Reason 290

Personalized songs. As I was driving home the other night from yet another completely uninspiring first date, a little ditty came on the radio that managed to buoy my spirits and make me think that life as a celibate nun might not be the right path for me afterall (especially since I'm a perverted atheist). I don't know what kind of pact the follicly-blessed Hall and Oates made with the devil, but they have written some of the catchiest, bubbliest, most smile-inducing songs of the pop music genre and when "Sara Smile" lilts forth from my speakers, all my romantic angst just disappears. There's something magical about hearing one's own name in a song and I am fortunate enough to know of  three songs that contain mine - the aforementioned 1976 classic, "Sarah Maria" by James Taylor (yes, it's obscure, but I went through a phase where I just adored the former heroin addict), and the song that everyone, to this day, feels compelled to sing to me, "Sara" by Starship. That little gem was released in 1985 when I was eight years old and I still remember eagerly looking forward to my elementary school's yearly outing to Skate King (why do roller rinks always smell so weird?!), wondering if this would be the year a cute boy asked me to skate during the Snowball Session while a soothing voice imparted timeless wisdom from the DJ booth - that's right little 3rd grader, no time is a good time for goodbyes. Well, after thinking about all of these amazing songs written just for me (we'll ignore the fact that some artists can't spell Sarah correctly), I realized I don't know of a single tune written about the Jasons of the world. How sad for you, my friend. I guess I will have to take it upon myself to concoct a brilliant opus all about my future BFF and the things he loves. Obviously, there will have to be a Muppets shout out, props to Disneyland, a few amorous words for your hometown, and perhaps even a line or two about your membership in the full frontal film club since folks keep bringing that up even though you made Forgetting Sarah Marshall over three years ago (Jason Segel has a penis - get over it, people!). Let me know if my lovely lyrics should include anything else. There's no guarantee I'll include your suggestions, but, as your amigo, I will do my best to keep a straight face while you opine on the wonders of flip flops or some other tragic fashion craze you seem partial to.

Reason 289

Deadlines. For those of you who have been keeping track, today marks the anniversary of my phone chat with a very talented, handsome, Muppet-loving gentleman who answers to the name Jason Segel. The morning after that awkward conversation I started this blog in an attempt to convince Mr. Funny Pants we should be friends. If all had gone according to plan (and let's be honest, nothing ever does), this would be my 365th post. I would have faithfully shared reason after reason with my adoring public (or at least my fawning parents and supportive friends), reaching the one-year milestone with a blissful smile on my face and Jason seated on my comfy couch, bowl of popcorn in his lap, ready to watch The Muppets Take Manhattan. Alas, I have not been as dedicated in recent months as I once was, neglecting my bid for friendship in favor of more worthwhile pursuits like cringe-worthy first dates and eyeballing the filth in my bathroom with disdain. I did, however, over the course of the year manage to act like a complete dolt in front of Jason three times and squeal with girlish glee when he posted a comment on this very blog, which only reinforced my unhealthy ambition of becoming Segel's bosom buddy (1980's drag outfits and cheesy sitcom script not necessary). Looks like stalking has some benefits, afterall. Despite my recent apathetic approach to wooing you, Jason, I still strongly believe we'd get along like gangbusters, and since you're so hip I know you'll forgive me for letting the deadline for completing this blog whoosh by me like air between a certain blonde celebutante's ears. In my 33 years of living I've learned the importance of flexibility; the world will not come to a crashing end if every single deadline isn't adhered to, especially those we set for ourselves. Once we're thick as thieves, Jason, I'll happily remind you of this any time you're up against a deadline and your agent is breathing down your neck. Life is too short to be slaving away at a keyboard, cranking out new pages for what's sure to be Carrot Top's comeback movie. I'll even forgive you if you neglect some friend-related due date. Just don't forget my birthday or there will be hell to pay. We Leos do not like to be ignored.

Reason 288

Snow madness. I don't know if this holds true for your sunny neck of the woods, Jason, but for at least the last month all the local media outlets have been warning Seattleites about an impending visit from a fesity little lady called La Nina. Apparently, she's stopped by the area before and wreaked all sorts of havoc. Meteorologists have been prediciting the worst winter in over 50 years and people have been waiting with bated breath to see if there is any truth to their mumbo jumbo (we all know meteorology isn't a real science). Well, on Sunday night that weather system made an unexpected house call, sprinkling adorable irridescent snowflakes all over the Puget Sound. The citizens of my fair city became giddy at the thought of catching flakes on their tongues and showing off their most recently purchased cold weather togs. Then Monday morning arrived and La Nina had become a woman scorned, determined to ruin every adult's commute and grant every child's wish of school getting cancelled by dumping inch upon inch of the white stuff up and down western Washington. Snow-pocalypse had begun (I swear I heard the clopping of 4 sleigh horses in the distance). Now, when it snows around here people freak out just a little. Ok, more like a whole lot. Sure, we can handle 100 days of rain in a row, but if a quarter of an inch of snow accumulates on the ground all common sense goes straight out the window. It probably doesn't help that the local news stations track every blip on the Doppler radar, send lowly reporters to the tops of every hill covered in a sheet of ice to film cars sliding out of control, and interview little old ladies who are bound to slip on the sidewalk and break a hip if the cameras run long enough. We can't escape the snow insanity. Last night I watched the news at 9:30 before I went to bed and when I woke up at 6am and turned on the TV I swear the exact same segments were being aired. With the amount of time our news anchors spent chatting about the pregnant woman who was stuck in traffic for 5 hours, one would think there is nothing important happening anywhere else in the world. Um, didn't someone fling a bomb at South Korea? If you are ever on location filming a movie in my great city, Jason, and there's snow in the forecast, don't be surprised if the entire western region of the state shuts down. I'll be happy to shine some light on the mass hysteria and then drive you to the nearest Safeway so you can stockpile a week's worth of canned goods in your trailer. Julie Andrews may think snowflakes are fine and dandy, but around here they are certainly not one of our favorite things. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go put on a 4th pair of socks. Should I be concerned that I can't feel my toes?

Reason 287

Laughter at others' expense. As a teacher I have struggled to stay awake through many presentations about the roots of bullying, building students' self-esteem, and creating supportive classroom environments and, while I whole-heartedly believe that even the stupidest children walking the nation's educational corridors deserve to feel safe, it doesn't stop me from making fun of the adult idiots I have to contend with on a daily basis. Now, I'm not talking about my coworkers (although some of them would definitely not qualify for the gifted program) or even the average Joe talking on his cell phone while walking down the street, oblivious to the dog shit he just stepped in. Nope, I have discovered, through years of painful research, that the most intellectually-challenged of our species spend a lot of time lurking on Internet dating sites. I don't know how many times I've been on a particular site and an IM window has popped up with a ridiculous conversation starter like "Do you like to be dominated?" or "What kind of clothes do you wear to work?" I'm sorry, did I accidentally stumble onto a site for chubby dominatrixes? It's not like I'm wearing leather in my profile pictures and carrying a whip. Why, just a few days ago a young man apologized for being so forward, but was curious to know if I wanted to watch him? Um, watch him do what exactly? I'm guessing it wasn't knit a hat for his wiener dog while Julie Andrews sang on a mountain top in the background. Although now that I think about it, that might be pretty entertaining. Occasionally I also recieve ludicrous compliments like "You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen." Seriously? Have you ever laid eyes on another woman in your life? People certainly don't vomit when they catch sight of me, but I think my mug is pretty average. The real kicker, though, is an email I received this week with the subject line "Hi dear, Email me on [insert address here]." I'm not sure if you realize this, sir, but we have never met, which means you have no grounds to refer to me as 'dear.' His email was a real gem, riddled with spelling mistakes and abbreviations in a stream of consciousness style that made this grammar Nazi's skin crawl. Here's a particularly compelling chunk: "Well i went through your profile and i see that you are Okay,and i will like to know more about you and your personalities." Hmm, is he insinuating I have a multiple personality disorder? Calling me 'okay' really gets my engine running, too. I think I'll drop my panties right now. Perhaps the most appealing statement he made is "And i have decided in my mind that i will relocate to where ever my right and perfect match is for the betterment of our union." Jeepers, you're willing to move ten miles away to be my life partner? I am such a lucky girl! Let's fly to Vegas tomorrow and track down the least-bloated Elvis impersonator to shackle us together forever. I don't know how much longer I can subject myself to the seedy world of on-line dating, Jason, but I will happily laugh with you about all of the awkward and horny dolts who contact me until I finally stumble into the arms of my perfect match. With the way things are going we should be able to milk at least a year of guffaws out of my pathetic love life. At least someone else will be benefitting from my pain.

