Wherein I Use Summer for Lesson Planning

I'm afraid I've become mature.

Well, mature-er.

My friends and loved ones have been noticing the disturbing signs of change for a while. "You're always working," they say. "I know Friday nights are tough for you, but..." they wheedle. "You've mellowed," they point out.

Mellowed. Like some sort of food product left in the cellar too long; I've probably also gotten stinkier, but that's for another post. This mellow, thing, though - I don't like it. I used to have an edge! I was so angry about ridiculous things! I used to hurt my throat yelling when we went out at night, and then, to rest my voice, I would go climb a tree or run around the block. For years, Gerard was sure that his death would be directly related to me yelling at some burly stranger and him having to defend me.

Lately, though, I've given up on aggressively stating my opinions about where large strangers should be sitting (not on the subway steps!) or standing (not in the doorway, fool!). Maybe it was becoming a teacher, or maybe it was just me getting older (although, no matter how many times I tell my students that I am astonishingly, creakingly old, I am not really in the vicinity even of middle-agedness), but my attempts to correct people's unacceptable behaviors have become much more didactic, and less rageful and insane. Because I have not entirely given up on having OPINIONS, Gerard still slightly fears the wrath of strangers, but he no longer believes that I am going to get him beaten with clubs.

Wherein I hate on oft-used English phrases

I am so over the term, "Like a fish out of water."

I don't know if all of you have had the extensive icthyologous experience that I have, so I'm just gonna tell you: A fish out of water is dead. It's not "like" anything, except maybe something that flops sadly on its side for a few minutes before expiring.

Really, the only way I can see it working as a simile is:  "He was shot in the stomach, and, for a brief moment, as his life flashed before his eyes, he was like a fish out of water. Then, when he died, he was like a fish who had been out of water for too long. Only his eyes weren't so buggy." Morbid, but possibly effective.

Birds

I like birds because they always look pissed off:

Harumph

Hrmm

It's like they think someone is always trying to put one over on them.

Oh NO

I used to think that owning an umbrella meant I was a grown-up.

In my defense, it was an extremely rad umbrella: an impressively spring-loaded implement in a mature, steely-gray.  I was a freshman in college, and I wrote a whole essay about it (for fun, by the way, just on my computer one day. Aside from being stupid, I was also a mega-dork. Not like now, when I write in a BLOG which is so very very different from an essay in a Word Doc.). I loved this umbrella so much, that I had a recurring nightmare that it would be taken from me at an airport security gate, robbing me of my very obvious super-adulthood.

Eventually, I realized that when you eat all of your meals in a cafeteria - and two-thirds of said meals consist of cereal and soft-serve ice cream - you are not an adult. But the foolishness did not end there.

I then moved on to thinking that cleaning your own bathroom (occasionally) marked the true gateway to adulthood. I laughed at my former, umbrella-revering self as I swept the tiles of the sorority house bathroom. Of course, that was also the period of my life when I thought that building wizard staffs from cans of cheap beer and then puking into bushes was a great way to spend my Saturday nights. This made me a TOTALLY FUN (well, until the puking) person, but maybe not a particularly grown-up-type person.

Now, though, I think I have cracked the true code of adulthood: I have run out of things to be angry about. The magic of youth, wherein I could rattle off 300 word tirades about a new HORRIBLY STUPID THING THAT SHOULD NEVER EXIST each week, has scattered like a pile of glitter confetti in a windstorm (or some other sad simile...). I have left that magical land behind and zoomed straight to old-crotchety-person-who-complains-about-the-same-thing-over-and-over-again-hood.

And you, dear reader, are left saying, "Yes, Great Auntie Thelaurenbell, we know the New York Times is full of idiots - you told us that 800 times!" and "People are annoying! Especially when they are doing crazy math and somehow 4 of them manage to take up 10 subway seats! Yes! Is it time for your nap?" 

So here's the thing: how to reclaim that halcyon era when, every time I left my house, a new thing so enraged me that I had to scream it to the Internets? Is there a magical fountain of youth anger out there somewhere? Do I just have to start leaving my house more? Or (NO!) reading the Times again (I tried this morning - all I could get out of it was, "The French don't keep statistics on race? Umm...what? That seems silly." Silly! That's the best I could do!)?

This is what it means to be old. The sitcoms tell me that, usually, when people get old and boring, they lose interest in sex and going out to dinner, thus leading to hilarious, half-hour-long standoffs with their significant others. For me, the issue is far more personal, and more grave. Dinner? Sex? PSHAW - where is my righteous indignation?

