My sister got me this mask for Christmas one year and it is hands-down the best I've ever used. It's made by Mountain Rose Herbs. This particular type of clay is rhassoul, a spa quality clay from ancient deposits unearthed from the fertile Atlas mountains of Morocco. It dries very tight to the face, a quality that I happen to like in masks. Mountain Rose Herbs also carries wonderful essential oils, teas, butters, salts, aromatherapy and even pet supplies. Prices are very reasonable and the customer service is excellent.
The cucumber eye pads are ones I always keep handy in my fridge. They actually look like real sliced cucumber and contain cucumber extract. Nu-pore makes them as well as Caswell-Massey and both can be found on amazon.com. Great stocking stuffers. After a good crying jag, these are great to take away puffiness and redness.
Mongo picked up a pair of these the other day. Rightfully called The Hammer by North Face, these babies are a sweet addition to my cycling eyewear arsenal.
BTW...I paid $29 at Marshalls. They retail for $80. Mongo knows bargains.
Emanuele Sella, of the powerhouse and much traditioned CSF Group Navigare cycling team, won his third mountain stage of the Giro. He also finished second in the first ITT...Hmmmm!?
Dear mother/daughter friends, Melinda and Skyler, dropped by this morning with a cake Skyler had made (when piping on icing, it's easy to lose track of what you're spelling, so carry on the typos throughout!) and this miniature rose bush in a Chinese carryout container. Thanks, girlies!
I've been at the place where I work, Unboundary, for a long time. It will be 12 years this coming December. Are there times when I'm overwhelmed and wish I had either married rich or been doing something like curing cancer (in which case being overwhelmed would at least be put into perspective)? You betcha. But all in all, I like what I do, and the people I work with are ones I can be myself with, truly myself, the good, the bad and the ugly. Here's what I got today from my "family" at Unboundary. The girls at the office, lovingly known as "The Mermaids" sent me this Edible Arrangement, chocked full of fresh fruit and chocolate covered strawberries. I took the first picture as the package arrived, and the second showing the unwrapped basket.
And flowers from the office. An arrangement too pretty not to capture in a picture. I feel very spoiled . . . and grateful for the people who surround me five days a week, many hours a day.
Dear coworker Laura went to Baltimore and brought me back these divine treats, a cakey vanilla cookie with a thick dark chocolate ganache topping. We both agreed this was the easiest to tote back to Atlanta, compared to my other requests . . . a case of National Boh, a bushel of steamed crabs and/or my sister Beth. She brought a box of Bergers for the office and one just for little ol' me. Thanks, girlie.
I love how the packaging is so inconsistent — Berger on the label, Berger's on one side, and Bergers on the other side (sans apostrophe). Just a tribute to what I'd like to think was the case . . . five generations of a Baltimore family concentrating more on making a scrumptious cookie than caring about what it's packaged in! It makes for a rather endearing cookie, I think.
And love the expiration date on top. Yeah right . . . these are gonna last 'til July 2.
So today was my long-awaited surgery. After months and months of erratic and sometimes heavy bleeding, I went in yesterday for a D&C and endometrial abalation. My ob/gyn uses the laser form of the ablation, basically burning the lining of the uterus using a high-density light beam. Ablation destroys a thin layer of the lining of the uterus, therefore stopping all menstrual flow in many women. From the friends, co-workers and acquaintances I've chatted with about the procedure, I was shocked to find out many have had it done and with much success. And of course it is much less invasive than a hysterectomy.
My parents — the angels that they are — picked me up at 5:30AM to be at the hospital by 6:15 for 8:15 surgery. I said goodbye to Harleigh (working that day at her summer camp job) who had had a rough and tearful evening the night before, worried about the surgery and all its possible outcomes. I've always felt very faithful and somewhat calm about it, but it broke my heart to see her so concerned and afraid.
Pre-op was almost like Mommy's spa day with its pampering. The nurses, doctors, and all the staff were so nice and upbeat. The kind of people I prefer to be around at 6:15AM given that I'm more of a morning person. Into the hospital gown — that's been washed so many times it's like putting on a boyfriend's worn t-shirt — with booties on my feet, and then under a pile of warmed blankets, in a private room, propped up in a bed with lots of pillows . . . ready for a facial and massage. I spent the next hour and a half reading New Moon and listening to patients and staff in the neighboring rooms talk about their procedures, medical histories. A relaxing prelude to surgery.
