It's (almost) Friday, I'm In Love

I was chatting with my pal Kacey (of KaceysKitchen and Where in the World is Kacey) about the end of the world when she brought Mr. Tilapia, a man keeping 1,000 Tilapia in his swimming pool in Phoenix so that he'll have food when a massive solar flare knocks civilization back to the Stone Age, to my attention. I had the same reaction I'm sure all of you just had. I fell in love. 

Kacey feigned concern for (1) my emotional well-being seeing as how I didn't handle my last break-up, with a steak, like a champ and (2) my budget - so much fish food. But I know she was just jelly imagining my future as Mrs. Tilapia, co-founder of The Big Top Fish Circus. (Don't worry Kacey, you can totally be the clownfish wrangler when we make the Pomacentridae expansion. Or eat fish and live in a prison surrounded by zombies with my Mr. and me if the world really ends.)

Mr. Tilapia, my Honey Lamb, did not divulge his real name or address. Obviously he didn't want to be bombarded with proposals from all the single ladies. Here's hoping he'll Google himself and find his way to this post/me. Love transcends and junk, right? 

P.S. Mr. T., my sunshine, I'm going to need you to move to Florida. Arizona is too dry. Bring  prickly pear margaritas. I'll bring...it. Unless of course it's already been broughten.*

*My vocabulary sponsored by Bring It On 76: Who'da Thunk We'd Make This Many Movies About Cheerleaders Without the Aid of Wes Craven).

U-G-L-Y, I ain't got no alibi...

Just in case you forgot how much of a winner I am, I have already won two ugly Christmas sweater contests and it's only December 12th.  If there is one thing in this world that I am good at, it is ugly. 

The first win came at a Cookie Swap/Ugly Sweater Party. I went for sweet old lady chic. It was a velvet pants and layered sequin/sweater vest situation. First place! The second win came at a Dirty Santa Gift Exchange/Mayan Ugly Sweater Party. This time I went for Aztec Rap Sensation - velvet track suit, sundial bling bling and a hieroglyphic neck tatt. Second Place/First Loser!  I got beat by a grown man in a woman's teddy-bear sweater. If I'm going to take second in anything, it best be behind a grown man in a lady bear sweater. 

What have you been up to this Christmas season?

P.S. I made these cookies for the cookie swap (as seen on Kacey'sKitchen.com). They amaze people.

Also, this may have happened inside my Dirty Santa gift:

I'll show you mine...

Confession: I LOVE Christmas decor. The more glitter, the better. If I get within three feet of my tree, I should be so sparkly that I can cover Trixie's shift at Babes while she buys cocaine runs holiday errands. I will be disappointed if I do not poop glitter for the first three months of 2013. Are you following me on this? Glitter. 

I also love seeing everyone else's Christmas decor. I want to see yours and I want to see it now. I'll show you mine and you leave a comment pointing me to where I can see yours. Deal? 

I planned to put up zero Christmas trees this year as putting them up is a lot of work and taking them down is the worst thing ever in the whole wide world. This is exactly how taking down Christmas decor goes for me (except Janeane Garofalo looks way more like a cat):

Touché Tuesday Advice Column: Boyhood

Need some Whitfield Awesome advice (about anything)? Fill out this form.   

Warning: The following question was submitted by someone trying to be funny or shocking or thirteen. But it takes more than the "m" word  to get a rise (you'll soon see what I did there) out of me. You should know that this post is rated PG-13. Don't blame me if your eight-year-old reads over your shoulder.

Dear Jen,
My arms are sore. Is it possible I could be masturbating too much?
Strokingly, Peter

Dear Peter,
Insufficient data, Pete. How am I to know if masturbation is the cause of your sore arms if I do not know things like what else you do with your arms or how often you ride solo? For all I know, you are a furniture mover and only self assess once a week. Maybe you wrestle actual gators on the regular and only wrestle your gator on Tuesday and Thursday. Or maybe all you do is sit in your room at your mom's house enabling socks to stand unassisted. I just don't know.

It is natural to be curious about your body. And you are probably far more interested in it that anyone else will ever be anyway. Just remember, all things should be practiced in moderation. 

