Reason 120

Flair. I don't know what the requirement is to get on the CBS lot, Jason, but I am required to wear a lovely badge to work each day to make it clear to everyone that I am not some deranged, mass-murderer hanging out at a middle school. My first year as a teacher I didn't have a lanyard for my badge, so I clipped it on to my clothes, usually near the bottom of my shirt. This placement may seem inocuous to the majority of the population, but when one of the assistant principals caught a glimpse of that badge she not-so-subtly pulled me aside and told me to move it immediately. Her motive? Apparently, my ID card was acting like a shining beacon, pulling hormonal boys' gazes to my crotch and distracting them from their learning. After an uncomfortable moment in which I stared at her in disbelief, I transferred my smiling face to the lapel of my shirt. Of course, this just diverted all of those adolescent eyes to my breast area. What was I to do? As soon as my educational drudgery ended that day I raced to a nearby store and purchased a fancy, black lanyard for my equally fancy badge. Over the years I have upgraded to a swanky lanyard from New Zealand and added some flair. Now I proudly sport "I heart Renton" and "Shoe addict" buttons, as well as my personal favorite, an orange pin that says "Sorry, I can't. I'm too busy being awesome." If you ever need some hip, funny flair, Jason, I'd be happy to steer you toward some local shops that specialize in such goods. It's about time the world appreciated flair as a necessary way to jazz up otherwise dull work accessories and not just something the Nazis had (thanks, Office Space).

Reason 119

Netflix intervention. Don't be embarrassed, Jason. It happens to even the most devout movie watchers among us. You open up your mailbox, letting out a small squeal of delight when you catch sight of that distinctive red envelope, and eagerly slide your finger through the flimsy seal. You haven't perused your Netflix queue in awhile and aren't sure what cinematic wonder is waiting snugly inside. Could it be that sexy foreign film all of your friends raved about while in the theater, but that you somehow managed to miss on the big screen? Or perhaps it's the first disc of the first season of that TV show you loved as a teenager and haven't watched since your face cleared up? You gently slide the disc out and, upon reading the title, start to calculate your next opportunity for two hours of uninterrupted free time to spend watching the quirky, indie comedy you are now holding in your hands. For the next three weeks the disc sits on top of your DVD player, eyeing you accusingly every time you grab an old favorite like Ghostbusters or Meatballs off the shelf instead. Before you know it a month or two has passed and that damn disc is still there, and the probability of ever watching it has dwindled into nothingness. Yet, you are reluctant to seal it up and drop it in the mail in case the mood strikes and suddenly nothing can sate your movie needs like that little nugget of cinematic gold with its hip young actors in their ironic t-shirts, spouting witticisms that would make your mama wince. As your friend, Jason, I will not let your Netflix subscription become a cross to bear. If you haven't watched a movie in two weeks, you are never going to watch it. I will happily snatch the disc from your entertainment unit, seal it back up before you can shout "But it was an Academy Award winner!" and drop it at the nearest United States post office. Like ripping off a Band-aid, it's best to do it quickly. I promise the sting will subside and another DVD will magically appear in your mailbox before you know it. Afterall, that is the nature of the Netflix beast.

Reason 118

Casinos concerts. The Seattle-Tacoma area may not be as glitzy as Las Vegas or cater to Mafia members like Atlantic City, but there are a few casinos worth checking out when the itch to play some penny slots becomes too overwhelming to bear and you want to get your grub on at a decent buffet. One selling point of these local casinos is the exceptional talent they pull in. HUGE names, like REO Speedwagon and Merle Haggard, are slated to headline one such establishment called the Emerald Queen in the next few months, and lucky for me this hub of hedonism is a mere twenty minutes away. Sure, Jason, as a fancypants actor you can afford to just jump in your car anytime and head down to Sin City to get your groove on to A-list entertainers like Donny & Marie or Barbara Mandrel, but does Ceasar's Palace showcase a cavalcade of Cambodian stars every Sunday night? I bet not. Only in Tacoma, fine sir. And on Monday, if we aren't too exhausted from all that partying the night before, we can rock out to the Stars of Vietnam. I know, it's almost too good to be true. One of my dearest friends in the world happens to be shacking up with a higher-up at the EQC (as it's know to locals) and can almost guarantee us tickets to any show we want. Yes, both of us can afford to simply buy the tickets, but in my experience almost everything is better when it is gratis - the exception being STD's. If we play our cards right (sorry, couldn't avoid the gambling pun), we may even get a 2-for-1 coupon to the seafood buffet. So, pencil in a date with me and the Emerald Queen on your packed calendar, Jason. MC Hammer is gonna' tear the place up on June 26 and we are both too legit to quit such an opportunity.