Reason 286

The male perspective. My best friend Steve is amazing, but he doesn't always answer his phone when I need a bit of advice on inexplicable behavior exhibited by people packing penises. Or is it penie? Anyway, just yesterday I wanted to know, from a dude's perspective, if I could throw away any hope that a certain charming, intelligent and funny man I had been corresponding with on-line would reply to me last email. I sent it a week ago and had heard nary a peep. This gentleman and I had written back and forth at least three times and spent almost an hour IMing, so my obvious reaction to his lack of response was WTF?! Sadly, Steve didn't pick up his trusty iPhone when I attempted to solicit his opinion and I ended up slumped dejectedly on the couch for at least thirty minutes, running possible scenarios as to why the cutey-pie was avoiding me through my head. My first thought was he was trapped under something heavy, which is a line stolen from one of the best romantic comedies ever made, When Harry Met Sally. I concluded this probably wasn't feasible - the man must have been attacked by sharks instead. Well, Steve did call me back (interrupting what had been a fairly festive pity party) and promptly burst my delusional bubble - the man wasn't going to email me back. If he was interested he wouldn't wait a whole week to answer my soul-searching questions, like which direction should toilet paper be loaded (so it pulls from the top, obviously) and whether he condoned the use of excessive condiments. If we were friends, Jason, I would have you on speed dial and any time I needed a testosterone-fueled perspective on the crisis at hand I would ring you up, quick as a bunny, fill you in on all the sordid details of my life, and wait with bated breath to hear your thoughts. Until that day comes I guess I will have to make due with Steve and his sporadic proximity to his cell phone. Please befriend me soon - the fate of my love life rests in your knowledgable hands. That and I wouldn't mind knowing why guys have no qualms about shifting their junk around in public. Really!

Reason 285

Halloween duties. Sure, as a kid I enjoyed dressing up in whatever thrift store outfit my mom had pieced together, smearing greasy makeup over various parts of my face, and roaming my neighborhood demanding candy from the shut-ins I only seemed to see once a year, but as an adult my passion for Halloween has waned and I no longer feel compelled to celebrate in costume with drunken idiots who have no qualms about strutting around as sexy caterpillars or something. Nope, I am perfectly content to spend All Hallow's Eve on my mother's couch, passing out treats to the local skeletons and Spanish dancers while a cheesy movie plays in the background. In fact, that's exactly how last night played out (and the Halloween before that and the Halloween before that...well, you get the picture). I enjoy oohing and aahing over creative costumes parents slaved over and seeing tykes' faces light up when I magnanimously tell them they may take 3 pieces of candy out of the bucket. I bet the stingy folks across the street can't top that! I adore the sound of crinkling candy wrappers as tiny hands dig through the offerings, searching in vain for their favorite sugar bomb, and I take comfort in knowing that not everyone in this country is frightened of knocking on their neighbors' doors, even if it does only happen once a year. Since you are quite the social butterfly, Jason, I'll assume you spent last night at your local bar hitting on scantily clad women while dressed in some brilliant outfit purloined from the HIMYM costume trailer. Sure, you had a grand time, but what about those poor neglected kiddies who banged on your security gate and received only silence in return? Since I'm sure we'll be the best of friends by next Halloween, I will gladly take it upon myself to keep your proverbial home fires burning and pass candy out to anyone who is brave enough to approach a celebrity's house while you get shot down by she-devils and bunnies who have no interest in checking out your puppet collection. I will, however, expect you to shell out the big bucks and buy candy bars people actually like, as opposed to fruit snacks, toothbrushes, or coupons for doughnuts at the local grocery store, as a neighbor of mine used to do. We may be bosom buddies, Jason, but that doesn't mean I'm willing to stomp out a bag of flaming dog poo left my some miscreant who hates boxed raisins. Even I have my limits.

Reason 284 (The Lost Reason)

The Puyallup Fair. Deep fried chicken and doughnut burgers. Whiny, snot-nosed children in strollers. Fragrant livestock doing their business out in the open. Morbidly obese families in ill-fitting clothing. Behold the wonders of the fair! I could be making this up, but I'm pretty sure the annual western Washington state fair in Puyallup is the largest one west of the Mississippi and boy is it a doozy. It runs for three weeks each September, and this year I was fortunate enough to get a double dose of artery-clogging food, terrified roller coaster riders emitting high-pitched shrieks, and grimy public restrooms that ran out of paper towels within the first two hours of opening. Once we're friends, Jason, you'll have to make it a point to visit me in early September so you can marvel at all the locals and taste a famous Fisher's scone for yourself. I've made the yearly pilgrimage to Puyallup since before I could walk, so I know the fairgrounds like the back of my freckled hand and would be happy to navigate us quickly through the throngs of hillbillies to the Hobby Hall full of homemade clothes and 4-H presentations about castrating sheep. We could caress the thousand-pound pumpkins, pose for pictures with adorable piglets, and construct elaborate theories about the people who plunk down good money for telescoping flagpoles, bottles filled with colored sand, and magnetic bracelets that harness your chi (or some shit like that). If you behave yourself I'll even treat you to a Cow Chip cookie. Sounds like a magical Saturday to me, Jason. How could you resist?

*I titled this the Lost Reason because I actually hand wrote this post in mid-September after enjoying a rockin' Hall & Oates concert at the fair. My procrastination is so intense that I didn't have the energy to type up my ramblings until today

Reason 283

Parking karma. I must have done some remarkably kind act recently because my parking karma has been off the charts. I've been scoring free spots all over town and basking in the joy that comes with snagging a spot big enough for a station wagon in a city overcrowded with SUVs. A few weeks ago I got my mini-golf fix at Smash Putt, an apocalyptic art installation send up of putt putt in the SoDo district, which is notorious for its lack of street parking. To top it off, a Mariner's game was going on, which meant every lot in the area was charging a minimum of fifteen bucks and your first born child. Fate smiled upon me, though, and I found a free spot two blocks from the Smash Putt building, which was especially sweet since Seattle was experiencing a rare torrential downpour and my friend and I were without the appropriate rain gear. After golf, we decided to swing by a dessert cafe on Capitol Hill, a neighborhood known for its overabundance of disgruntled hipsters and dirth of parking spaces near the main drag. Once again, Gladys the parking goddess poured her love down on my Subaru, granting us a street spot right next to Dilettante. We chose a couple of decadent slices of chocolate cake and headed to my friend's house to watch Caddyshack (it was, afterall, a night of golf). He lives in a condo in a cul-de-sac in the heart of Seattle, which means there are about five parking spots on the street for people visiting one of a hundred people who live on that block. Lo and behold, a giant space was available directly across from his building! I was almost tempted to leave my car there and walk home so I wouldn't have to give up my six feet of concrete. As if those three parking experiences weren't satisfying enough, the next week the same friend and I went to the Puyallup Fair (more on that in another post) and found a free chunk of space practically inside the fairgrounds that was just perfect for his little Golf. Clearly, all of the times I have let drivers merge into my lane has finally paid off and I have been blessed with the gift of locating free parking in a city that prefers to charge an arm and a leg at the meter. You better get up here quick, Jason, before my karma runs out and it's back to circling the block twenty times. Maybe we should spend an afternoon driving from neighborhood to neighborhood just to take advantage of my luck before it disappears. I'll start making a playlist for my iPod and you start prepping your bum for endless stretches of sitting on squishy beige upholstery.