My parents came in to love up on me before I was rolled off into the OR, I caught Harleigh on her cell phone to chat, and then the "margarita" went into my IV to lull me into sedation (which, by the way, never really kicked in like I was expecting, but since I wasn't freaking out, it didn't matter).
Once in the OR, the mask went on to pump in the general anesthesia . . like the nectar of the gods. So amazing that you go to sleep and don't feel a thing.
When I woke in post-op, aside from having a sore throat from the breathing tube, I felt no pain at all. As if nothing had happened in my nether region. And the anesthesia had no trace other than making me feel super sleepy.
Then into my check-out room where I was moved from the gurney into a recliner, drinking a diet coke to get me to weewee before leaving, still no pain! The nurse sat down with me, reciting the list of what to expect once home, that included a discharge like "soot." Well, considering that they did burn the wall of my uterus, I suppose that there has to be some residual "stuff."
Now in my family, ripe with a dry and wicked sense of humor, soot coming out of my whowho is the kind of fodder we relish:
Dad in the car coming home: I smell something burning.
Me: (whose anesthesia-muddied head did not render her immune to humor): It's my uterus!
Harleigh: Call 911!
Me: My uterus is on fire!
Harleigh: Mom, the doctor's office is on the phone. They have the name and number of a good chimney sweep!
Ahhhh. Nothing like laughter to make an icky situation more palpable. I hope this pain-free state continues, although I'm taking it easy at the risk of doing too much and causing things to happen up there that don't necessarily need to be jostled about.
Once home I did want to go outside and pick up Gideon's poop. I have this "thing" for a poop-free yard. If I know there's a pile out there, I become obsessed with cleaning it up. Thanks, Mom, for arming yourself with a grocery bag and taking care of it for me. (I think you know me well enough to know that once you left, I'd be doing it come hell or high water.)
What a great experience as hospitals and surgeries go. I'm amazed at how many people attended to me and with such organization and care. This is the band of people who saw to all my needs:
1 admissions check-in gal
1 surgery check-in nurse who then took me to pre-op
1 nurse for IV and stats
1 anesthesiologist
1 surgeon
1 nurse for last-minute stats and to administer "margarita"
2 OR nurses to prep me for going to OR (who were in the OR as well)
1 assistant to the surgeon
1 post-op nurse
1 nurse and 1 nurse's aide for taking me to check-out
1 check-out nurse
1 nurse's aide to roll me out to the car
I slept the rest of the day in my comfy bed, still feeling rubbery in the joints and with that feeling of almost not wanting to go to sleep because the state you're in — so tired and comfortable and with no cares or TO DO lists gnawing at you — is worth enjoying for as long as you can, as it doesn't come along all that much.
Harleigh brought me dinner in bed, a killer casserole and brownies that my Mom dropped off. And I've been guzzling water at a sprinter's pace.
Lots of well wishes from office friends . . . so appreciated! (
Courtney, my mom thought getting your check-in calls was the sweetest!).
Up this morning, still no pain (was anything really done down there?!?!?), but still feeling the aftermath of anesthesia. Finished New Moon yesterday between naps and I can't wait for Eclipse!!!!!!!! Love to everyone who kept me in their thoughts and prayers. This certainly wasn't major surgery of any kind, but in our society, riddled with 60-Minute episodes and 48 Hours, we've seen our share of the simplest of things gone bad, and I suppose that can leave a pall and dread over any impending procedure. Dawn's alive and couldn't be happier!
Ever since Mongo unceremoniously snapped his sweet Specialized carbon fiber seatpost and replaced it with a Ritchey aluminum WCS post, I have been haunted by the high-pitched screams and yelps of the Mouse of the Baskervilles emanating from below my nether regions.