Reason 117

Fire. I have long been fascinated by fire. I grew up in a house with a fireplace and always loved stuffing rolled up pieces of newspaper under piles of wood, then lighting the edges and watching the paper burn. The flickering of the flames coupled with the crackling of logs always made me feel cozy and safe. I even went through a phase where my friends and I would write words with hairspray in the street and light the trail of letters on fire. Sounds weird, but the coolness of it will blow your mind. So, Jason, imagine my shock and dismay when you confessed to the world in a recent People write up that you don't know how to build a fire. You're knowledge of kindling was so limited, in fact, that you recently installed electric fireplaces in your house to replace the ones that actually require you to strike a match. Currently, the fireplace in my condo is electric, so I do understand how convenient it is to just flick a switch and, ta-da, there are flames dancing around. But I would give up that convenience in a New York minute if it meant smelling the cedar logs, hearing the popping of damp wood and working my way through twenty three wooden matches before finally creating a blaze that won't peeter out as soon as I saunter over to the couch to relax. Access to a real fireplace also makes a world of difference when there's a blackout. A few years ago Seattle was blanketed by snow that caused major power outages for days. If it weren't for my mother's wood-burning fireplace I wouldn't have been able to heat up my chocolate muffin every morning, and no one should have to live like that. So, the next time you're in my neck of the woods, Jason, I'll drag you to my mom's house for a lesson on properly setting a pile of sticks ablaze. We can curl up on the couch, belt out classic camp songs like "Found a Peanut" and eat s'mores 'til the cows come home. I'll even give the local fire department a heads up about our lessons, just in case your little campfire becomes a conflagration. Hmm, now that I think about it flirting with hunky firefighters and playing with the siren in the firetruck would be pretty cool. Maybe I'll skip the info on fire safety.

Reason 116

Cleanliness. You know those people who wipe down the bathroom sink every morning after brushing their teeth or leave vacuum lines in their carpet or organize their closets by season and color of shirt? Well, I am not one of those people. In fact, I am fairly oblivious when it comes to keeping my home tidy. I wouldn't say I live in a pigsty, but my condo definitely looks lived in, with the stacks of unopened mail on the kitchen table, shoes strewn about the living room and the one pair of pants that, after 2 months, just can't seem to make its way off the bed into a drawer. Good thing I live alone, I guess. Unbeknowst to my friends, my housekeeping blindness benefits them because if I am hanging out at their house and they have forgotten to wipe down a counter, dust their tchotchkes or toss some dirty clothes in the hamper, it's almost guaranteed I will take no notice. In fact, when I was an assistant supervisor at a group home one of my responsibilities was making sure the teenage boys living there kept their bedrooms and common spaces relatively grime-free, and almost everyday my supervisor would walk me through the house, shaking his head with disappointment as he pointed out all of the unacceptable dirt and clutter I had missed. He just couldn't wrap his head around the fact that I was blissfully unaware of the mess. It probably didn't help that he was a smidge OCD. Jason, as my friend, you will never have to worry about cleaning up your mansion before my arrival, which means you'll have more time to knit your pet canary a sweater, rearrange the features on your Mr. Potato Head, or perfect your Electric Slide solo. Sure, cleanliness is next to godliness, but who the heck wants to be God? She has way too much on her plate, and I'm not about to complain if it's been soaking in the sink for a few days.

