QUIZ NOs

If you're that guy/gal who still uses dial-up, carries around a Discman, and can't rewind your live TV, I'm assuming you have also not yet engrossed yourself in all the nuances that are Facebook. Fear not, for here is your introduction to the latest trend to sweep the interwebs: quizzes. People are taking these quizzes left and right, inundating my status updates page. A sample quiz update follows.

Rufus Chesterfield just took the quiz "What Breed of Dog Are You?" The result: Labrador Retriever.
The posting then goes on to describe a Labrador Retriever and why Rufus Chesterfield is like a Labrador Retriever. For the life of me, I can't figure out why I'm supposed to care about this. I'm thinking, Half the People on Facebook just took the quiz "What Brand of Crazy Are You?" The result: Straight Flippin'.

Regrettably, last night I failed to take a sleep aid. Once I realized it would not be a pleasant night for me without a sleep aid, it was too late to take one. I hate when I do that. You have to take it about 9 hours before you need to be up, else you have a REAL hard time opening your eyes in the morning. So, instead, I laid awake until about 2:30 AM thinking up really stupid Facebook quizzes. The result: This mildly humorous list for your reading pleasure.

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Rufus Chesterfield just took the quiz "What Brand of Underwear Are You?" The result: Fruit of the Loom.

Fruit of the Loom is an American company that manufactures clothing, particularly underwear. You are also American, have a tendency to act rather fruity, and like to keep your fun parts hidden. Relaxed and comfortable at all times, you are more interested in feeling good than looking good.

Rufus Chesterfield just took the quiz "What Variety of Nut Are You?" The result: Pistachio.

The pistachio nut is a greenish edible seed that comes from a small Asian tree of the cashew family. You are also small, Asian, green, and delicious. Being around you lowers people's cholesterol. You die your hair and can be quite salty at times.


Rufus Chesterfield just took the quiz "What Feminine Hygiene Product Are You?" The result: Pantyliner.

A pantyliner is an absorbent piece of material used for feminine hygiene. Like a pantyliner, you are thin, disposable, and don't absorb much compared to those around you. You wish you had wings, but unfortunately you're not quite there. You like being close to women. A little too close.


Rufus Chesterfield just took the quiz "What Skin Condition Are You?" The result: Alopecia.

Alopecia is the loss of hair from the head or body. Like alopecia, you are often bothersome and unwelcome. Alopecia is also the name of indie band Why?'s 3rd album, released last month. Perhaps the album's 4th track, "The Hollows," best describes you. Or maybe it's number 13, "By Torpedo or Crohn's."


Rufus Chesterfield just took the quiz "What Type of Building Material Are You?" The result: Drywall.

Drywall is a common building material used globally for the finish construction of interior walls and ceilings. You are similar to drywall, in that you are known for being rigid. However, you are also strong and people can rely on you--to be incessantly plain and simple.


Rufus Chesterfield just took the quiz "What Former Child Star Are You?" The result: Danny Bonaduce.

Dante Daniel Bonaduce is an Italian American radio/television personality, comedian, and former child actor who, as an adult, became known for his tumultuous personal life. You also face a life of dysfunction, addiction, and turmoil. Like "the Duce," you often both frighten and annoy those around you. You may be small, but you're damn feisty and not to be messed with.


Rufus Chesterfield just took the quiz "What Early-'90s Expression Are You?" The result: Cowabunga!

Cowabunga! (slang) is an expression of surprise or amazement, often followed by "dude." You are fun, laid-back, and enjoy such hobbies as surfing and nunchucks. Like the year 1990, you have little to no fashion sense.


Rufus Chesterfield just took the quiz "What Venereal Disease Are You?" The result: Herpes Type-2.

Herpes Type-2 is a virus more often associated with genital infections rather than oral. Similarly, you tend to let your genitals do the talking for you. You try influencing people and spreading your ideas by rubbing up against them. Strangely, this method often works for you.


Rufus Chesterfield just took the quiz "What Pop-Star Are You?" The result: Miley Cyrus.

Miley Ray Cyrus (born Destiny Hope Cyrus) is an American singer and actress, best known for starring on the series Hannah Montana in the role of both Miley Stewart and Hannah Montana. Like Miley, you are way too cutesy in a very irritating way, you seem to have split personalities, and Radiohead thinks you need to grow up.


Rufus Chesterfield just took the quiz "What Monster Ballad Are You?" The result: To Be With You, by Mr. Big.

The ballad "To Be With You" established hard rock band Mr. Big as a commercial success in 1991. You're the type to become friends with someone who's already taken just so you can swoop in once their relationship fails. Also, your style shows that you desperately want to rock but instead are super cheesy. Still, people can't help reminiscing fondly of times with you, however embarrassed they may be.