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.

Hating...Foiled!

For MONTHS I have been mentally preparing a post concerning the inferiority of Post brand cereals -- how their Raisin Bran is but a poor cardboard imitation of the delicious raisinness and brandtasticocity that is Kellogg's; how their so-called "shredded wheat" (heh, creative name guys. real clever.) wants so badly to be Frosted Mini Wheats but is certainly not; how Fruity Pebbles are just...weird. Could they think of a less-appetizing shape for a cereal? It looks like the dandruff flakes of some horrible Red17/ascorbic acid monster. Blurgh.

Today, however, you, dear readers, were robbed of my masterpiece in the medium of derision.

Today, I experienced one of my top 18 breakfast cereal moments, and, though it pains me, I must credit Post for this breakthrough.

I was at the grocery store, getting my usual spaghetti sauce and beer (...), when I decided that I might also like some solid foods -- preferably of the breakfast variety. I went to the ceral aisle with a craving right on the tip of my tongue (where a food craving should be) for something sweet, but not too sweet. Good wet or dry. Not too small or too crumbly. It was a very complex craving.

In spite of my many many misgivings, I chose the latest offering from those chuckleheads over at Post: Shredded Wheat with Strawberries.

Dudes, I cannot even explain to you how delicious this stuff is. The taste may have been enhanced by the fact that I was hungry enough to consume a small donkey, but I think this stuff has got legs. Tiny, bite-size shredded wheat squares, fake white sugar coating stuff, actual freeze-dried strawberry bits...I mean, it's NO Cracklin' Oat Bran (greatest cereal of all time, hands down), but damn.

Of course, you can trust a world-class ruiner of breakfast like Post to keep such satisfying experiences at a minimum. When I looked at the site to check the name of the life-changing cereal (and then felt really stupid when 'that shredded wheat-y one with the strawberry bits' turned out to be 'Shredded Wheat with Strawberries'), I happened upon a mother lode of morning food atrocities that Post is unleashing on the world:

"Dino S'mores Pebbles:

Pebbles cereal introduces Dino S'mores Pebbles! Great s'mores flavor served up in fun Dinosaur Bone, Marshmallowy Boulder and Chocolatey Nugget shapes. Just like Cocoa and Fruity Pebbles, it's low in fat, cholesterol free, and has 10 essential vitamins and minerals. All of this brought to you by the Flintstone's fun-loving dinosaur pet: Dino!"

Biggest problem here = "Marshmallowy Boulder." Do not feed me oxymorons for breakfast, Post!

"LiveActive Cereal:

New LiveActive Cereal from Post is made with whole grain wheat and inulin, a prebiotic fiber, to help promote digestive health. The best part? It tastes great!"

Breakfast to make you poo. I guess it's a good idea, but...ew.

"Shredded Wheat with Strawberries:

I have deleted their description because all you need to know is that this is delicious.

"Chocolate HoneyComb:

Honeycomb cereal introduces Chocolate Honeycomb! A new Honeycomb cereal with a delicious chocolate flavor. Just like Honeycomb, it's an excellent source of whole grain – 16 grams per serving*, has 10 vitamins and minerals and 0g of trans fat. Of course it has the BIG Honeycomb size for the biggest chocolate bite in breakfast!"

Wait for it...

"Honey Bunches of Oats Chocolate:

Announcing new Honey Bunches of Oats with Real Chocolate Clusters cereal! The perfect combination of crispy flakes and crunchy oat clusters with chocolate baked right in. It's a good source of whole grain - 10 grams per serving* and has 9 Essential Vitamins and Minerals. It's sweet, but not too sweet!"

A one-two punch of unnecessary chocolate! Thank you, Post.

I got the shakes -- hand me that paper

Anger is like my crack; I am horribly, painfully addicted. I love the way it feels coursing through my veins. It enervates me. It makes me cackle gleefully, and unlike other potentially life-damaging chemical addictions, it comes with absolutely no hangover. 

And that is why I cannot help reading the New York Times, no matter how insufferable it becomes. I am especially a fan of the Sunday Styles and, most particularly, the wedding section. It is the worst. 

Who Are These People? An actual kicker line from a one this week: "They discovered they lived only one block apart, which made it convenient for dating." If that's not a recipe for true love, I don't know what is. 

"Hey, you live here? I live here! OMG Let's bang!" 

If that were the real way of the world, don't you think I would have been in some interesting situations with the surly lesbians downstairs by now? Get real.