Reason 115

Bad moods. Today was a doozy of a day. Actually, it was just the time from 2:45 to 4pm that was painful. Every Thursday afternoon I supervise 6th grade detention - yes, apparently I am a sadist. Generally, the students are well-behaved, content to read quietly or do homework the entire time. I teach almost every single 6th grader and the little ruffians respect me enough to meet my expectations with minimal complaint.They have earned detention for minor infractions like running in the hall or showing up late to class one too many times, and once they've spent time in my stuffy classroom after school they are not too eager to return. There must have been something in the air today, though, because three of the five students there were so disrespectful and non-compliant that I wanted to jab sharp objects into my ears and run screaming from the building, never to return. The little devils made me so crazy that I actually begged my teaching neighbor to walk them to the bathroom so I could have a few moments of peace.When four o'clock hit I shooed the delinquents from my room, hopped into my car and sped home, dreaming of the coktail I'd whip up as soon as I walked through the door. Well, by time I got home alcohol was not an option because I had an appointment looming and driving their after a drink or two didn't seem like a wise choice. What's a grumpy girl to do when she can't imbibe some tasty, tasty spirits? Crank up the tunes and dance around in her underwear. Jason, I have the perfect non-alcoholic elixir for taking those blues away and I would be pleased as punch to share it with you the next time you're in a funk. Just pop in "Hey, Eugene" by Pink Martini, strip down to your skivvies and belt your heart out. There is something about the song's catchy lyrics and danceable beat that immediately puts a smile on your face and makes you appreciate the feel of cotton undergraments, no matter how heinous your day. So give me a call, Jason, the next time you need an attitude check. I'll happily whip off my pants and dance with you over the phone. I've bet you've never had an offer like that.

check out "Hey, Eugene" by clicking on the audio tab

Reason 114

Listening. I have always considered myself to be a quiet person. All through school I rarely spoke up because I worried other people would think my ideas weren't worth sharing. Since I flew under the radar, my teachers, classmates, neighbors, and complete strangers often shared information, either intentionally or not, that they probably should've kept to themselves. Over the past thirty-two years I have honed my listening skills to ninja-like perfection and would happily lend you an ear, Jason, if you needed career advice or wanted my perspective on some skank who abused your fame and broke your heart. Fortunately for me, my self-confidence has grown by leaps and bounds since high school and now I have no qualms about speaking my mind. Of course, this also means that I can be an expert interrupter at times. I guess I spent so much time keeping my thoughts to myself that sometimes now I struggle to keep my mouth shut. I'll try my best not to stop you mid-sentence, Jason, even if what I have to say is so vital and insightful that I may burst if I don't share it with the world. Besides, the blame will fall squarely on your shoulders, my friend, if I strain a muscle while zipping my lips. I'll be sure to send you the doctor's bill.

Reason 113

Impervious to embarrassment. It takes a lot to make me blush or stammer with embarrassment. As a fat kid who was endlessly taunted by her older brother and drooling idiots on the playground, I had to build up a thick skin almost as soon as I popped out of my mom's vagina. My parents also happen to be intelligent, funny people, and being around them motivated me to hold my own when it came to exchanging witticisms. Basically, I couldn't afford to clam up and dissolve into a weepy puddle whenever a barb was aimed at me - I never would have left the house. Now, don't mistake my lack of embarrassment for a desire to be in the spotlight. I am not one of those obnoxious people who constantly needs to be the center of attention and will stop at nothing to force all eyes on her. Actually, watching those people from the sidelines is the one thing that can make me cringe with embarrassment at how humanity has evolved. Over the years I have survived many incidents that the average person would find mortifying. In middle school I went to see Kuffs, the Christian Slater cop flick (yes, that is fairly embarrassing in itself), to celebrate my friend Michelle's birthday. I thought it would be great if the other 12 people in the theater sang Happy Birthday to her, so I stood up and made a very loud plee to the audience to serenade Michelle. I started to sing at the top of my lungs and realized, a line in, that no one, not even my other friends, was singing along. Did I run crying from the cineplex? Of course not. I finished singing and took my seat. One day in college I was leaving my morning choir class and I tripped up the stairs (this is actually a fairly common occurence in my life). A few hours later as I was entering my science class I tripped up the stairs again. Now, this wouldn't have been too bad except a girl turned to me and said "didn't you trip in choir, too?" I smiled sweetly and nodded my head, as if scrambling up flights of stairs was all part of a grand plan. When I got home I realized that the zipper on my pants had been down all day. I was chagrined for a moment and then found solace in the fact that I had at least been wearing underwear. See? It takes something pretty catastrophic to knock me off of my cloud. Not even taking a nosedive into the bleachers in front of a bunch of 6th graders on the first day of school, which happened this year, can phase me. Rest assured, Jason, that if something ridiculous goes down when we're together I will not turn into a shrinking violet, leaving you to bear the brunt of embarrassment. The word 'abashed' is barely in my vocabulary, and that's a good thing for everyone involved.