Rufus Chesterfield just took the quiz "What Coming-of-Age Movie Are You?" The result: Stand By Me.

Stand By Me is a 1986 adventure/drama coming-of-age film portraying a journey embarked upon by four 12-year-old boys in the year 1959. You're a pretty cool cat, though you can be just a little hokey at times. You are wise beyond your years and possess a morbid sense of curiosity. You're not afraid to cry and your favorite food is cherry-flavored Pez.


Rufus Chesterfield just took the quiz "What Spaceballs Character Are You?" The result: Pizza the Hutt.

In Mel Brooks's Spaceballs from 1987, Pizza the Hutt is a cheesy blob shaped like a slice of pizza. You're known around town as a loan shark and a mobster. You're cheesy, slimy, and disgusting, and your own carelessness and greediness will be the end of you.


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Do you see how this can go on and on and on? Obviously. This was pretty much my thought process until 2 or so this morning, until I finally yelled at myself (in my head), "Enough! You have to stop! You have to go to sleep!" Then I tried my best to think happy thoughts until at last I drifted off. Lourdes Ciccone.

Moral of the story: It's best to take your Ambien by 11 PM.

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P.S. Disclaimer: Rufus Chesterfield is a fictional character. Any resemblance to a real person, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Void where prohibited.

P.P.S. References: Wikipedia; Merriam-Webster's; Herpes.com.

P.P.S.S. (Is that how that goes?) MP apparently did not appreciate me posting such fake quiz results as "Manpanion just took the quiz 'What Brand of Underwear Are You?' The result: Fruit of the Loom" and "Manpanion just took the quiz 'What Skin Condition Are You?' The result: Alopecia" to his Facebook wall, since he promptly deleted them. MP just took the quiz "What Metaphor Are You?" The result: Stick in the Mud. So there.

LET'S CALL IT A FIELD TRIP

Okay, I apologize. (KERRY.) I have been a very very bad blogger as of late. I have been busy. But, the server is down at work and I'm procrastinating on the two pieces I'm writing, so here I am.

So, what's happened over the past month-plus? Well, I can't remember what I did yesterday, so . . . no, wait, I do know what I did yesterday. I played hooky (shh) and drove down with my boys to McMinnville to visit the Evergreen Aviation Museum and the Spruce Goose! Fun times.

The aviation museum was cool but, I have to admit, kind of a rip-off. They try to get money from you every which way they can. But it's hard to get upset since all the tour guides are odd cute little old Vietnam vets. Anyway, we paid $13/each adult and $11 for one youth (yay, someplace BP is still considered a youth!) and this granted us access to the museum and loads of sweet ancient airplanes, helicopters, and a few other old vehicles (my favorite of which was a bad-ass supersexy Mustang). MP was way into the airplanes.

MP, gazing around the room, excitement in his voice: "Doesn't this make you want to fly??!"
BP: "Umm . . ." (walks away).
'Gizzle: "No, not really."

Much of the time was spent leaving MP in our dust since he was so enthralled with everything. Oh yeah, and me getting a little panicky as I do in large open spaces filled with tons of similar objects in no apparent organized fashion, at least that I can make sense of (e.g., IKEA). Poor BP.

'Gizzle, trying to come up with some sort of order for the visit: "Let's go see the Spruce Goose, then wander around."
BP: "You really want to see the Spruce Goose, don't you?"
'Gizzle (sharing something she really shouldn't with a kid): "Well, BP, I get a little weird in places like this. I get confused and start to freak out a little bit."
BP: "Umm . . . (walks away).

It went something like that. There was this one plane they were giving tours in, but apparently you had to pay extra to go inside. I took major offense to this, since we had just paid $37 to get into the museum. What on earth did we pay that for, if not to view the insides of airplanes?? So I casually looked around me, and then helped myself to walking up inside the airplane. BP had warned me they were "eyeing us," but I just thought he was being paranoid. Sure enough, a couple minutes later, one of the museum guides/vets poked his head inside after me and asked me (nicely) to get out. Oops.

I think the highlight of our visit (pre-Spruce Goose) was this little section that had games. Oh wait, I can complain about this too. After paying $37 to get in, half the games were "out of order." Erg. Anyway, after tooling about with various things (sitting in a one-man plane cockpit, sitting in a helicopter, testing our reaction speeds, etc.), we found some computers that let you similate flying different airplanes. We spent most of our time here, until BP perfected his landing and I crashed my plane so we could move on.

To the Spruce Goose, finally. If you don't know what the Spruce Goose is, and you haven't seen The Aviator (starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Cate Blanchett), I'll enlighten you. Designed by Howard Hughes in 1942-1947, the Spruce Goose was technically named the Hercules. It was not actually an airplane, but a flying boat. It was built with wood due to restrictions on metal use during World War II. One of the museum guides told us it was 95% wood.