Now, a couple things caught our eye about this gem (and no, not just the title). First, in the YouTube description of the clip it states:
This program teaches fundamental techniques, drills and championship philosophy. Learn how to improve your technique and learn from one of the legends of the game. John Cooper is the 6th winningest active coach with a career mark of 179-73-6 and has led the Ohio State Buckeyes for the past 13 years. His Buckeyes have won 62 games over the past six seasons nad in the decade of the 90's Ohio State compiled an 85-23-3 record, eighth best among all Division 1-A schools and captured a national title for 2003.
Naturally, I was quite surprised to read the above as I thought Jim Tressel was the one that led Tuos to the National Title in '03. My bad.
And then there were the stills MA sent from the video that the eternal 8th grader in us couldn't help but wonder just what these drills were teaching...
"Now shower up and let's go watch some gladiator movies!"
Ever come across packaging that is so irresistible that you can't bear to see it thrown away? Such was the case with this box of salt water taffy that a co-worker brought back from a trip to Massachusetts. Don't know what I'll do with it, but to see it trashed would have just been wrong. (Click on the image and you'll see that the penny says "In Fudge We Trust.")
"I stoke the fire with the irons of my youth Who is that person in my stories? I broke my back on the troubles of my youth Why do I continue to live in my head? I soak the wounds from the lessons of my youth Was I really there or is this a vanilla sky?"
I am a sucker for a parade. And I cry at anything sappy. Needless to say, I take kleenex with me to a parade. Memorial Day is especially emotional for me. Seeing all the veterans and active-duty soldiers marching for the fallen. The American flags waving. Hearing the patriotic music. When the colorguard first appears at the start of the parade and everyone stands up, I'm a goner. Here are lots of pictures to capture the parade we went to today, a real slice of small-town USA. (Click on any of the pictures to see a better image.)
Sitting in his front yard watching. He had trouble standing up, so when the flags passed he saluted. Tissue please! Spectators lining the street. My girlie's the one sitting on a blanket with her head down reading a book to pass the time until the parade began. The colorguard ready to march. Lots of heart-tugging sentiments. Boy scouts and girl scouts. Horses, big and little. Vintage cars, Vietnam veteran bikers, and tractors (only in the South! We lost count after 30!). I decided the guy on this red tractor was really cute and that I would make a good farmer's wife. Pageant queens and shriners. And the soldiers. The live statue of Iwo Jima was very moving as was the young soldier atop the float smiling unpretentiously as the spectators clapped and cheered. Someone even yelled "thank you" which made his smile upturn a bit more. Yes, thank you.
This evening I've got three out-of-town guests coming over for dinner. Two are guys I used to work with, and the other is one of the guy's sister. All three are easygoing and so easy to prepare for. Yes, this kind of thing is a good kickstart to getting the house uber clean. But the best part of all is that I get to cook for more than just two! (And for men! There's nothing more complimentary to my cooking than a hungry man eating seconds and thirds, which rarely happens at Chateau Gahan.)
I made a poppy seed cake last night (recipe and picture below) which is a recipe I've had since my early days of baking and cooking. It was actually served at one of my wedding showers. One of those recipes I still have hand written on a piece of paper from the gal who gave it to me. I have made this cake many many times, for showers, brunches, housewarmings. It's easy but has the taste of a homemade cake. When I make it for us at home, it often gets eaten for breakfast as well. Enjoy!
I'll share my main course and salad recipes later, both of which are family favorites.
Donna's Poppy Seed Cake
1 white cake mix 1 4oz package of instant vanilla pudding 1 cup water 1/2 cup oil 1 teaspoon vanilla 4 eggs 1/4 cup poppy seeds
Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix all ingredients — except eggs and poppy seeds — thoroughly using electric mixer. Add eggs one at a time, beating thoroughly after each addition. Beat in poppy seeds. Pour into greased and floured bundt pan. Bake at 350 degrees 50 minutes to 1 hour.
Looks like "The Condor" is positioning himself for a run at winning the Giro. After the first mountain stage, he's in second place only five seconds off the lead. Mongo's guy, AK47, is in sixth, 1:11 back.
Team politics will come into play if Contador doesn't falter, and Kloden will be S.O.L. for the win.
I'm thinking maybe a pump through the spokes, like in Breaking Away, might be helpful.