Reason 282

Coincidences. As I was driving over to my mother's tonight to mooch some pot roast and potatoes off her and watch TiVo, I realized that kismet had been running amock last night without me realizing it. The amazing and talented Jason Segel (um, that'd be you, sir) actually read my blog a little before 10pm yesterday and took the time to post a comment (which is more than I can say for a number of people I consider to be friends). While you were reading my charming ramblings I was wrapping up a first date, which sadly won't turn into a second. What's coincidental about that, you ask? Well, my date's name happened to be Jason and he was also 6'4", the exact height as a certain actor I am mildly obsessed with. The two of us took in a screening of The Princess Bride, one of your favorite movies. When Fezzick inquired if anyone wanted a peanut, I automatically thought of you, Jason, and perhaps you were thinking of me at that exact same moment. I know, it boggles the brain. As slightly insane as I sound, I do think the universe or some outside force is messing with us. I know you're a fairly literate person who appreciates the bizarre, so it's probably a safe bet to assume you've read Vonnegut's masterpiece "Cat's Cradle." In that book he purports the notion of a karass, which is basically a way of explaining all of the strange and unexpected moments that bring people in and out of our lives, forever changing the fabric of our existence. There are people who are destined to transform us, for better or for worse, and they are members of our karass. You, dear Jason, are obviously part of that crew, whether you want to be or not. The proof cannot be denied. Let me be the first to extend an official welcome. I'll laminate your membership card the next time I'm at the teacher supply store and teach you the secret handshake when we meet. I definitely think Vonnegut would approve.

Reason 281

Stress. I read an article recently (from an actual newspaper - how quaint!) about the top 10 most stressful places in the country to live and your hometown, Jason, topped the list at number two. You should move up north immediately before you develop an ulcer or suffer a stress-related heart attack. Seattle didn't make the list, probably because the constant rain lulls us into an apathetic stupor, rendering the actual emotion of stress useless. Besides, it's practically impossible to burst a blood vessel when you're surrounded by gorgeous snow-capped mountains, crisp blue water, and acres upon acres of lush greenery. The opportunity to mainline caffeine every few feet in any given neighborhood probably doesn't hurt either. If you do decide to throw off the shackles of L.A. living in pursuit of a healthier life and relocate to Seattle, Jason, I bet I could talk my mom into letting you crash at her place until you decompress and get your bearings. You'd have the entire basement to yourself, including access to the wrapping paper room and the largest collection of plastic Ziploc containers this side of the Mississippi. My mom also makes amazing lasagna and cookies that are almost as epic as mine. How can you resist? I bet you could get a lot of writing done in my childhood home - at least until I get off work and whisk you away for fun and excitement in the big city. If you do take advantage of my family's hospitality, though, you have to promise to stay away from the TiVo. One accidentally cancelled episode of "Project Runway" and my mom will kick you to the curb, my friend.

Reason 280

Irony. The first time I remember explicitly learning about irony was in a middle school english class, although I'm sure I had unknowingly been on the receiving end of the cruel literary device many times prior to that lesson. Mrs. Moeschler, my inspiring Language Arts teacher, confided to the twenty pubescent girls in my class that she had recently searched frantically in her purse for a pen to write out a check at the grocery store, but instead of pulling out a writing implement, she extracted a slender feminine hygiene product, completely mortifying the young male cashier. According to Mrs. M, irony was a result or occurence that was the opposite of what was expected - in her case, a tampon instead of a classic Bic. Not the best example, but it seemed to resonate in my 12 year-old brain. Since that day in 7th grade I've experienced my fair share of irony (and not in a puffy kitty cat t-shirt kind of way like all the hipsters hanging out in Seattle), cultivating almost an appreciation for those unexpected awkward moments. In fact, irony came knocking at my door just last night. Remember the man I mentioned I was dating a few posts ago? Well, we finally locked lips the other night and it was the complete opposite of sexy. Both of us were nervous and awkward and there was zero chemistry, despite the fact that our compatibility is off the charts. I had a sneaking suspicion that sparks wouldn't fly, but still held out hope I had found the lid to my pot as if my life was a cheesy sitcom or something. To ease some of the disappoint I assumed my date felt (because who wouldn't want to make out with me?!), I delivered a sweet card to his door two days later that contained a list titled "Things I Totally dig About You." Originally, I was going to call it "Things That Matter More Than Making Out With You" - this, in retrospect, probably should've tipped me off to the fact that I was completely ambivalent about doing unspeakable acts with this guy. Also, not a single item on the list reference physical traits; they were things I would appreciate about any cool friend. The night after the card delivery the boy and I went for a run around Greenlake, followed by a stop for frozen custard (gotta' replenish those lost calories!), and he confessed that, while he appreciated the card and thought it very sweet, his feelings for me weren't nearly as strong - he just didn't feel any physical connection. Ouch. And that, my friends, is what we call irony, the story of my life. So, Jason, you can definitely count on me to empathize when you step in a big ol' pile of irony or the unexpected smacks you in the face. I'll even tolerate a short pity party if it will make you feel better. Just promise me you won't attempt to write a song about it. The genius of Alanis can never be surpassed...don't you think?

Reason 279

Bumbershoot. Every year for the past forty years people from all over the area (and maybe even the country) have converged upon the Seattle Center (yep, where that bizarre Space Needle resides) for a three-day festival of music, comedy, literature and art. It's an apt name considering folks think my hometown sees a lot of precipitation. Ironically, almost nobody around here uses actual bumbershoots, which is slang for umbrellas. But I digress. The humongous event happened over Labor Day weekend with an eclectic lineup of musical acts ranging from zydeco to hip hop and spoken word to yodeling, and headliners included Courtney Love (who apparently played sober), Bob Dylan (everyone's favorite mumbler), and Weezer, a band that elevates nerdy hipness to a whole new level. I've chosen to skip the overpriced and overcrowded shindig the past few years because throngs of slightly drunk and sweaty people pretty much make me cringe, but if you really wanted to experience the mother of all music festivals, Jason, I think I could stomach an afternoon of subpar food, uncomfortable seats, and questionably dressed teenagers if it would make you happy. I'd even understand it if you wanted to buy a pair of sparkly fairy wings, down a couple of beers and join the drum circle that inevitably commandeers the south lawn each year. Just like Las vegas, what happens at Bumbershoot, stays at Bumbershoot (unless the press catches it on camera, of course). The organizers won't release next year's lineup until the spring, but when that day comes just give me a ring if a band or two catches your eye. I can only imagine the overwhelming joy and excitement I'll feel if the event planners finally realize they missed the NKOTB boat twenty years ago and book my favorite boys from Boston to play a set. I've been waiting ages for an excuse to throw on some neon leg warmers and rat my bangs up a foot off my forehead.