Uh oh, email is back up. I'll have to finish this and get back to work. So, the Spruce Goose was designed for the military; however, the war came to an end and it wasn't finished yet. Also, $18 million of taxpayer money had already been spent on it. Hughes went before the president (FDR), who gave him permission to finish it, with two major caveats: 1) he had to use his own money and 2) it was still owned by the taxpayers. Hughes did finish it, spending an additional $7 million of his own. And he only flew it once. Once. He then kept it ready and waiting to fly, with a fully stocked crew, for the next thirty-three years. This cost $1 million per year, for thirty-three years, and he never flew it again. Cray cray!

Some of this I learned from my Evergreen Aviation Museum pamphlet, and some I learned from "Spruce Goose Bruce," a totally wacky old man sitting inside the aircraft. BP and I both noted that SGB said "Let's see" an uncomfortable amount of times. Inside the Spruce Goose, you can look around basically the fuselage of the plane. For a whopping $50, you can go on a "VIP" tour of the main cabin. No thanks. Or, for a slightly less whopping $20, you can get your photo taken in the cockpit. We couldn't have cared less about having our photo taken in the cockpit (all three of us are unfortunately rather unphotogenic), but we wanted to see it, so we forked over the $20 and went up. Here is our photo.


What I forgot to mention is that the Spruce Goose is flippin' MASSIVE. I noticed that pretty much anywhere you went in the museum, you could look up and some part of the Spruce Goose would be directly above you at all times. It is five stories high and has a wingspan the length of a football field. It is 218 feet in length. We're really overdue for a photo here.


Well, I have to get back to work now. Sorry if this was boring; I found it pretty interesting though! If you do make it out to the aviation museum, I'd recommend watching The Aviator first (although our cockpit guide said it wasn't completely accurate) and you should also check out the space museum next door. We didn't have time for both. Oh yeah, and one more attempt at the raping of our pocketbooks: First, the exit (of course) is through the gift shop. Then MP spotted this upstairs gun showroom he wanted to check out. But guess what: It cost another $3 per person, so we skipped it after having already spent $66 at this point. I apologize for all the complaining, I'm just "thrifty" (aka "broke").

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spruce_goose

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P.S. "Apologies" are #55 on the list of Stuff White People Like. I noticed I apologized no less than three times in this blog post. Yes, I am white.

THE LIFE & TIMES OF 'GIZZLE

I have always been a curious person. I have a saying: Curiosity killed the Mags. It's an exaggeration of sorts, but it's true that my curiosity has gotten me into trouble. I am afraid of a great many things, things I fear because they have the potential to culminate in my untimely death. However, it is not so much the being dead that I fear, mind you, but the act of dying, the pain and suffering. I was told just the other day that I am passionate and strong-willed, traits that can have both positive and negative consequences. I possess a Scarlett O'Hara–like sense of determination and, I might add, resourcefulness. I'm also terribly impulsive. I take risks. It's not that I don't think about things before I do them, because I do—I think and think and think about them, and then I think about them some more—but all this overanalyzing takes place within a matter of minutes, and then I leap . . . because what I really want to do is what I really want to do, in that moment, and nothing can stop me.

Curiosity + fear + passion + impulsiveness + overanalyzing = a bit of a crazy person.

THE SUN (or, at least, everything under it)

It's been quite a while now since I've stepped up to the blogging plate (sorry, adoring fans!—all three of you, that is), and there is much to be discussed, for there has been much on 'Gizzle's mind as of late.

I'll lead with a waxing update. First off, I found a MUCH MUCH better waxing joint. I mean, 100 times better than that previous butcher shop. It was quick and easy, there was minuscule plucking involved, and the recovery time was about 20 minutes as compared to, like, 3 weeks. Seriously, I was in a hot tub the same night. However, I still ended up with problems. The lovely Brooke, who was fantastic mind you, put some oil on my forehead after waxing my brows. This after remarking what sensitive skin I have. A couple days later, I glance in the mirror only to be horrified by my own face! My forehead is completely broken out, as if I didn't already look pubescent enough. Do I really need to look more like a teenage girl? It'll go away, but it's a bummer. Unless I get hit on by an 18-year-old or something. That would help give the ol' ego the boost it needs at a time like this.