Reasons 111 & 112

Cat eye glasses and child actors. Today I attended a local production of Bye Bye, Birdie in which all of the actors ranged in age from 7 to 17. Don't laugh - it was free. Since the show takes place in the 1950's I thought it only appopriate to rock my bejeweled, black cat-eye glasses, despite the strange looks I received from the suburban soccer moms and their perfectly coiffed tots. I purchased the spectacles a few years ago at a thrift store so I would always be prepared to channel the spirit of the Pink Ladies from Grease, a movie I watched at least 50 times when I was in 5th grade. I'm tempted to put on the sleek pair every time I eat a Kraft dinner so that if a rhinestone comes loose I can whine "double doody, a diamond fell in my macaroni." Hmm, perhaps my parents should have done a better job monitoring my movie viewing habits. Anyway, Jason, you never know when you'll be invited to a retro-themed party, but when that day comes at least you will have a good friend who'll be happy to hang on your arm in her cat-eye glasses, whispering "tell me about it, Stud" anytime you need a little boost of confidence. I will, however, refuse to wear skintight leather pants. Bye Bye, Birdie also gave me a chance to practice my patience while I endured song and dance numbers that anyone not directly related to a cast member would't pay good money to see. Sure, a handful of the kids were pretty talented, hitting every note and hamming it up for the crowd, but most of the other young thespians couldn't project past the front row, master basic dance steps, or reach that high C if their life depended on it. I have attended more youth productions over the years than I can count, first as a student, then as a teacher, so I have built up a pretty high tolerance for cute kids with minimal talent. I'm sure one of these days, Jason, an exuberant cousin or niece will take a stab at being on stage and you will be expected to attend the entire performance without complaint. As your friend, I would be willing to sacrifice my time and sanity to accompany you to the little moppet's first foray into stage life. And, if the show is really terrible I can always take one for the team by faking an emergency and getting us the heck out of there. An unfortunate poke to the eye by a well-loved pair of glasses might be just what the theater gods ordered.

Reason 110

Volkswalking. What? You don't know what that is, Jason? Hmm, it could be because you are under 60 years old. For years I had been seeing little announcements in the weekend edition of the paper touting the fun and exercise that could be had at Volkswalking events and wondering what in the heck went on there. My mom knew a bit about the "sport," so we showed up to a New Year's Eve walk in Seattle three years ago and were instantly hooked. Basically, Volkswalk is a German craze that literally means "walk of the people." Hardcore walkers form clubs that map out various routes around the state and sponsor events for people who want to go on these walks. The kicker is we actually pay to go for walks. Yep, generally sane people who refuse to pay for bottled water because you can get the same stuff for free from the tap willingly throw down a hefty three dollars to participate in each event. What do we get for our $3? A stamp in our pastel-colored Volkswalk books. Once we accumulate enough stamps we get a patch. Oooh, aaah. Yep, we have clearly had a sip of the tasty German Kool-Aid and are going back for more. Jason, Mom and I would love to have you join us on a walk. All the old ladies in their unsightly walking shoes and fanny packs would love to fawn over you since good-looking, single men who still have all their own teeth are a rare sight at events. Other than the almighty stamps and patches, there are a number of benefits to Volkswalking. You get a fairly good workout, walking a minimum of 5K (that's 3.1 miles for the metrically-challenged among us), and there is usually interesting architecture and wildlife to take in. In the Seattle area you almost always soak up breath-taking views of either Mt. Rainier or Puget Sound and, if nature doesn't float your boat, the people watching is usually spectacular. Just imagine a gaggle of geriatric walkers, some of whom have the dexterity of Carl from Up, attemtping to read poorly written directions while hobbling along gravel paths. Good times. The only downfalls are having to pee in porta-potties or questionable park bathrooms (the one I used today had a pentagram painted above the toilet - human sacrifice in Puyallup, anyone?) and the desperate need for a coma-like nap after crossing the finish line of a 10K event. If you aren't doing anything next weekend, Jason, feel free to join us for a walk through the bustling town of Dupont. The first walk is free (that's how they get you!) and sometimes there's candy. How could you resist?

