't spend your futzing-around-at-work time reading about the latest breakthroughs in applied physics, as they relate to the economies of third-world countries with lengthy and confusing histories, do you?

My choice of reading material doesn't matter. What matters here is the Times' choice of writing material. 

Now presenting New York Times: The Blog: A Very Special Episode in Phraseology:

From the "City Room" NYT blog: "the debate has been debated on the local blogs like Jacksonheightslife.com and JH Families.com."

Really? The debate has been debated? Not, i don't know, raging, highlighted, represented, or anything that makes sense without using the same freaking word, Mr. NYT? Or, how about an interesting verb -- why can't the debate be gargled or bamboozled or passionately ravished, if we're not really thinking through this whole verb-usage thing? I demand answers.

And another thing (I will never tire of arguing the argument that the times is shite...[see what I did there?]): "the local blogs like Jacksonheights.com..." Is it me, or is something about this little journalistic nugget just terribly, incredibly awkward -- like elderly Uncle Jack showing up at your 14th birthday party...in a speedo? 

Hey! Hey! NYT, have you heard about what all these kids are doing? These Web Logs? They're somewhere on the internets! You believe that?

Why can't they just be "local blogs like J.." or "the local blogs, J...?" There are too many words here, no? We live in the age of speed and concision, NYT; now stop hurting my brain with your inferiority.

News Update, corrected

So I may have been a little hasty in my last posting. Eliot Spitzer (who, among other character flaws, doesn't believe in the wonders of extraneous first-name consonants) may ruin a hell of a lot of things: people's faith in elected officials, his marriage, Lauren Bell's personal time with Alex Trebec, etc. etc., BUT a single man, no matter how rich or powerful or stupid cannot possibly ruin everything. That would be ridiculous. It would take at least 5 of ESpitz and a smattering of other people with similarly ridiculous nicknames (Speidi anyone?) to truly bring about the end of civilization as we know it. 

There are, however, some other unsavory characters vying for the title of "everything-ruiner" -- much to the collective relief of the four horsemen of the apocalypse (let's face it, the waiting game must be getting pretty old for them by now).

One of these responsible and hard-working souls is someone with whom you may be familiar. His name is Chef Bobby Flay. I believe he had the "Chef" legally added as insurance after Rachel Ray beat him on an Iron Chef showdown (thank you, Wikipedia, for that priceless nugget). There's nothing more damaging to your chef reputation that being shown up by the Triscuit Queen.

Everything about this man rubs me the wrong way. And, as if offending me by his very being weren't enough, he manages to smear his personal brand of horrendousness on approximately 19 different Food Network shows, thus making himself inescapable to those of you who, like me, insist on watching only the FN if Jeopardy is not on. 

An illustrative example: "Throw Down."

Are you aware of this atrocity? "Throw Down" is a television program in which Flay, bored with annoying just me, tricks people -- tricks them -- into thinking they are being showcased on the FN (yeah, I'm going to keep calling it that) for their personal recipes: Edna's Texas Chili, etc.

Then, he sits around in the Food Network test kitchen and demands that his soulless minions concoct a better recipe of the same ilk. He shows up to a party full of poor, unsuspecting Edna's family and friends and tells her, "No, I'm not here to honor you. I'm here to potentially humiliate you...THROW DOWN!" He might also say things like "BOO-YAH" and "Oh SNAP" -- he's that awful.

The minions, bearing the specially-prepared recipe, descend upon Edna's party like a plague of locusts. Snooty guest judges sweep in from secret side doors. Giant Mao-esque banners featuring Flay's all-mocking mug unfurl across the kitchen.

Bobby Flay (which I first typed as "Booby Fly." And then I laughed. Because I'm nine years old.), trying to figure out why you do this every week makes my head hurt. Edna has been making her Texas Chili for 97 years, and everyone has already agreed that it is the best. Why must you rob her of her hard-earned mantle of good-cookery? Is it because Rachel Ray stole yours?

Well, I don't care, Flay. What you're doing is just wrong. Write Rachel a nice letter asking for your mantle back. Release your minions from their miserable bondage and stop surprising people. Please, start putting your time towards something productive, and not encouraging the destruction of all goodness. You are upsetting me. You are upsetting Edna. And somehow, I'm sure, Trebek has heard about this and is shedding a single, phoenix-like tear. 

Organization is the Key

I have an official "Shit List." A friend of mine gave it to me, as a method for dealing with what she lovingly (?) refers to as my "rage disorder."
The Shit List is a fill-in-the-blank sort of memo pad, its purpose etched out in massive block letters across the top. The color scheme on this little stationary gem is brown on tan. Cute, right?
Aaaaanyways, the Shit List helps the confused and angry spell out a special little haiku of hatred for any occasion. Anything you might need to know when stoking a good, strong, ridiculous grudge is laid out: "offender," "violation," "severity," "plan of attack," along with the minutiae of where and when someone dared to offend you -- so it will be easier to track them down and punish them. There's even a check-box for pay-back, so that, with all the justice you're handing out, you can remember who you've already gotten and avoid double-dipping with the long arm of righteousness.
This thing is a God-send.
I'm angry at someone pretty much every hour on the hour -- a veritable weather channel update of rage. Before I received this miraculous gift, however, I was not organized with my hating. I'd be doing really well, focusing my death-ray glare on talks-too-loudly-in-public guy, and then, without warning, lady who can't walk in a straight line EVEN THOUGH THERE ARE LINES BUILT INTO THE SIDEWALK would steal all my precious precious anger forces.

Irrational rage is hard to keep up, people! And woe betide the crooked walker (or loud talker, or person taking up too much space on the subway) who would unwittingly (everything they do is unwitting, the jerks) turn my wrath upon him. Back in the good old days of unfocused, under-organized, manic anger, the poor sap would have received the double whammy of me being angry for whatever he was doing, as well as my anger at being distracted before I could show my full disgust at the previous unwitting jerk.

No longer.

Not only does this list allow me to be more efficient in my hating -- producing a single, laser-like beam of incensed-ness with each new entry on the list, it also keeps the fires of my displeasure burning longer.

Before, I would have been angry at the girl wearing a Fashion Institute hoodie (rather akin to wearing a PETA-brand dalmation puppy coat, only much worse-looking) for only the brief moments that we passed on the street. If I had thought hard enough and hadn't been distracted by my commute home (the subway being a traveling gypsy caravan of ire-inducements), I might have been able to let my anger steep for the next hour or so, but eventually, she, like so many others before, would have shuffled from my mind and gone on her ignorant, hoodie-swathed way.

Would have, but with the List, no one is safe.

Hoodie girl is just the first entry. Now, when I feel that horrible cold blankness in my heart that comes after an extended period without the warmth of pure outrage to power me, I need only glance at the little brown notepad siting on my desk: "Offender: Girl on Street [stranger]; Violation: Wearing FIT hoodie; Plan of Attack: angry bafflement," to return focus and meaning to my life.
It's almost enough to make me smile.