does this sound like me? yeah, pretty much.

Thanks, Lora, for the link!

Your result for Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz...

You Are a Marilyn!

mm.marilyn_.jpg

You are a Marilyn -- "I am affectionate and skeptical."

Marilyns are responsible, trustworthy, and value loyalty to family, friends, groups, and causes. Their personalities range broadly from reserved and timid to outspoken and confrontative.

How to Get Along with Me
  • Be direct and clear But gentle. I have a tendency to take everything personally.
  • Listen to me carefully
  • Don't judge me for my anxiety
  • Work things through with me But don't tell me what to do. I hate being told what to do.
  • Reassure me that everything is OK between us
  • Laugh and make jokes with me
  • Gently push me toward new experiences Anything new is instantly impossible or bad for at least an hour. Give me a little time, though, and I'll be the spokesperson for said new idea.
  • Try not to overreact to my overreacting
What I Like About Being a Marilyn
  • being committed and faithful to family and friends
  • being responsible and hardworking
  • being compassionate toward others
  • having intellect and wit
  • being a nonconformist Well, as long as it doesn't draw too much attention to me. I'm the girl in the corner wearing neon green ankle socks. Rebellious, but only if you look closely.
  • confronting danger bravely
  • being direct and assertive Okay, so this is totally not me. I am the poster child for passiveaggressivenotes.com. One day you'll see my work there, you mark my words.
What's Hard About Being a Marilyn
  • the constant push and pull involved in trying to make up my mind Do not, I repeat, do not take me to dinner. You will starve.
  • procrastinating because of fear of failure; having little confidence in myself
  • fearing being abandoned or taken advantage of
  • exhausting myself by worrying and scanning for danger I am the Queen of the contingency plan
  • wishing I had a rule book at work so I could do everything right
  • being too critical of myself when I haven't lived up to my expectations
Marilyns as Children Often
I'd argue that it doesn't stop with childhood...
  • are friendly, likable, and dependable, and/or sarcastic, bossy, and stubborn Yes, both. They may seem diametrically opposed, but that's what makes life with me so much fun!
  • are anxious and hypervigilant; anticipate danger
  • form a team of "us against them" with a best friend or parent
  • look to groups or authorities to protect them and/or question authority and rebel
  • are neglected or abused, come from unpredictable or alcoholic families, and/or take on the fearfulness of an overly anxious parent
Marilyns as Parents
  • are often loving, nurturing, and have a strong sense of duty
  • are sometimes reluctant to give their children independence
  • worry more than most that their children will get hurt
  • sometimes have trouble saying no and setting boundaries


Take Are You a Jackie or a Marilyn? Or Someone Else? Mad Men-era Female Icon Quiz at HelloQuizzy



.

proud to be a girl


By my calculations, I crossed the finish line in 2:41:do the seconds really matter? The actual results haven't been posted yet. My knee is a bit swollen, but it coordinates quite nicely with the opposite ankle which hasn't yet reached the PR for circumference that it set during my pregnancy. Am seriously debating whether or not LG would enjoy the opportunity to go to Miss Nicole's house 2 days this week! Still not quite sure what I'm going to do with all the time I will now have on my hands that was allotted to running in preparation... perhaps more regular posting? C'mon, we all saw how long that lasted last time...

I'll leave you with a few more race shots. Please be kind. Remember I was running.


I might be the one in just behind the chick in the red/pink shirt on the far right side. Or that could some random dude. It's all good.


Me at mile almost 4. I'm actually waving to the camera, though if I had known I looked like that, I might have tried to cover my face better. Or my ass. But I'd need bigger hands for that.


Coming up on the turn just before mile 9.


Still just before mile 9. Don't let the smile fool you. I had just come down the hell hill at mile 7 and had forgotten that it's twin started just past the water and Luna Moons at mile 9. PS Luna Moons? Ick.


The big finish. I felt strong until I looked over and saw the Chatty Kathy's walking to my right. Biotches. But biotches for a good cause so I'll forgive them. Plus, they gave me the motivation I needed to finish strong. No way I was coming in running behind two walkers! PS Miss Portland Marathon in the front? Thanks for keeping a steady pace for the last two miles. Your blue shirt was like a pink and blue beacon of hope, girl!


I'll take 'em and make it look effortless in the process.