Reason 278

Patience. I'm not sure how my parents managed to cultivate a great deal of patience in me, but I am so glad they did. It probably also helps that I escaped the scourge of the generation nipping at my heels - ADHD. The ability to stand in line for eons without griping comes in quite handy at the bank, the grocery store and Disneyland, and patience serves me well every single day at work. Trying to explain to 32 sixth graders how to fold a giant piece of poster paper into twenty-four squares would be even more painful than it already is if my patience level was at rock bottom before the school day even began. I have also discovered in the last two weeks that I have the patience of a saint when it comes to dating. Two Thursdays ago I went on my first date with a wonderful man who turned out to be funny, intelligent, attractive, and just as dorky as I am - qualities that had been woefully absent in the other rejects I'd gone out with this past year. Fast forward to ten days later when I am looking forward to our fifth date. In fact, he should be en route to my house at this very moment so we can gorge ourselves on beef curry stew over rice and hold a marathon session of Super Mario Bros. on the original NES. See, I told you we were dorks. Anyway, you'd think by the fifth date this girl would have seen some action, but the closest I've gotten to hanky panky are a few tepid hugs and sitting about a centimeter away from my boyfriend candidate on the couch two nights ago while we watched a gloriously terrible 70's disco flick called "Thank God It's Friday." I'm beginning to think shaving my legs before every date is a complete waste of time. Since I am a patient lady, however, I will continue to hang out with Mr. (Possibly) Right, shooting him smoldering looks over Asian food and scooching ever closer to him on the couch until his personal boundaries are finally breached and he has his way with me (sorry mom and dad). It turns out patience really is a virtue, Jason, and I this is one virtuous person who doesn't mind waiting for things, whether they be a ride on Big Thunder Mountain or the man of my dreams.

Reason 277

Your sister. The internet is a marvellous tool for connecting to other people, finding out what's going on halfway around the world, and watching short videos of stupid people doing ridiculous things and monkeys sniffing their own butts. It also comes in handy when a certain person, who shall remain unidentified, wants to stalk a certain other nameless person and find out every inconsequential tidbit of information about him or her. Since I have a world of information at my fingertips it should come as no surprise to you, Jason, that during my quest for your friendship I've learned a bit about your family, as well. I know, for example, that your dad is a hotshot lawyer, your mom is a domestic engineer, and your older brother lives on the east coast doing God knows what. You also have a younger sister who still lives in southern California and has chosen to work in the educational trenches for nothing but sweet letters from grateful children and a pittance from the government. Since I'm a teacher, too, it makes sense that your little sis and I would get along swimmingly. Educators share a common language and can empathize with each other when a student throws up all over their shoes or a parent barges into the classroom demanding to know why little Jimmy wasn't chosen for the lead role of molar in the play about dental health. Normal folks just don't quite get our jobs, even if they pretend they do. It also helps that all teachers are mildly insane. So, if your sister and I are ever in LA at the same time and you feel obligated to entertain us both, know that we'll be more than happy to entertain ourselves. In fact, you could run some errands, do a quick interview and pick up some tasty Thai takeout and we probably won't even notice you're gone. We'll be lost in animated conversation about differentiated instruction, state standards, how exhausted we always feel, and what to do with the kid who won't stop picking his nose in class.

Reason 276

Bridges. Since you have never visited the great city of Seattle, Jason, you probably aren't too familiar with its geography. Well, without going into too much detail let me point out that folks here are surrounded by lots and lots of water. We have lakes and rivers and streams to contend with, and of course the regularly scheduled deluges this part of the country is famous for, so it was inevitable that city planners would have to come up with ways for us to move around without having to invest in amphibious vehicles (oh, how I wish the car from Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang was manufactured by Toyota!). One of the engineers' genius ides was to build floating bridges that span Lake Washington so all the rich snobs on the eastside could travel into Seattle to enjoy the theater and sports events and snooty restaurants that charge twenty dollars for a plate of cheese. Full disclosure - I live on the eastside so I can make fun of it; if you live elsewhere you better keep your mouth shut or I'll send Bill Gates after you. Anyhoo, any time you need to get into the downtown area quickly (or, conversely, want to evacuate the mean streets of Seattle for a simpler life in Bellevue), you just hop on I-90 or 520 and zip across a stretch of freeway that is literally built atop giant cement pontoons filled with air. That's right, the bridges actually float right on top of the lake, which is pretty mind-boggling when you think about it. In fact, there are only four floating bridges in the entire country and they are all in Washington state. What can your home state brag about, Jason? And no, a deadly level of smog is not impressive. When you finally realize you and I are meant to be the best of friends and then jump on a plane to fly north so we can hang out, I promise to drive you across the floating behemoths so you can marvel at the fact my little Subaru is practically sitting on top of the choppy water, seagulls gliding overhead and the majestic Mt. Rainier towering in the distance. Heck, when we get to the end of the bridge we can even turn around and enjoy the scenery all over again in the other direction. As long as I live I will never tire of the breath-taking drive in and out of Seattle and having you next to me in the passenger seat would only make it more amazing.

Reason 275

Pike Place Market. Seattle embraced the whole "support local farmers" movement way before sustainability became a buzz word and compost bins started popping up in kitchens up and down the best coast. Since 1907 local artisans and agriculturists have set up shop off of Pike street to peddle every food and craft item imaginable. The market, which also hosts a small theater, buskers of every ilk, and a seriously disgusting wall covered in chewed gum, sits in the heart of downtown and has grown to cover several blocks. As a native of the Emerald City I have visited Pike Place every season of the year, battling oblivious tourists who stop in the middle of the aisle to gawk at the fish mongers tossing salmon through the air, so I know how to deftly maneuver through the unwashed masses to get to the booths holding true treasures. I'd be happy to give you a whirlwind tour, Jason. We'd definitely snag a couple of surprisingly delicious vegan cinnamon rolls and some fresh baked bread to enjoy during dinner. The funky movie and comic memorabilia shop is always worth a walk through and no trip to the market is complete without checking out the very first Starbucks and snapping a picture with Rachel, the bronze pig that stands guard at the entrance. I'll even promise to refrain from cussing out moronic parents with double strollers and dolts with dogs (which will require great restraint). Just don't add an 's' to Pike when you refer to my glorious farmer's market. I'll let it slide the first time, but if it happens again I'll abandon you for some quiet time at the strip club across the street. My patience can only be stretched so thin.