Try talking to you father or family doctor or Jason Biggs. Probably not your P.E. coach though. 

♥ Jen

P.S. Remember, shaking it three times counts. 

The worst egg hunt ever...

Freakin' New Girl. I sat down to enjoy a light evening of comedy featuring Zooey Deschanel and that hot guy who plays Nick that I simultaneously feel like I've known forever and have never seen before but it doesn't matter either way because I want to have babies with him even though I probably can't because 90% of my eggs are LOST. That's right, lost. Keeping the other socks company. Candle in the wind. My sacks are running on 10%. Gone. 

In tonight's episode, Jess' lesbian gynecologist friend (they're dime a dozen, am I right) tells her that women lose 90% of their eggs by the time they reach 30. Of course her face turns into a baby deer and she sings some silly songs and demonstrates general hipster quirkiness until her LGF informs her that she does in fact have plenty of hormones up in her snatch (while her gorgeous model friend is coming up empty - take that models). 

In the real world, I pretend to be convinced that this is a made-up-for-laughs fact but nearly drop my hot-dog wiener and Thanksgiving gravy down the side of my recliner-and-a-half (America!), and give Google a friction burn with my mad search.

And there it was. "The study published by the University of St. Andrews and Edinburgh University in Scotland found that women have lost 90 percent of their eggs by the time they are 30 years old, and only have about 3 percent remaining by the time they are 40."  Lost. Lost? Should I have worn fewer skirts? Kept my legs crossed? Is this something that people know - why wasn't I aware?

This is not appropriate Tuesday evening comedy fodder. I still feel like I kinda want to have a family. I'll probably be ready in about a year or 75. So keep an eye out for your invitation to the worst egg hunt ever. 

Now please enjoy this clip that is EXACTLY like a conversation I had (except I looked far less like a woodland creature while speaking):

Happy Thanksgiving!

Hope everyone had a wonderful Thanksgiving. We ate a lot and shot a frozen turkey. What did you do?

Sunday Confessional: Fake-o the Faux Asthmatic

I hereby cancel Obsession Confession Sunday as it never quite fit in with the rest of Whitfield Awesome and quite frankly, I'm just not that into it. In it's place: Sunday Confessional. I will tell you a story that ranks somewhere between sorta and truely on the awful scale. And then invite you to do the same.

Today's confession: I still harbor a teenage grudge against Fake-o the Faux Asthmatic. 

When I was a teenager, I belonged to a youth group that spent a good part of each year learning choreography, doing rehearsing lines and getting in tune. Each summer, we traveled the southern United States for a week performing a musical. Mostly in churches but once we performed in Opryland! I'm 73% certain that we had nothing to do with the closing of Opryland.

One such summer, a fellow musicalician musician dork performer (known for attention seeking), decided that she simply MUST have asthma. She would convulse and put on quite the show. Mid-convulsion she would announce that she was having an asthma attack and needed an inhaler. I'm pretty sure she thought asthma and epilepsy were the same thing.

The group would crowd around her, terrified expressions, her closest pals on the verge of tears, and the leaders would demand that I hand over my inhaler. I'm an actual asthmatic, you see. I always have an emergency inhaler on me. I need it at least once a day but most people don't know this because asthma doesn't make you have a freaking seizure. The leaders knew about it because it was on the paperwork my parents filled out each year. I would begrudgingly hand over my inhaler. Once I even pretended not to have it on me and walked to my hotel room and back before handing it over because (a) I wanted to prove that she was a faker and (b) I'm kind of a douche.

These fake asthma attacks would make me so angry. She was stealing my disease thunder and doing a bad job of it. Not to mention I was certain that at some point on the trip, I would need the inhaler and all of my puffs would have been puffed into that lying slut troubled youth. Her asthma was miraculously cured during the same week that she came down with it. Guess it was the ole 96-hour asthmalepsy bug. That was 13+ years ago. I haven't seen this person in about as long. But any time I think back on those days, I think of Fake-o the Faux Asthmatic and still feel anger toward her. Issues. I gots em.

Your turn. Do you need to confess anything? I won't hate if you do so anonymously. I might think you a pansy but I won't know who you are, so who cares. Sharing is caring...