The End! And a couple of bagels just in case I managed to run part of my end off. Just wouldn't be right to come away from this experience with a lasting effect like being a size smaller.

.

beg your pardon?

On the ride home today:

"Whatcha thinking 'bout, baby?"
"Mmm, hmmmmm. I finkin' 'bout da moon an da sunshine."
"Wow, the moon and the sunshine? What are you thinking about the moon and the sunshine?"
"I finkin' 'bout da moon an da sunshine outside."
"Oh? Tell me some more."
"I just finkin' 'bout da moon and da sunshine up up in da air. You unnerstan, Mommy?"
"The moon and the sunshine are up in the air?"
"Sigh. You unnerstan, Mommy? You unnerstan?"
"Do I understand what, baby?"
"Sigh. Nebermind."

And here I thought I had a few more years to lose all vestiges of intelligence in his eyes.


.

two things

Go read this.

Then this.

Then think about what you've read / heard (I hope you took time to listen) as you go through the next few days. Try to see the person behind the people you interact with. Think about the shoes they have to fill day in and day out. Maybe even hold the door for them. You don't know the circumstances that got them to where they are any more than they know what got you to where you are. Perhaps a little compassion, a little patience, a little human decency is in order. That extra 30 seconds that you give out of your day to let someone in line ahead of you -- what does it really cost you? If you're running late, what's another 30 seconds? If you're on time, will anyone notice a half a minute? If you're early, give yourself the gift of spending that extra time wisely. Is there really anything more important than another human being?


.

nefarious pickling activities

I'm standing in a kitchen. Not my own, not one that I recognize, but a familiar kitchen nonetheless. My mother is at the sink. She has her back to me, but I know with certainty that she is pickling. Pickling something. A grim quietness fills the air between us as I stare, transfixed by her repetitive motions. Move this, plunge that, twist here, shake, and into the jar. Move this, plunge that, twist here, shake, and into the jar. On the floor behind us lies a painter's tarp. I am vaguely aware of a lumpy shape beneath the tarp, though from my vantage point all I can see is that the material seems to rise to some point just beyond the edge of the couch behind us. I am startled when the tarp rustles and a Barbie-esque being leaps from under it, over the couch and lands in a fighters stance. My mother stops mid-pickle, twirls, and does some Charlie's Angel move with her elbow, knocking Ninja Barbie to the floor. She swiftly crouches beside her, grabs her head in her hands and twists. There is an audible "snap", it's reverberations in the quiet room both reassuring and sickening at the same time. In my mind I compare it to the memory I have from childhood of processing chickens. It is not dissimilar, I note.

We are no longer in the kitchen. How we got in the car is unknown, unimportant, so I simply note the change. As my mother turns the key in the ignition, I glance to the backseat, verifying that LG is securely strapped into his car seat. Beside him, on the folded down seats of the Suburban is a carefully rolled up painter's tarp. I sense, rather than see my mother glance in the rear view mirror, and my eyes are drawn to a flurry of activity going on at the house at the top of the hill behind us. Mesmerized, I watch until we are well out of view. My mother drives quietly, purposefully, pausing here, slowing down there.

We are in a secluded part of the woods, engine idling. My mother pushes a button on what appears to be a garage door opener attached to the visor. The back door of the Suburban swings open. The painter's tarp shifts slowly towards the open door, picking up speed as gravity takes hold. As the bundle disappears into oblivion, the Suburban shifts, rising just a bit higher to accommodate it's now lighter load.

I am walking up the stairs. Headed to the kitchen. There should be music, I think. But there is no soundtrack, no tell-tale "da-dun, da-dun" to build up suspense. I don't need a soundtrack, I realize. I am aware, but not overly frightened. Resigned, I decide. I am resigned to whatever it is that might await me at the top of the stairs.

"Mommy?" a little voice pulls me through the layers of sleep that I lay cocooned in. Pulling him in beside me, I lay there in the dark, breathing in his calming sweetness, thankful that it was just a dream. Just as I am drifting back to sleep, I am jolted awake by the realization that I never once even considered objecting to the events. No shame, no remorse. It is sometime later that I give up trying to figure out what that says about me. I roll over in the darkness, hug my baby closer and reach the following conclusion:

There will be no more caffeine after 4pm for me.



.