Reason 274

Dreams. I read somewhere that listening to a person recount their dreams is at the top of most people's dreaded activity list, right above root canals and pap smears. While I understand this sentiment, I also think that my dreams may be a tad more entertaining (and bizarre) than the average Joe's, so if you ever find yourself stuck on the receiving end of my nightime tales, Jason, at the very least I promise you a thought-provoking glimpse into my twisted psyche. Now, I'm not one of those new age, crystal-toting woo-woo dirt worshipers who journals as soon as my eyelids flutter open in hopes of uncovering a hidden truth about my subconscious, but I do think dreams reflect something going on in the sleeper's life, even if it isn't obvious at first evaluation. Last night, for example, I dreamt about my three year-old niece having a major meltdown at some social function, followed by time spent at a friend's wedding where a murder had occured but he was more concerned with my attending some wild stag festivities, then the whole sequence wrapped up at school where I overheard a coworker bad mouthing me for being late to a meeting that no one had told me about, so I called her a bitch (sorry, Brita!) in front of the school board. Let's dissect that, shall we? The section about my niece is pretty straightforward - last time I saw her she threw a tantrum that registered on the Richter Scale because her obnoxious party horn was confiscated. As for the nuptuals, murder seems to be a popular theme during my REM cycles, and Dave (the groom) treats me like one of the guys, hence his demand that I consort with the tuxedoed guests. As for the last bit I admit I'm a bit flummoxed. I love the sniping colleague and can't imagine her talking smack about me in real life and, more importantly, I am never late for meetings. Oh well. I'm still trying to figure out why I was hiding from wolves on a snow-covered mountain with only Raggedy Ann and Andy to keep me company in a dream from my childhood. Any suggestions, Jason? Once we're friends, please indulge me occassionally by feigning interest while I regale you with sleepcentric ramblings. Sure, my dreams aren't worthy of the Inception treatment (and as far as I know Leo DiCaprio has never visited me in my sleep), but at least they'll provide you with a chuckle or two and perhaps even writing material. Besides, you can always take comfort in the fact that I sound like a lunatic compared to you. That's gotta' be worth something.

Reason 273

Time zone. Is there nothing more convenient, Jason, than living in the same time zone as your friends? Well, except perhaps for living in the same neighborhood or having all the same interests or having the same body type so you can swap clothes instead of dropping cash on a new outfit for that first date (no, you can not borrow my super-cute hot pink dress, Jason). Still, I do think it's rather handy that both of us reside in Pacific Standard Time so that when we start calling each other constantly to gab about obnoxious coworkers and whiny students we won't have to do any pesky math in our heads. Add three hours? Are you insane? My brain hurts from all the teaching I did today - just hand me the phone. We also won't have to worry about spoiler alerts when chatting about reality TV show finales because we will find out the shocking results of which creepy bachelor was chosen, which insane survivalist outwitted, outlasted and outplayed, or which morbidly obese fame monger dropped the most pounds at the exact same time. Shame on those east coast people who post status updates about the winners and suck all of the anticipation right out of the big night. Also, unlike those weird states where citizens have thrown off the shackles of time change and bask in the anarchistic glow of never wondering if they need to spring forward or back, Washington and California do their little time switcheroo twice a year without fail, so you and I will always experience the four seasons simultaneously (and can continue to avoid crunching those horrible numbers in our heads). Now, if we could only synchronize our sleep patterns for mornings like this one where I wake up way too early for a Sunday and need someone to entertain me until Target opens. I'd hate to rouse you from a fabulously bizarre dream or prematurely interrupt your recovery from excessive alcohol consumption the night before just because I had trouble sleeping. I guess I'll just have to harass my mother instead since she's practically Amish when it comes to a regimented sleep routine. She really should make good use of those morning hours and churn butter or raise a barn or something.

Reason 272

Pedicures. I could be way off base, Jason, but you don't strike me as a man who gets pampered on a regular basis. Well, my friend, if you have never spent 45 minutes in a vibrating chair while a mute Asian woman from some war-torn country lavishes your feet with love, you don't know what you're missing. I got my first pedicure about seven years ago so my naked toes wouldn't offend the guests at a friend's wedding. My feet were so happy (and sexy) afterward that ever since I have made it a point to schedule some time at the local nail salon every few months, even though Seattle only has sandal-worthy weather 4 days each year. In fact, just yesterday I hunkered down with three trashy magazines while a nail expert buffed and trimmed and massaged by calves until my feet were as soft as a baby's tushie and my nails were a seductive shade of red. It may be 60 degrees and raining outside but, darn it, my size tens deserve to look and feel fabulous, even if they're hidden from the world by a pair of athletic socks and some Pumas. So, the next time you've been standing around on set all day and your dogs are aching for some cheap relief, call me up and we can hit the nearest salon with outdated graphics hanging in the window and displays of fake nails on the wall that have been airbrushed with pictures of palm trees and cats. It may be the best twenty bucks you've ever spent, and if your macho guy friends tease you about your gorgeous toes just tell them your crazy best friend made you do it. Besides, they won't be laughing once they realize that all the ladies walking by are admiring your feet and turning up their noses at their nasty calloused ones.

Reason 271

Classroom decor. It's a little-known secret that new teachers don't receive their certificates until they can successfully demonstrate an ability to create eye-catching and educational displays from nothing more than butcher paper and cheap doo-dads scrounged from the teachers' lounge. Luckily, I had almost ten years of window display experience under my belt by the time I graduated from teacher school, so I passed the Martha Stewart test with flying colors. This year I threw together three stellar bulletin boards that are so jaw-droppingly brilliant my poor students won't know where to look first. Should I scan the Word Wall with its intimidating red background and jaunty swirled trimmer? Perhaps the display of book recommendations by the door is worthy of my attention. Decisions, decisions. If I was a student I'd make a beeline for the far wall where a display titled "A little friendly advice" is covered with index cards from last year's students that contain true nuggest of wisdom for anyone who wants to survive a semester in my portable. Apparently, reading while I am talking results in a punishment worse than death (who am I to argue?) and new children should prepared to be mocked in front of their peers. Yep, sounds about right. Just wait until I get really zany and start hanging things from the ceiling! Now, I can't think of a single reason why you, Jason, would need to utilize my superior bulletin board making skills, but if you find yourself knee-deep in rolls of butcher paper and have a drawer overflowing with cheap trinkets from your last twenty vacations, I will whip up a display like you've never seen. Just remind me to measure before cutting though; there was an unfortunate incident in my classroom last week where I realized the purple paper I had used for my Word Wall wasn't wide enough and I had to tear the entire thing down. My rage could be heard for miles around. It's not wise to mess with a lady's bulletin board.

Reason 270

Kitchen creativity. As a kid I was always encouraged to help out in the kitchen (my parents' brilliant use of slave labor). In fact, some of my earliest memories involve cookie baking and enchilada making. As I'm sure I've mentioned, I also happen to be what some would call an, ahem, picky eater, so my mom planned nightly meals around a pretty basic menu in order to avoid my whining about the slop before me or, even worse, purposely vomiting up whatever food product I deemed revolting. As an adult the range of foods I enjoy (or at least am willing to try) has thankfully grown, but until recently I still clung to those five or six familiar dishes from childhood when take-out wasn't an appealing option. Then I watched a little documentary called "Food, Inc." and realized it would be wise for both me and the planet if I shunned processed foods in favor of fresh stuff that grows out of the actual ground or had a fairly happy existence before heading to the slaughterhouse. Sadly, this meant giving up my weekly feast of frozen chicken tenders and Kraft macaroni & cheese, but I've been able to console myself by perusing stacks of cookbooks from the library and testing out tons of recipes from the healthier end of the food spectrum. Luckily, I have had more hits than misses in the new recipe department and, as a result, have become more fearless in the kitchen, swapping out ingredients and changing measurements with wild abandon. When it comes to making desserts I have become even more daring, adding spinach to brownie batter (not a keeper), thrusting balls of cookie dough into cupcakes, and blending together cake and frosting to make my now legendary cake balls (not to be confused with the equally famous and delicious Schweddy Balls). I have no idea how comfortable you are in the kitchen, Jason, but I certainly wouldn't mind spending an afternoon with you frying up a slab of bacon to crumble over some delectable maple confection. And if you aren't too keen on culinary craziness, we can always grab some take-out and finish out the day with my moist chocolate balls. Bon appetit!