There are lots of areas of my house that warm my heart. Here are two of them, both in the study. When my daughter and I moved into the house, this room was a dining room. Being that it is just we two, that we always ate in the kitchen, and big holiday meals were always served at my parents' home, I decided to make this room into a study. I had the built-ins installed by a carpenter, a feature I always dreamed of having in a house someday. Initially the room was a place where Harleigh could do her homework. In elementary and middle school there was rarely the need for a computer to tackle homework projects, so this spot — surrounded by reference books (including an old encyclopedia set that I can't part with), cans of pencils and markers, a good working light, and a dropleaf table on which to spread out books — was perfect. As the years went by and dear daughter retreated to her room or the rumpus room (where the computer lives) to do homework, I began migrating all my craft paraphernalia onto the table and the shelves surrounding. Now it is where I do all my projects. I can see Gideon chasing birds in the backyard, the stereo is right there, and I can even see the reflection of the TV in one of the windows in case I want to do some TV watching. (The big basket on the floor was a discard from my sister that I have loved. It holds a bunch of blankets and afghans.)
This dresser is one of my favorite finds from a local flea market. It's a beautiful pale pink color with glass knobs. My parents bought me the navy and ivory check wing chair for my birthday one year, and it is one of my favorite sitting spots in the house. I found the slipper chair at a yard sale and it's perfect to have as extra seating when guests come over, not to mention that it's girly. I took an old negliee (don't you just love that word?) from a flea market spree and made the lampshade cover. It softens the room, not to mention . . . it's girly (a key word in our household, if you didn't already get the idea). A friend's mother painted the vase and flowers above the dresser and I found a chipped frame that fits it just right. The footstool is a Shabby Chic piece from Target that I got on sale.
I hadn't planned on posting anything until after the holiday. I was content to relax and stay away from my blogging addiction. Then I read a blurb in Newsweek about the clip below and I couldn't get to the computer fast enough.
Now, you know how we love our cheerleaders here on the MZone. Of course we prefer when they're female who go from pom-pons to porn, even more so after this story of male cheerleader who went from screaming on the sidelines to screaming on the airwaves.
Kevin James (not the actor) is a former Oklahoma Sooner cheerleader-turned-lawyer-turned-radio talkshow host in Los Angeles. And judging from the YouTube video here, he's one of those modern day firebrands who "prove" the validity of their points and positions, not via the content of their argument, but by being louder than those with an opposing point of view. Because no matter where you personally fall on the political spectrum, as we all know from watching the "news shows" that pass for political discourse in our country today, louder means smarter.
To set the stage for what you're about to watch, in a nutshell...
Shortly after Bush made the remarks, MSNBC's Chris Matthews had KRLA's James, a "right-wing" radio talkshow host in Los Angeles, and a Mark Green, a "left-wing" radio host from Air America, on HARDBALL to discuss the brewing controversy. Below is the clip. You MUST watch. Really.
Please know, putting this up is not an endorsement of one political party, candidate or viewpoint. Whether you agree or disagree with the President's comments, James' uninformed ignorance is simply staggering. And all the shouting in the world can't hide it.
You know, folks, it's one thing for those of us talking smack on a college football blog to be full of shit. It's another when you're on a national TV show discussing U.S. foreign policy issues and presidential politics.
I mean, trying to defend your position on something as frivolous as the college football superiority of INSERT SCHOOL HERE and being wrong is sometimes funny. Being a radio host in the second largest market in America and stirring up passions on issues of real importance when you don't know what the fuck you're talking about is scary.
P.S. I just went to the KRLA website to see if this James guy still had a job (somehow he does from the looks of it) and you know what the station's slogan is? Oh, this is rich in light of the above: Intelligent. Conservative. Talk Radio.
Ever since I found these bowls at a flea market many, many moons ago, I've had them hanging in my bedroom. One evening I came home, made my way to the bedroom in the pitch darkness and accidentally hit the plate hanger with my shoulder. The whole thing came crashing down and the bowls shattered into pieces. I cried. One of those pathetic kind of cries that comes out of frustration and probably isn't warranted considering the subject matter (broken objects and not broken bones, or feelings or lives). But they were two things that I loved looking at whenever I came into the room.