I wonder how these get written up. My theory is that it's something like a Mad Lib (okay, a form letter, for those of you who have progressed since middle school). You pay the Times whatever obscene amount of money you have to pay to get in there, they send you a questionnaire: Name an Ivy League School. Which brokerage firm employs you currently? Do your parents live in A) FL, B) Manhattan, or C) NJ (JK! we don't care about people who live in NJ!)? A company my father has been president of =  etc. Then they get those darling Times writers to just whip up one of their insightful and extremely well-phrased narratives. Voila -- the announcement of your special day looks just like everyone else's. Congratulations, you do fit in here.

Of course there are some that stand out: The couple who did not run a picture this week. Are they too poor? Or just really ugly? Where are your investigative journalists when you need them?

Another stand-out: those scallywags who were the main feature -- the best friends who ended up getting married. I was going to overlook the fact that they stole their romance from the plotline of every Julia Roberts movie ever, until they actually compared the bride TO JULIA ROBERTS. Smooth move, Freud. 

The worst part, though? The part that really inspired my utmost rage? The in-set picture on the featured couple was not a close-up of their faces, nor a photo of the ring, nor a crowd shot dancing. It was the groom's sneakers -- shiny black Converse. Because he's EDGY. 

Hey! Hey Guys! Do you see these? Do you see my "kicks" -- I am forever young! I am Virile! The Man can't hold ME down! Who wants to see me make out with Erin Brockovich over here?

If you can't wear big boy shoes to your own wedding, maybe it's time to re-think that whole life-long commitment thing -- it can get awfully tedious if you start counting when you're 14.  

I hope that next week features a wedding with a completely un-ironic Paris Hilton theme -- I'm going to need an even bigger hit to feed the addiction.

And speaking of on-the-spot come-backs...

(and posting more often): Sometimes I wonder if there is something wrong with the way I was raised. I can never seem to interact with crowds and strangers appropriately; even simple, human reflexes, like saying "hello" or "thank you" dry up in my throat. I often find myself whispering to people, or worse, mouthing things at them. Imagine if a giant goldfish came up to you -- a check-out girl at the grocery store -- you might nod encouragingly as the goldfish gulped away at the air, but in the end, you would never know if the poor thing wanted cash back or was just making small talk about the weather. 

I don't remember any dark moment of my childhood that might have led to this extreme form of social anxiety. Maybe I was secretly raised by evil gypsies, forced to travel the land and deliver sub-par stand-up routines each night of my young life, and I just repressed it like any other unpleasant memory. I doubt it. Perhaps I spent too much time staring at Jim, my fish, or playing with Ninja Turtle dolls, and, like a child raised by wolves, lost any need for language. I don't know. 

It's only important that I discover the cause of this problem so that I can cure it. My inability to speak to strangers has, aside from causing small annoyances like not being able to order in bars, really cut down on the amount of biting sarcasm and well-deserved citizen citations that I can dole out. 

Example: I was standing in line at the worst Dunkin Donuts in the world, when I felt this tapping on my shoulder. I ignore it because who taps people at 9 AM before they've had their coffee? Children? I don't talk to them. The tapping continues, so I turn, and it's a full-grown lady, who tells me, "I could take your wallet right out of your purse!" I froze. Was this a threat? She went on, however, to tell me that she could see my wallet sitting inside my very large purse and that, if she were a thief, she could have grabbed it and been gone. 

I wanted to respond that the joke would be on her because then she'd be stuck with a raggedy wallet, an out-dated Georgia driver's license and a gift certificate to the GAP. But I couldn't tell her that. Nor could I tell her, "Don't worry -- this is just the decoy wallet, I keep my real wallet hidden from criminals like yourself." All I could do was make big eyes at her, nod and remove the wallet from my purse -- thereby keeping it safe in my grip of steel. That story isn't nearly as amusing as the one I imagined -- the one where I had a voice! 

 

There are many people in this world who need my particular brand of tough love. That woman needed someone to tell her that, while she though she was doing a public service, she was really just annoying me and providing fodder for a blog post. The asshole who sits on the stairs in the subway station needs to be told that stairs are for walking on.  The drunk ex-fratty who thinks that massaging your arm as he yells inanities at you will help him get you home from the bar needs to be told that I will stab him if he doesn't stop. If I have no voice, how can I tell these poor, misguided souls that what they are doing is, in fact uncalled-for and, also, that it makes everyone want throw them in a very deep pit? They need these warnings, and I need to cure this serious affliction. 

Suggestions, dear readers, are welcome. 

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.

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.