The Special People Club

Take out a pint of Tetley's . Pour it in a pint glass, and dump in a shot of Bulleit . Savour the flavour. Who needs dinner? Every beer's a sandwich. (note...I just typed "savor the flavor" and it looked wrong to me. I've officially crossed over.)

I was typing an email to my friend Tim, who has recently established the identity of "Big Hands" so he can comment here. As I clicked send, my iPod shuffled to Blister in the Sun by the Violent Femmes. Damn cosmic unconsciousness. And frankly, I think the cosmic unconsciousness is a little full of itself. I mean, we're already on volume four, not including when Doug wet himself, and it's only been two weeks.

And they're not even made out of curtains. I had shorts to match.

I believe I completed the New York Times Sunday Crossword today. We'll know tomorrow, but I can't find any mistakes and I have a letter in every spot. I'm breaking out the champagne.

I looked up from my desk and greeted Anouk, my Dutch colleague. I looked back at my computer, and instantly an email popped up from Holland.com advertising some of their hotels. Damn cosmic unconsciousness.

Cut up half an onion and some garlic. Put it in a pan with some hot olive oil and some Penzey's chicken taco seasoning. Added a little cayenne. Sauteed. Put about three cups of stock in there, added a frozen chicken breast and let it poach. Shredded up the chicken, added a jar of salsa. It makes a passable soup. Who knew?

Are those or are those not the coolest culottes ever? (That's rhetorical, FYI.)

It's a good thing I'm not the sort to snicker in juvenile amusement at people with accents, because today I had a supplier visit that was like sitting in the Enchanted Tiki Room at Disneyland. Belgian, French, Spanish, German, Russian, Chinese and English hotel reps told us all about their lovely properties in some of the most comically stereotypical accents I've ever heard. It's a shame we didn't have a Swedish hurdy-gurdy and a little Irish leprechaun to complete the bill.

White stilton with blueberries tastes like cheesecake, except not as sweet. If you put it on a pepper oatcake it is sweet-savoury-delicious. Creamy. Yummy. Migh. T. Fine.

I'm doing a NY times crossword puzzle on line. The common thread is all stuff from The Sound of Music. And I'm watching The Daily Show with Jon Stewart , and they just went to commercial. It's a Skoda ad and there are bakers creating a lifesize Skoda car out of cake and other pastries. And they're playing Julie Andrews singing Favorite Things in the ad. Damn cosmic unconsciousness.

I have had a freakishly long week (it's Tuesday,) and I was able to come home by 7pm tonight. Unheard of for the days I've had lately. I don't really have much in the fridge, and I did not want to order takeaway or go to the grocer. Here is what I cobbled together. Pasta Carbonara I put some pasta to boil. It was either spelt or whole wheat, but I'd emptied it into a jar and I don't remember which I bought most recently. Cup up part of an onion and two cloves of garlic, heated up a pan, added olive oil and the O/G and sauteed. Added two pieces of turkey bacon and one slice of parma ham. Seasoned with Aleppo pepper from Penzey's and some black pepper. Beat one egg, added a teaspoon of milk and some salt and pepper, then some grated parmigianno reggiano. When the pasta was done, I dumped it in the pan with the onions and bacon and tossed it around, added a little of the pasta water, and after about thirty seconds tossed it with the egg mixture until it all thi...

Wherein our heroine whimpers in fear at the scary dune buggy. I am not prone to fits of tears. It happens, but not often. Therefore my family loves to tell the story of how I wailed like a banshee during the entire dune buggy ride in Michigan. I have compensated by learning to drive very fast and crying to get out of speeding tickets.

My whole life, I've been making decisions. I see a situation, and I decide what I'm going to do. In the UK, people take decisions. This seems a bit passive to me. It sounds like someone puts thing in front of them and then they pick one up and run with it. It sounds like, ultimately, the responsibility isn't all yours....it is also the responsibility of the person who gave you your choices. I believe I will continue to make mine. It feels more independent.

I do not understand the belligerent binge drinking that the English do. I'm watching a tivoed programme called Bashing Booze Birds about women who binge drink and then get into fights. It's nuts. Here are all these women in high heels and "fashion" rolling in the gutter and tripping on nothing and getting hauled off by paramedics. And they're swearing and clawing and pulling hair and biting off ears. Because someone was looking at them funny. Or dancing with a man they thought they'd like to be dancing with. Or for weaving into them when they're trying to stumble down the street. And they're not just young. They just filmed a woman around my age getting fined £80 for bodily assault outside a nightclub. I know it's not all of the English. I suspect it is primarily an economic/class sort of thing, based upon what they're wearing and the number of piercings and tattoos on the women they're interviewing. But I don't know this. It...

"Death by Powerpoint " - maybe the first time someone said it it was slightly clever. And I'm not saying I like listening to people drone on while illustrating their points with acres and acres of words on a slide. But let's face it. If you do presentations, powerpoint is a necessary evil. And unless you're the first person in the history of the world to use powerpoint effectively every single time, you are casting stones at the mirror. So shut up and either a) brush up on your PPT skills and teach us all how to do it right, or b) spend your time thinking of a new way to suggest someone is giving a dull presentation with a wordy backdrop. You've been warned.

So I'm on the New York Times website reading an article/interview about/with Paul Reubens aka PeeWee Herman. And I'm watching a Tivoed version of Campus Ladies (which might be the funniest show I've seen in ages, FYI, but I will wax poetic about that another day.) And in this episode, it turns out Paul Reubens aka PeeWee Herman is playing their drama teacher. It's all part of a cosmic unconsciousness, I tell you.

I think the snow is talking to us. And whatever it's saying must be fascinating. I hate snow. It must have been something it said. And just last night I was watching the Sex and the City episode where Carrie is a real-person model and has to wear jeweled underpants on the runway. At the time, I thought, "Who would wear that?" Apparently, I would.

I just watched the most amazing programme about Scientology. There's a BBC show called Panorama that does a lot of targeted investigative reporting. This week, they checked into the Church of Scientology. You can read about it, and possibly even watch it here . (Not sure if it allows you to view it from the US, but it's worth a try.) I'm not about to call it a cult, or suggest it is built on the rantings of a schizophrenic or anything. Nope. Scientology is a true religion. It is the one true way. Seriously. You doubt my sincerity? Watch the video and you'll agree. Oh. And I'm even more distrustful of the swans now. There are nine of them now that the babies are here. But they are not a cult. And clowns? Just good natured comedians. Please leave me alone. I'm harmless. I like you. Really. I do.

Shadows of my MBA, wherein I stand in the middle of a group of men and tell them what to do I believe the one not listening to me may be dead now. Just saying.

Here is a quick little summary of what I did today. I mean, I'm a blogger. We're supposed to share this kind of mundane crap. Got out of bed at 935. Woke up around 10. Had a cup of coffee. Made Eggs Benedict to celebrate Mother's Day (even though my mom is in Iowa.) Called my friend Patricia. Still not fully functioning, managed to spill an entire cup of very strong coffee with milk on my cream sofa. Put cushion covers in the washer in hopes of getting most of the coffee stain out. Cruised US newspapers, which put me in the Visa Waiver strop below. Blogged. Ate the remaining gambas pilpil from dinner last night. Did some laundry. Cursed at the swan, who was in my neighbor's lawn pecking through their trash and strewing it about. Bastard. Read my Managing Mergers and Acquisitions prepwork. Became obsessed with my hair hanging in my eyes and went to the kitchen, got out the scissors and cut my bangs. They are much shorter, but eventually they were straight. Took some tim...