classic Schweddy Balls sketch

Reason 269

Soap. I am forever indebted to the scientific genius who created foaming soap. Until that magical bubbling product of sanitation was put on the market, my heart just wasn't in it when I washed my hands. Bar soap has always grossed me out, sitting in pools of murky water that mosquitoes would love to get a crack at and acting as a breeding ground for all the germs people supposedly washed off of themselves after wiping their nether regions. Blech. Liquid soap is a step up, but it generally smells funky and inevitably drips all over the counter after someone pumps the nozzle. Nope, foam is the only way to go. Once dispensed the airy bubbles sit obediently in your hand, never oozing from your palm onto the countertop, and then create a lovely lather that washes clean away, never leaving behind a sticky residue or unappealing sheen. Practically any scent you can dream up is available for frothy bathroom fun and thankfully most stores have seen the light, installing foam soap pumps next to every sink in every restroom from Syracuse to Seattle. I am such a foam soap afficianado that when I realized the bathroom in my vacation condo was stocked with generic white bars I jumped in the car and tracked down the nearest Bath & Body Works so I could stock up on grapefruit-scented soap and enjoy my vacation, confident in my clean hands. I promise you, Jason, that any time you use my bathroom there will be foaming soap at the ready and you will be overjoyed by the level of cleanliness you have achieved after doing your business. So, don't be surprised if you see me sniffing my hands or think I am spending a little too much time in the powder room. Just blame the bubbles.

Reason 268

Deep, dark secrets. Since we are going to be the closest of friends some day soon, Jason, I think it's only right to embark on our little friendship adventure with full disclosure. I'm sure you're thinking "Hasn't this woman shared enough personal information already?!" and, while that's true (at least according to my mother), I did something a few days ago that is weighing so heavily on my soul that I must confess it to my future BFF. I am a murderer. On Tuesday night I was sauntering home from bar trivia, where Joe Lies placed 8th (so awesome!), when the unthinkable happened. As I smugly trotted up the stairs to the condo where I am cat sitting I heard a terrible crunching noise from beneath my right foot. Since dried out leaves have been littering the sidewalks for the past few weeks I assumed I had simply stepped on a considerably large leaf. It wasn't until the next morning when I left for a haircut that I saw evidence of the death and destruction I had been a party to. Smack dab in the middle of a step was a large black smear sprinkled with tiny bits of shell. That's right. I had committed snailicide. My heart dropped when I realized that for the first time in my life I had snuffed out the life of a creature other than an insect and, despite the fact that the murder was unintentional, I still felt great remorse. It has been three days since that fateful night and the inky stain is still there, a constant reminder of the pain I probably caused an entire snail family. The other gastropods that haunt the steps shoot me dirty looks every time I pass by and I'm sure it's just a matter of time before they invade my dreams, attacking my body and leaving slime trails as retribution for their loved one's death. This post is my penance, and I know the guilt I feel will stick with me for days or even weeks to come (most likely until that damn spot is gone). So, Jason, I hope you (and snails everywhere) can forgive me. Let this be a lesson to everyone out there - watch your step because you never know what kind of icky creature will be loitering on the sidewalk and you don't want to suffer the way I have.

Reason 267

Hollow fruit. Strawberries are, hands down, my favorite fruit (no, I will not engage in discourse with you about the berry qualifying as an actual fruit...nerd). Every spring and summer I keep a container of the succulent red treats in my fridge so I can gorge on them any hour of the day (and make up for the lack of fruit I consume the other two seasons of the year). Even learning in high school science that all those teeny outer seeds are the plant's ovaries hasn't stifled my love affair. Because my adorationn of strawberries is so strong, I am adamant about how they should be enjoyed - unadorned and hollowed out. There is absolutely no reason for someone to turn them into ice cream, bake them into pie or, God forbid, dip them in chocolate (fruit and dessert should never mix). Growing up, my mother always took the time to slice off the top of each berry she served and to do away with any soft spots that may offend a delicate palate like mine. When I was old enough to fix my own bowl of berries I went one step further and cut out the pithy white center since it has no flavor anyway. I didn't realize this was unusual until a coworker commented on my hollow berries at lunch one day. I have also taken to removing the cores of kiwis since the center is generally too hard for my spoon to cut into and just the other night I was introduced to the wonders of a tool used by lazy people everywhere to pit cherries (which I don't eat, but wouldn't mind stabbing holes in). So, any time we're hanging out and you have a hankering for seasonal fruit that can be hollowed out, Jason, you can bet I'll fill up a bowful of tasty treats that will make you proud. Heck, I'll even figure out how to pit a peach if you're craving something sweet - besides me, that is.

Reason 266

The Storm. No, I'm not talking about a catastrophic weather event that reduces mighty oaks to kindling and launches unsuspecting cows into the stratosphere. Nope, I'm referring to a group of women who have kicked major ass on the basketball court this year, attained the best record in the WNBA, and are duking it out in tonight's Western Conference Semifinals against the Los Angeles Sparks (Boo! Hiss!). Despite my general dislike for organized sports, I have been a proud supporter of Sue Bird and her crew since Seattle jumped on the women's basketball bandwagon, so imagine the complete and utter joy I felt all the way down to my pedicured pink toes when my father called me up this morning wanting to know if I was interested in attending tonight's game with him. Um, that's a no brainer, Pops. I know you're a fan of the sport, Jason, and I can't imagine the players' genitals would dampen that love or deter you from rooting for your home team, even though everyone knows those California girls are going to lose, so any time you want to immerse yourself in the largest crowd of lesbians outside of Michigan Women's Fest, just let me know. I'll slip on some non-gender specific green and yellow athletic wear, throw my hair into a ponytail, and meet you outside Key Arena for some pre-game smack talk that will go a little something like this: Doppler, the Storm mascot, could demolish Sparks the Dog in a cage fight! Seattle's pint-size dance troupe can high step rings around the old ladies trying to krump at the Staples Center! Your ladies are goin' down, Segel! Yeah, I know I'm intimidating.

Reason 265

Photographic shenanigans. With the advent of digital cameras and my ever-growing obsession with "America's Next Top Model," I recently took a long, hard look at myself and realized I am a total camera whore. My trusty pocket-size camera is always handy, ready to be whipped out at a moment's notice to document such earth-shattering events as my nieces eating Play-Doh, my dog laying on her back, legs apart, as if she were posing for canine porn, and my mom with a crazed look in her eyes as she threatens to stab me with an extremely sharp butcher knife (I will call CPS, if needed, Mother). Of course, my favorite subject is me (I blame my astrological sign) and I jump at any opportunity to mug for the camera, taking great delight in staging faux candid moments worthy of a Facebook album. If there is a tasty alcohol beverage in my hand you can bet I'll demand the sot next to me snap a pic while I daintily take a sip and bat my eyelashes; everyone knows puckered lips are very sexy. Luckily for my friends and family, I do my darndest to make photo opps fun. I will mount that fallen log, dance seductively with that playground pole, and shower myself with various objects (leaves, popcorn, feathers - whatever) if it keeps the photographer happy. You've been the focus of so many photo shoots, Jason, that I imagine you'd enjoy being on the other end of a camera, snapping silly pictures of me during our various and sundry excursions. I think I take direction fairly well and will trust your vision, even if it requires me to slather myself in mud and hop on one foot while chanting Germanic folk tunes. As long as I smyze my ass off I know you'll get the perfect shot and that's all that matters.