Now, all glued together — the lines where the pieces join all dark and jarring against the milky backgrounds and pastel florals, reminders of my clumsiness — they tell of broken pieces that can be put back together to be whole once again.
Growing up in the suburbs of Maryland, we always called them lightening bugs, not fireflies. A Northern thing? We'd catch them at dusk when it was easy to see before the black of night set in. So easy to catch, with just a cupped hand. And into a jar, with a lid Daddy would poke holes into with a small screwdriver. Some grass, a stick. And then once in bed, wearing clean cotton short-sleeved jammies and smelling of baby powder, with the windows open, we'd fall asleep with the best nightlight in the world.
I found this jar with batttery-operated fireflies in a catalog. They actually dim and then brighten, just like the real ones. I bought one for my girlfriend Ali; we had once talked about the joy of being a kid and catching them. And I couldn't help but get one for myself, into which I put some fake grass to make it feel like the real thing.
Today is not the official first day of summer, but it is the first day of no school, and in our book that's official enough. Happy Summer to all and to all a firefly-lit night!
But before we all part ways for a long weekend of beer, burgers and general relaxation, I pass on an interesting YouTube video sent in by MZone reader RA. Since embedding was disabled, unfortunately I can only include the link below. But suffice it to say, you won't be disappointed.
If you know one thing about Buckeye fans besides their love of the F-bomb and a genetic need to fan out across the Internet in order to rebut any perceived slight against their university, you know they are very particular about their school name.
It's not Ohio State, it's always THE Ohio State University. Just ask them, they'll tell you loudly and in your face, the stench of Grey Goose vodka nearly overpowering.
Apparently, after years of folks confusing OSU with Ohio University or some other public institution of higher learner in the Buckeye state -- or maybe people simply referring to the school as "an Ohio state university" -- they became very militant about the "THE."
That's why, when uber-QB Terrell Pryor announced he was signing with the Buckeyes some 36 months and 58 press conferences after most high school players revealed their decisions, we were quite surprised when the prized student-athlete got one teenie, tiny thing wrong that day: namely, the name of the prestigious college football factory in Columbus he was signing with. In revealing his intentions, Pryor referred to our rivals to the south(east-ish) as "University of Ohio State." And nary a "the" to be found.
Genius.
Thus, in the interest of needling our rivals where it annoys them most since we can't seem to beat them on the football field anymore, we here at the MZone have taken time out from cruising the Internet for free porn our busy schedules to design a new logo for the Bucks and their outstanding but name-challenged quarterback. Behold...
And from this point forward, we will now refer to them here as UOS or THE University of Ohio State, aka Tuos.
Ed. Note: Yes, of course t-shirts are coming soon!
The name of the game in Mongo's cycling world has changed. No longer is it good enough to just go fast over rolling terrain with a few mild hills thrown in for good measure. Now I'm expected to be able to climb five mini Alp d'huez's over the course of a 25 mile loop.
Let's just say that Mongo's no Frank Schleck in the weight department. Hauling my chiseled 220lbs up a mountain 'aint no easy task. If you've watched professional cycling lately, you'll notice that the only people in the peleton over two hundy are the guys on the motorbikes. So you see that my task is daunting.
I've decided that the only way I'm going to be competitive as a climber is to adopt the Marco Pantani Training Method.
I will be moving out of my house and into a hotel on a river somewhere. I will talk to no one and have everything delivered to me. I will follow the nutritional guidelines of the 1980 East German Olympic Team. I will ride the steepest hills every day and develop the lungs of an Argentinian gaucho. I'll start dating a hot European model.
If all of this doesn't work, then I'm thinking about a new 12-28 cassette.
The only genuine representation of skateboarding and it's grassroots culture that is shown on television today is fronted by one of the baddest, bad asses of all time.
This reformed thug(The Muska incident, among many others) has a connection with the universal soul of skateboarding. He is able to communicate "the shred" with children and adults alike, and his street cred is unmatched.
Mike Vallely...Keepin' it real! (Drive... on Fuel TV)
“ I climb the mountain of self discovery My Sherpa yields the load The summit ascent holds a dangerous line Exposed to the will of the clouds Mortal pride sends fire to my lungs Darkness closes in The success of my mission Redemption of my sins”