Reason 109

Cell phone etiquette. I don't know about you, Jason, but it really irks me when someone I'm with foregoes our riveting conversation to answer their cell phone. I understand picking up (or, rather, punching a button) if it's an emergency - say, you're waiting to hear back from that awesome job you just interviewed for or your significant other is about to go into labor or, dare I say, you are expecting a call from an actor you really admire - but is it really necessary to caress your phone every few minutes in desperate hope of receiving a banal text about whether your boyfriend should buy chunky or smooth peanut butter while running errands? I think not. It scares me to think that, as a culture, we are slowly losing our ability to interact with human beings face to face. Why, just today in the lunchroom at school two people were texting on their phones instead of talking to the other people around the table. Apparently, a lull in conversation that lasts more than seven seconds is too excruciating to bear. Jason, I vow to never check my cell phone when we are together. I will hang on every word that comes out of your mouth, laughing at the appropriate moments, rolling my eyes in response to your tales of incompetent coworkers, and nodding my head vigorously when you pose the question of whether or not puppetry should be a required high school course. Cell phone ettiquette is out the window, though, as soon as you hit the little boys' room. I'll whip out that sleek, red toy faster than a virgin unzipping on prom night, and text every detail of our tete a tete to my entire contact list. I am only human, afterall.

Reason 108

Weird sex fetishes. Most people probably wouldn't think it looking at meek, lil' ol' me, but I am quite liberal and open-minded when it comes to what consenting adults do in the bedroom (or car or office or on a Ferris Wheel...well, you get the idea). In college I toyed with becoming a sex therapist and after graduation I applied to work at Babeland, an incredible woman-owned toy shop in Seattle. In my Human Sexuality class I was the only one who researched the somewhat titilating topic of masturbation, while everyone else took the safe route, presenting on such vanilla topics as aphrodesiacs and the dangers of internet porn. Yawn. Jason, I will support whatever weird, kinky stuff gets your motor running, and I promise to listen to your bedroom tales without judgment. So, what are you into? Clowns? Real Dolls? Furries? Funky Mormon underwear? Fly your freak flag high, Jason. I can handle it.

Reason 107

A Soapdish moment. In 1991 a movie called Soapdish, which brilliantly satirizes soap operas, was released. It's chock-full of talented, well-known actors like Sally Field, Kevin Kline, Whoopi Goldberg, and Robert Downey, Jr., as well as two women who were lesser known at the time - Elizabeth Shue and Teri Hatcher. I watched this gem of a film the other day and was tickled (and a bit disturbed) by a scene where Whoopi, pretending to be a fan of The Sun Also Sets, approaches Sally for an autograph, in turn setting off a chain reaction of mall-going, suburban housewives clambering for a piece of Ms. Field. This little charade was orchestrated because Sally was feeling unappreciated and needed some ego inflation in the form of fawning fans. Jason, with the way your star is rising I can't imagine you can be out in public for more than five minutes without being ignored. If that day ever comes, though, and you need a little paparazzi pick me up, I will be more than happy to pull a Whoopi and give you your very own Soapdish moment. My only request is that you reenact Sally's famous Oscar speech and triumphantly shout "You like me, right now, you like me!" once the fans have you surrounded.

Reason 106

Safe harbor. I don't know if you've noticed, Jason, but Mother Nature seems a tad pissed off lately. Between massive wind storms on the east coast, neverending snow fall in the middle of the country, and frequent mud slides and wild fires in your neck of the woods, one can almost hear the clip-clopping of the Four Horsemen bearing down on us. Just today, in fact, there was an earthquake a few miles outside of L.A. The one part of the country that has been relatively untouched by nature's wrath is the great Northwest. Perhaps our obsessive-compulsive recycling efforts and infatuation with local farming have granted us a respite from the universe's perverse punishment of the good ol' U.S. of A. Jason, you are more than welcome to crash at my place the next time the Hollywood Hills are under siege by wind, rain, fire or maniacal publicity agents. The weather in Seattle is almost always pleasant (don't believe those pesky rumors about the rain), and even if the world is about to end we can hole up in my condo acting out scenes from different Muppet movies and gorging ourselves on homemade chocolate chip cookies. Not a bad way to go, if you ask me.

