Indulge me for a moment. I saw Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf.  I enjoyed Cleopatra. But Elizabeth Taylor will forever and always be to me, the completely perfect encapsulation of a girl lovesick about horses in National Velvet.  There is a scene where she shows up to the Grand National (the greatest and most dangerous steeplechase in the world) with her beloved horse The Pie, and she walks out of the horse box, stunned, marvelling at the sights and sounds of jockeys walking by, crowds of spectators and horses being moved from place to place.  She walks over to a heaping bushel of freshly blooming flowers, closes her eyes, takes a deep whiff of the air and lets out the long blissful sigh: "horses." Like every horse crazy girl, the only smell that matters is the smell of horses.  I'm sure Elizabeth Taylor has many good friends to greet on the other side, but I'd like to think today includes a fast and furious ride on an old 4 legged co-star. Happy Trails, Liz~

I'm starting a new recurring section on my blog called "What's for Dinner" in which I tell you what is for dinner, and should you feel so inclined, how to make it. Be warned, I have no idea how to write a recipe, so let me know if I left out something critical. Also, tomorrow I will post you a nice picture of how it looked.  "How-To-Keep-a-Man Mediterranean Madness" (a pita based dish that includes three fillings: curry chickpeas, poached lemon chicken, and cucumber yogurt) This dish was originally prepared many times in Washington DC, but perfected last spring in order to prove to my 88 year old grandmother that, in her words "you know how to keep a man with a good hot meal." She, then-boyfriend-now-husband, all seemed equally satisfied. This recipe makes enough for 2 grown adults throwing caution to the wind and one old lady who still counts her calories- all of whom intended to leave room for dessert (lemon merengue pie, which I BOUGHT.)

Faceboyrd is the best way I can spell the thing Dan calls Facebook.  I've noticed I make fun of Facebook more now that I'm not on it. Mocking is my only safety net.  I'm ashamed to admit that I don't feel like at this point I have broken the habit in my brain yet at all. I still feel the instant urge to type it in at the first instance of boredom.  I'm optomistic that I will eventually lose that compulsion and be more productive after Lent. The thing that I am really missing today is pictures. I miss getting on facebook and instantly being able to see pictures of my mom or dad or sisters or friends who are in other states.  I don't really have those pictures up at my desk because a) who prints pictures anymore? and b) who saves pictures that you can just get to on facebook? My sister told me there are pictures up of my family at Disneyland with my recently widowed Grandma, and that makes me want to cry. I wish I could have been there, and I wish I could see

1. I don't get why Celebrities don't think they need to or ought to look professional to go to court.  If Helena Bonham Carter gets to wear whatever she wants (and does she ever) to every awards show and farmer's market, and Celine Dion gets to wear a tuxedo backwards, can't you show up for your appearances concerning your lawlessness looking like a decent human being? And yes, this was set off by Lindsay Lohan's "taupe skin suit." ugh. 2. I can put up with various forms of workday abuse.  Long hours, lots of pressure, complicated instructions- but I have never ever dealt well with being micromanaged.  I turn into an annoyed, unpleasant and indifferent subordinate.  So how's that working for ya, boss? 3. I'm wearing the same blouse today that I wore for St. Patrick's Day when I worked on the Hill. But on the Hill, I paired it with a very bold and poor choice of matching kelly green flats, and all day long I'd wished I hadn't. This y

So far, I have found that the strangest urge to resist with facebook is not defeating boredom or putting off work, but not having a place to SHARE things.  Isn't that funny?  Because of Facecrack, I have the constant urge to share every article, share every witty tidbit, share every link.  It's incredibly self-righteous seeming, isn't it?  "Oh, I loved this article on the dangers of menthol horse joint liniment, I BET THAT EVERY ONE OF MY FACEBOOK FRIENDS WANTS TO KNOW ABOUT THIS TOO! SHARE!!!!" But you don't want to know about menthol horse joint liniment, do you?  No more than I want to know about my 10th grade penpal's weekend at the Monster Truck Rally, or the condition of that one girl's uterus, bladder, belly button and pants at 26 weeks of pregnancy who I haven't seen in 8 years.  Facebook has turned us into chronic over-sharers. The good news is, I am trying to break that habit, and the other good news is, I have a blog.  And I DO have

I gave up Facebook for Lent. I feel better, but I feel worse. I can tell that unplugging from Mark Zuckerberg's vision for the world is going to be harder than I thought.  Can someone go tell me what my wall says? Please?  No! Don't! That's cheating! God will know I love social networks more than him!  Am I typing fast? am I hyperventilating?? huuuhhh wheez huuuuhhh wheeeeez........ This was probably in my best interest, wasn't it? 

I have ZERO memory of ever being impressed by the entire Girl Scout Cookie thing as a child. I did not eagerly anticipate the springtime buzz of blossoming cookie stands in front of grocery markets, nor the faint knocking on my door of a shy but committed young scout.  I didn't salivate at the idea of a fresh thin mint cookie or calculate the slowest way to savor a somoa. No.  Instead, I ate a cookie or two when my mother brought them home, utterly ignoring in my selfish childhood state the tender way in which my mother must have laid out those thin mints in glee and anticipation, eyes glowing with the reflection of purple and green boxes as if staring into a trunk of fiery rubies. Girl Scout Cookies, my friends, are for grown ups. Someone in my office has a daughter in Girl Scouts, and subsequently put up an order form in the kitchen some 3 weeks ago.  The AGONY.  Since putting in my order I've passed half a dozen Girl Scout stands and pined for my own boxes to come, try

If there was group therapy for busy women and their hair, I would be in there confessing my shortcomings and trying to do better every week.  Hi, my name is Lorraine, and I want to look incredibly hot with an extremely minimal amount of time and effort. My poor hair has been sober for 25 years, and could probably use a stiff drink. Have you lost track of this analogy yet? Me too.  Throw a Charlie Sheen reference in there somewhere while you're at it.  But my hair is definitely closer to bi-polar than bi-winning; probably just polar, without the bi. polarized to the bad side. So, I've been thinking about bangs, about Pixie cuts, and have had insane fantasies of G.I. Janing it, because I think the women who do it are GORGEOUS.  And they spend 10 minutes in the shower, and 0 minutes with a blowdryer screaming in their face. The crux of the problem is my naturally curly hair-which had its 15 minutes of fashion fame when Christina Aguilera's hair was all WHOA and Shakira&#