Reason 264

Garage sales. My mother has lived in the same two-story house smack dab in the middle of suburbia for over thirty years, so you can just imagine how many treasures are tucked into cupboards, closets and in the crawl space under the stairs that haven't seen the light of day since Clinton was in office. It also doesn't help that she's a bit of a packrat, a trait genetically passed on to me, and was generous enough to let me stash all sorts of odds and ends that won't fit in my tiny studio condo on top of the basement pool table. Yep, my childhood home was on its way to becoming the star of an episode of "Hoarders." So, what's a red-blooded, money-loving American homeowner with an already packed schedule to do to combat all that clutter? Hold a garage sale, of course! Last week, after being home from vacation for a mere day, my mom and I started pulling boxes full of crap out of the basement in order to hold marathon pricing sessions while working our way through all of the TiVoed shows taped while we were in Oregon. Countless hours were spent writing "$1" on tiny white labels and exclaiming "Who the hell gave us this ugly thing?!" to one another between bites of take-out. On Saturday we held the actual sale with eight or nine tables covered in junk we hoped other morons would desperately want for the low, low price of fifty cents. Mom was brave enough to sit out front with her change purse and a Sookie Stackhouse book, schmoozing customers and refusing to make outrageous deals with them, while I continued to price items inside and yell at the dog for constantly whining about all the strangers on our property. Yep, it was a pretty fun way to spend six hours. In the end all we had to show for our hard work was a combined $140 and two carloads of unsold merchandise for the local Goodwill, but, as my mother so wisely stated, "that's 140 bucks we didn't have before." So, Jason, if you ever find yourself looking around your house and wondering where all that useless crap came from, I'd be more than happy to help you price it and put it on display in your garage. I'll even share my family's super-secret key to making eye-catching signs. All I ask in return is you treat me to a couple slices of piping hot pizza for lunch and pitch a couple of quarters my way when we close up shop. Now, how much do you think we could get for the props you've stolen from "How I Met Your Mother"?

Reason 263

Summer driving. I have never been a high-maintenance girl when it comes to my outward appearance. Not to say I walk around looking like doody all the time, but I am not one of those women who feels naked without makeup or throws a hissy fit if her hair is askew. This is especially helpful during Seattle's summer months when it is generally too warm to keep the car windows up but not hot enough to merit cranking up the A/C. Having air conditioning in a house is pretty unheard of in this part of the country (well, until climate change reared its ugly head) and I can't remember a single instance of pumping cold air into the car until I visited my friend Claire in Arizona after college, so it makes sense that I've always opted for a tumbleweed of knotted hair come July instead of a perfect 'do at the expense of a sweat-soaked t-shirt. I'm assuming, Jason, that as an L.A. native you're a fan of turning on the A/C, but if we're ever cruising around town together and you get the sudden urge to feel the wind in your luscious locks and do that weird thing where you cut the air with your hand in a serpentine motion, I won't stop you from dropping the windows down. In fact, my right arm would appreciate the chance to finally turn the same sun-kissed color as my left one.

Reason 262

Dream houses. Despite the fact that it gave me nightmares and was banned from our television for almost a year, I was entranced by "Scooby-Doo" as a kid. I loved the ridiculous antics of bumbling best friends, Scooby and Shaggy, as well as Velma's superior intellect and Daphne's groovy outfit. Fred, however, didn't do a thing for me and seemed completely unnecessary except as the driver of the Mystery Machine. Aside from the characters, I was also fascinated by the various haunted buildings they explored. In one episode they crept around an old house and ended up trapped in a room where the entire floor was a trampoline. I decided then and there that when I grew up I would build a house with a trampoline floor and perhaps even walls. I also thought it would be amazing to install secret passageways throughtout my old Victorian (wraparound porch required), just like the ones in Clue, and to have a dumbwaiter running from the kitchen to whatever room happened to be above it so I could pop in and out of it like Webster, that kid adopted by the ex-NFL star and his wife. Obviously, I was influenced by 80's TV and film architecture from a very young age. With my strong affinity for bizarre houses, imagine the overwhelming glee I felt when I found out your abode, Jason, has secret passageways. I almost swooned right out of my chair. When you first toured your current home Neil Patrick Harris tagged along and, upon seeing the place, proclaimed he felt like he had walked into your brain. Well, I have a feeling my brain would be well represented by your house, too. You and I obviously think alike when it comes to odd living arrangements, which is one more reason we'll get along like gangbusters when we finally meet. Perhaps I can even sell you on the benefits of a trampoline room. Just a warning, though, if I stumble upon Scrappy-Doo while wandering around your mansion I will squash him like a bug.

Reason 261

Creepy gifts. As I was sitting in bumper to bumper Seahwaks traffic last night, Lionel Richie's classic song about unrequited love, "Hello," came on the radio. With just a few lines my mind was immediately transported back to lazy MTV-filled afternoons in my family room and the song stalkers everywhere embraced thanks to Mr. Richie. Since you're considerably younger than me, Jason, you may not have watched MTV back when it aired actual videos for more than thirty minutes at a time, so let me fill you in on the video's basic premise. Lionel, in all his 80's afro glory, secretly lusts after a young blind woman in the acting class he teaches - apparently he's unaware of general university policy encouraging professors to not become involved with students. The video follows Lionel as he skulks around campus watching Laura - see a blind person dance and eat lunch and put things in a locker! - and then shows him calling her at home and singing "Hello, is it me you're looking for?" before hanging up. Run, Laura, run! The climax of the video comes when Laura reveals the sculpture she's been working on in her art class is a hideous bust of the soulful crooner himself. Shock and awe! What in the world does this seminal 1980's cinematic gem have to do with us, Jason? Well, I think it's rather obvious. No matter how awesome I may think you are and no matter how incredibly artistic I may be, I will never, ever attempt to turn a brick of shit-brown clay into something resembling your head, especially if I lose my sight in some freak teaching accident. Sure, I might drive hundreds of miles to see you perform and read every interview you have ever given, but I draw the line at making a statue of you. Besides, I already know it's me you're looking for, so no need to woo you with a rinky-dink art project.

The original video - be inspired to stalk someone

Reason 260

Dance movies. I have a sneaking suspicion, Jason, that you are a closeted fan of films that involve elaborate dance sequences. I mean, you wrote an entire puppet musical, practically gushed about getting to be part of HIMYM's musical episode, and have publicly lamented the fact that the last few Muppet movies haven't had song and dance numbers. It just makes sense that you'd get a thrill from seeing gyrating hips and acrobatic leaps on the big screen. Tonight I attended an event that I think would be right up your alley - the first screening of the Century Ballroom's View & Chew series which is devoted to showing a dance-centric movie every weekend for free for the next few months. The only thing that would have made the whole experience more enjoyable is your company, Jason. Well, that and more comfortable chairs. Sitting on wooden folding chairs for two hours does major damage to a girl's backside, even a pleasantly plump one like mine. But I digress. Around 7:30 about thirty hip Seattleites started trickling in to one of the smaller ballrooms to enjoy the Australian dance masterpiece Strictly Ballroom, one of my all-time favorite movies. On top of the fact that I didn't have to pay a penny to enjoy the flick, food and drinks were available from the swanky restaurant next door, so I got to sip on a margarita while Scott and Fran fumbled their way through the Rumba. Unfortunately, I had filled up on chicken tikka masala and garlic naan before making my way to the Century so I couldn't sample the food, but next time I am definitely trying the popcorn garnished with duck fat and parmesan cheese. Now, if only they'd work bacon into that equation. Upcoming films include Dirty Dancing, Singing' in the Rain, and a Halloween showing of The Rocky Horror Picture Show, so if you want to dress up like a sweet transvestite and do "The Time Warp", just let me know. I'll even get there early to snag a couple seats in the front because nobody puts Jason Segel in a corner.