Reason 105

Jury duty. A few weeks ago I opened my mailbox only to discover, among the coupons and catalogs, a summons for jury duty. The letter starts out with an exuberant "congratulations!", so I was quite excited at the prospect of serving my civic duty, even though it would mean scrambling to find sub coverage, cranking out daily lesson plans, and returning to school each afternoon to make sure my students hadn't burned the place down in my absence. So far, so good. Today was my first day of this illustrious opportunity and it was jam-packed with a whole lot of sitting around. Apparently, the 8am call time was interpreted as flexible by some community members because we weren't tortured by the informative introductory video until 9:15am. Jason, if you and I were friends I could have spent that hour texting you all kinds of riveting details about the riffraff cozying up to me in the jurors' 'green room'. Everyone I know works a boring 9-to-5 job and would have been unavailable to conduct a texting marathon with me. I've been on film sets and know how much down time actors must endure, so I bet you could've found time for a chat while sitting in hair and makeup or waiting for NPH to finally learn his dang lines. Alas, we are not friends (yet), so I had to entertain myself by correcting vocabulary quizzes, reading a book, and inconspicuously checking out the smattering of semi-attractive, single men in the room. I may be chosen for a 10-day trial, so feel free to post your top secret phone number below. Receiving a "you just got lawyered" text would make the whole rigamarole worth it and, honestly, I'm not sure I can last two weeks on books and lesson planning alone.

Reason 104

Method acting. The past few days websites detailing every move made in Hollywood have been abuzz with the news that you and Ed Helms have signed on to star in the Duplass brothers' stoner comedy Jeff Who Lives at Home. It's probably no shock to those who have seen Freaks & Geeks or your films (or that notorious interview you and Paul Rudd did in England) that you will play Jeff, a pothead who still lives with his parents. Now, I'm not accusing you of spending quality time with Mary Jane, Jason, but I do know how dedicated you are when it comes to preparing for your roles, so I wouldn't be surprised if you went the method acting route and arrived on set everyday totally stoned out of your gourd. I bet the Duplass brothers would be thrilled by the passion you're exhibiting, although not so thrilled about the exorbitant craft service bills you'd be running up. I, myself, have never longed to be high, on marijuana or anything else sold in little baggies. In fact, I have never even smoked a cigarette. I would, however, be willing to ditch that goody two-shoes yoke hanging around my neck for a few hours in order to share some bud with you. My one requirement is it must come in chocolatey brownie form because, after 32 years of being smoke-free, I am not about to inhale anything other than food. Various miscreants I know have told me I'd be even more of a hoot than usual if marijuana ever worked its way into my system, so I think the two of us combined could have one hilarious helluva' time. So, let me know when you start filming down in New Orleans, Jason. I'll bring the brownie mix if you take care of the rest.

Reason 103

I'm ambidextrous. Well, kind of. I write with my left hand, but do just about everything else with my right hand. The one task I can perform equally well with both hands is feeding myself. Fork in my left hand? Sure, no problem. Spoon in my right? Yep, I can do that too, and I won't even spill anything down my shirt. This, Jason, means that whenever we are dining side by side we won't have to worry about bumping elbows while sawing away at our steaks or shoveling coils of pasta into our maws. I can sit to either side of you thanks to the magic of ambidexterity (is that even a word?). If you are ever invited to my mom's for a somewhat formal dinner you may have to remind her of my amazing talent because after 32 years of feeding me she still sticks me at the end of the table's left side for fear of me jabbing my neighbor during our meal. Since she is right handed, perhaps her stubborness of thought directly correlates to the left side of her brain's dominance over her body. How awful it must be to rely so heavily on only one sphere of the cerebral cortex. Perhaps one day everyone will be as evolved as me and humans will no longer have to fret over the dangers of single-handed dining. That would be almost as good as world peace.