I've begun reading devouring this book Loose Girl, a fascinating memoir about a girl who was very promiscuous from an early age. The author is actually a friend of my friend Brittney (Brittney, are you listening?), and she will be coming to our next book club meeting! When I started the book I thought, Wow, this could be MY memoir, it is so close to how I thought and acted back then. But there are noteworthy differences: My parents did not get divorced, my mother did not leave me, and I did not sleep with a bajillion guys. I have, however, had little "things" with a massive slew of dudes—I was fortunate enough, though (as the author was not) to have myself a really sweet, loving boyfriend when I was in high school and beyond. That was actually my longest relationship to date (and I am long-term relationship girl) and, honestly, no one since has ever loved me like he did. I hate to sound hokey (really, I do), but I seriously wonder if anyone ever will be able to match the love that he had for me, and I sincerely doubt it. If I hadn't known this boy's love I would tell you that the word had no business trying to follow the term "unconditional" in a sentence (unless you're talking parent/child love—I'll give ya that one). It was like that. And, yes, I threw it away, cold B that I am. But I was 19, so give me a break. Well. Anyway, I'm digressing.

It is sadly and painfully clear that the author of Loose Girl, Kerry Cohen, so desperately needs to be wanted, desired, loved. That's what she searches for. Each boy/man, each time, she is hoping maybe this one will stay, and will love her. It's rather depressing, but poignant too. I was telling my good friend Trish about the book yesterday. I had just walked into the house and was sitting down on the couch when she brought up this NY Times article "What Do Women Want?"* As she started telling me about it, I noticed a stack of paper Roommie had left on the coffee table. It was the very article Trish was simultaneously referencing. It seems this article has been making its rounds.

Following my own experiences, past and present, and reading the book and the article, things seem more clear now. I don't know why this didn't dawn on me before. Women are complicated, yes. But making them happy is not. It's actually fairly simple: Make them feel desired. Women want to feel desired, above all else. As one of the scientists/psychologists in the article says, for women, "desire is the orgasm." Think about it.

But not too much, meaning not so much that you freak out on your manpanion because he should be showing his desire more, like he did when first trying to enter your pants. That is too much. I've realized that I spend way too much time inside my head and, you know, it gets kinda lonely up in there. I know I should probably be on medication, but I'm trying to brave the storm that is life coupled with mental, um, "eccentricity" without that kind of help. I already have enough side effects to deal with thanks to BC.

Even though I didn't come from a broken home—single parent, divorce, abuse—I feel like I ended up like someone who did.** Is that weird? I think it's just because I'm imaginative and dramatic, and maybe because I grew up living in books and in my head. Books. They are also the culprits behind my theory of why I tend to think like a guy often enough. Those closest to me in life right now (MP, Roommie) notice it too. Here's the theory: It's that many of the books I read growing up focused on male protagonists, whom I then learned to relate to. That makes a lot of sense to me, whether it's true or not.

MP and I were brunching locally one day when an acquaintance of MP's walked in.*** They said hello and the guy walked away. Immediately, I whispered to MP, "Hee hee, that guy you know's fly is down." His question was, "How did you notice that? You just automatically look at a guy's crotch when he walks into the room?" Me: "Um, it was at eye level?"


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*http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/25/magazine/25desire-t.html
**This is not to say my family lacked dysfunction, trust me. We've got your alcoholism, codependency, insecurity, rehab, teenage pregnancy, junkies, incarceration, mental illness—sadly, the list could go on.
***Seriously, is there anyone in this town that MP doesn't know? We literally cannot go ANYwhere without running into someone he knows. And he's not even from here. He should change his last name to "Bacon." Maggie Bacon. Wait, that doesn't sound so good. . . .

I WENT . . . AND IT WAS WORTH IT

Yes, I have borrowed this lame slogan from Wentworth Chevrolet. I thought the resident boyfriend of 'Gizzle's dreams deserved a few more photos, and then I promise to make upcoming blogs a little less TeenBeat. Enjoy.

HAPPY NEW YEAR

Ah, New Year's Day. Everyone was in lounge mode today. No work (for me, anyway—sorry MP), breakfast, couch, television, pedicure, and delivered Thai food. That was my day. And I'm rounding it out with some chocolate, champagne (it is New Year's, after all), and a movie with my roommie. Lazin' like a pro. Fantastic.


I was fortunate enough to stumble upon a gem of a show today on the telly: TV's Sexiest Men of All Time. Hmm, what have we heeah? A series of men ranked in order of sexiness simply for my viewing pleasure? Yatzee. No matter that it was on the TV Guide channel. It was still quality programming for my dollar. I even DVR'd that shiz while Lady J and I hopped down the street for our pedis. Why oh why, though, was my favorite fantasy prison boy Wentworth Miller only #22? WHY?? I'm pretty sure his skin is made of a triple-cream French dessert cheese of some sort. Yes. Smooth, yet complex.

Arden Myran from MADtv put it better when she said this: "He is so foxy that it hurts. It's like looking into the sun, it sears your retina . . . . . . with fineness." OK, we're watching a movie now, so I think it's time for a photo of this fine speciman of mancake.


Talk about sex appeal.