Reason 259

Personal kryptonite. Everyone has those one or two things that drive them so up the wall they want to commit hari kari whenever they think about them and, since we're going to be bosom buddies, Jason, it's only right that I share my particular weaknesses with you. Of course, I do so assuming you won't abuse this information and senselessly torture me whenever I get on your nerves. Ok. Deep breath. Wal-Mart. That's right, I cannot think about that store without having a negative physical reaction. At this moment I am scratching my face and arms furiously because just typing the name of that awful place makes my skin act up. In fact, K-Mart elicits the same reaction. Perhaps it's any kind of mart that is dirty, smells strange and treats their employees like slaves (allegedly, as Kathy griffin would say - no law suits needed here, folks). Growing up we didn't have a Wal-Mart nearby and the K-Mart always seemed a little strange to my mom, so we tended to shop at the local mall, which opened a Target in my early teens (hallelujah!). My affliction didn't make itself known until high school. The summer I turned sixteen I stayed with a friend for two weeks who lived in a small Lousiana town where Wal-Mart was seen as high-end shopping and I discovered my bizarre malady. When Sara Beth pullled into the football-field parking lot it took all of my self-control to unhook my seatbelt and walk into that soul-sucking atmosphere. I didn't care which celebrity-endorsed products they carried or how inexpensive the school supplies were (and that's saying a lot), I was not about to fork over my parents' hard-earned money for a Martha Stewart sheet set that made me break out in hives. Wow, I literally can't stop scratching my body while typing this so I better wrap it up. Just know, Jason, that I will never, ever ask you to shop at Wal-Mart, and that if we're driving down the street and I start rubbing my neck or am making odd faces from attempting to stifle my itchy skin, some kind of mart must be in the vicinity. If you stop there, I will bludgeon you with the car's first aid kit. You've been warned.

Reason 258

The water situation. Yesterday morning I woke up to find the only items available for breakfast consumption were a granola bar, a bag of microwave kettle corn, and a solitary stale graham cracker. Now, before you go judging me as the most pathetic 33 year-old in the greater Seattle area, let me say that it was my first morning of housesitting and I hadn't packed more substantial sustenance because I thought I'd have time to stock up the night before. Apparently, my social life is so out of control that this didn't happen. Ok, I guess it's still pretty pathetic. So, after devouring that lone graham cracker to make sure I didn't pass out from hunger, I set out into the mean streets of Ballard (a neighborhood known for swarms of hipsters and Norwegian geriatrics) determined to fill a couple bags up with food. I ended up at Fred Meyer, a store that sells practically everything a gal could desire, and quickly loaded up a cart with fresh fruits and veggies, a smattering of dairy products, and clear packing tape (don't ask). Well, despite my hefty breakfast my tummy was soon rumbling and instead of savoring some recently purchased fresh strawberries I was lured into the evil clutches of the Starbucks that adjoins Fred Meyer. Since I abhor coffee I opted for my usal order of a Top Pot doughnut and a cup of crystal clear ice water (btw, Seattle tap water is amazing). Now, let me tell you, Jason, even though I am a paying cutsomer I estimate that nine times out of ten that refreshing cup of H2O takes at least five minutes for the barista to whip up, if she remembers to do it at all. I don't know what it is about me but every Starbucks employee avoids filling my order as if doing so will suddenly drop them to the bottom rung of the Starbucks empire. Yep, I am the customer you see standing at the coffee bar, confused look on her face, eyeing the endless stream of frothy drinks beign cranked out by the perky, green-aproned minions and wondering how it's possible to mess up an order for water. On those rare occasions when the water appears in a timely manner, another customer inevitably swoops in from nowhere and snatches up my cup, leaving me heartbroken and parched. I firmly believe, however, that if you accompanied me to Starbucks, Jason, the baristas would trip over themselves to fetch me a grande anything. Heck, they'd probably hold the drink for me while I noisily slurped water through the straw if you asked them to. Not that I'd abuse your celebrity power, good looks, or charm like that - too creepy, even for me. Nope, I just ask that you belittle the worker bees by screaming "Where's my water, you brainless automaton?" while I enjoy my tasty doughnut at a table by the window. I don't think that's too much to ask of a friend, is it?

Reason 257

Sweat. I just returned from a two hour flash mob choreography session, as evidenced by the swaths of sweat discoloring my t-shirt and the sexy mositure beading on my upper lip no matter how many times I wipe the area with the back of my hand. Sure, there were over 150 people crammed into a small ballroom on a summer evening so it seems likely that everyone involved would work up a nice sheen. Well, from my vantage point I seemed to be the only one visibly perspiring (and, yes, I coated myself in some lovely Dove anti-perspirant before venturing out the door). Even the portly gentleman next to me was bustin' out classic MJ moves sans sweat stains. I felt especially sorry for the woman standing behind me in the domino sequence who ended up underneath me with her hands jammed in my damp armpits. She smiled warmly at me in what I imagine was an attempt to reassure me that I am not a vile human being and then promptly switched to another line. Not a great way to make new friends, this little problem of mine. As unsightly as my propensity for perspiration is, at least there will always be someone in the room who is sweatier than you when we hang out, Jason. You won't have to fret about strangers eyeballing you in disgust while contemplating whether they should do you a favor and pick up some deodorant for you at the corner store. And who knows, maybe one day a brillaint eco-savvy scientist will figure out how to solve the energy crisis by harnessing the power of my sweat. Until then, perhaps you should think twice about hugging me on hot days or in high-pressure situations, like competitive Scrabble, and just glory in the fact that when I'm nearby no one will ever accuse you of secreting like a porcine quadraped.

Reason 256

Laughter as medicine. Tonight my mom and I received the devastating news that our eleven year-old cat, Elliot, has a very aggressive form of stomach cancer. He had lost a lot of weight in the past two months and seemed a bit sluggish, but we chalked it up to an infection or general cat persnickety-ness, never having the experience of a pet becoming seriously ill. We are proud to say we adopt all of our animals from the pound and since none of the four-legged creatures in our lives are purebred, they generally don't come down sick with anything more significant than worms or fleas. When I got home from my mom's, after snuggling up to Elliot through now-depressing episodes of "SYTYCD" and "Project Runway," I texted the news to my BFF, Steve, who promptly called to console me. Well, the reason I had texted in the first place was I knew if I started talking about Elliot I would break down right there in the middle of the parking garage, my neighbors strolling by me with simultaneously sympathetic and creeped out looks on their faces. And that is exactly what happened. Thankfully, Steve also had me cracking jokes about the situation, which, as counter-intuitive as it sounds, helps quite a bit with the whole obnoxious grieving process. We laughed about the inconvenience of goldfish living longer than necessary and of me not having the skills to cope with kitty cancer since all of my previous cats had either been hit by cars or eviscerated by local wildlife. Of course, I probably appeared to be an escapee from the local mental hospital, chortling maniacly while copious amounts of bodily fluids dripped out of my face, but poking fun at such a serious situation certainly alleviated some of my pain and reminded me that joy can and should be found everywhere. So, Jason, as bizarre or uncomfortable as it may seem at the time, I will rattle off jokes left and right if a calamity infiltrates your universe. No subject is too taboo; no tragedy is off limits. Well, maybe rape. I can't really find anything amusing about that. If you think of something, let me know. In the meantime, I will be mourning the imminent loss of my beloved Elliot with tears streaming down my face and laughter bubbling forth from my belly. You are a wonderful cat, Elliot, and you will be deeply missed.