Reason 102

A shaved head. Jason, I desperately hope you will never be stricken with cancer or some other strange disease that makes all of your hair fall out, but if you are I will happily shave my head in solidarity, despite the odd shape of my noggin' and the various bumps and divets that are currently hidden by my luscious locks. Now, don't go thinking I am the most magnanimous and least vain person you will ever befriend. Well, go ahead and think that if you want. Truth be told, I have always been intrigued by the idea of shaving off all of my hair, and your life-threatening illness would grant me the perfect opportunity to transform my 'do into something resembling a baby chick's fuzzy backside. So, if you ever get that devastating call from your doctor, feel free to swing by my place with some clippers. Who knows, maybe I'll look just as good as Demi Moore or Natalie Portman. And if not, I will graciously put up with your barbs about phrenology and cult member status and aliens - anything to take your mind off the disease I know you'll overcome. Afterall, good friends also have faith in one another.

Reason 101

Gum. I have long been a fan of bubble gum. It started when I was a wee child chewing on wads of Big League Chew the size of my fist. Then came my love affair with grape-flavored Bubble Yum, a short-term romance with Juicy Fruit, and a blossoming of affection for tiny bricks of Bazooka Joe that could chip your teeth and whose comic could always be relied upon for an eye roll or chuckle. I also hold a special place in my heart for original cinnamon Dentyne because throughout my childhood my mother always stashed a pack in her purse, and I always thought it was the perfect after-dinner gum when we dined at our favorite Mexican restaurant. Sadly, that kind of Dentyne is no longer produced, leaving me the option of sucking on a cheap mint that's been sitting in a bowl on the hostess counter for months or offending friends and family with my cheesy-bean breath. Over time my desire for gum has waned a bit and I find myself yearning for only half a stick of chewy goodness at a time. Every morning after savoring my double-chocolate Costco muffin (a little piece of heaven after 19 seconds in the microwave), I brush my teeth, tear a stick of Double Mint gum in half, and proceed to chomp on it until I get to work so my darling students won't have to suffer if I accidentally invade their personal bubble. What this means for you, Jason, is I almost always have half a stick of gum to share and I will happily do so with you. Sure, it's nearly impossible to blow a bubble with half a piece, but you still get the benefit of the flavor and gummy experience without looking like a masticating cow, which isn't sexy on anyone. Just promise me you won't ask for a piece before doing a televised interview or presenting some important award. I refuse to be a party to such disgraceful social etiquette.

Reason 100!!!

Song parodies. I have always fancied myself a word smith. In high school I wrote some embarrassingly angsty poetry, as well as some truly off the wall odes to teenage life. As I've mentioned before, I am also passionate about music. Now, a normal person would combine those loves to create memorable and heartfelt ditties that are ideal for entertaining friends. Well, I am not a normal person. My first year of teaching I decided to write a parody of "American Pie" for the end of the year assembly and things snowballed from there. Some lovely ladies who work in the office asked me to parody "Take This Job and Shove It" for an assistant principal's retirement party; three other teachers and I rocked the school talent show when we performed my version of "Baby Got Back" that starts out "I like big brains and I cannot lie" and continues to cleverly build on the educational theme; and last year the 6th grade teachers went a little nuts singing and dancing to my new version of "Y.M.C.A." called "Bye, Bye 6th Grade." Jason, I have a feeling your song parody skills, while perhaps not as honed as mine (or even Weird Al's - amateur!), are solid enough for the two of us to collaborate on the spot and dazzle people with our unique takes on such classics as "Ice, Ice Baby" and "Rico Suave." In honor of this 100th reason why you and I should be friends I have written a Segel-centric parody of "Papa, Can You Hear Me?" from Yentl. Luckily, my Muppet was free to perform this little chunk of comedy gold. So, sit back and enjoy, Jason. Maybe fire up the air popper, and keep your rhyming dictionary handy for our first stab at song parody perfection.

Jason (Segel), Can You Hear Me? song parody

Reason 99

CPR and First Aid. In the words of Julia Roberts as that famous hooker with a heart of gold, "I'm a safety girl." After college I worked with Americorps NCCC and one of the requirements before being released into the general public was three days of CPR and first aid training. Three days?! That's probably more than firefighters get. After suffering from a mild nervous breakdown and leaving Americorps, I got a job at a group home where, lo and behold, I was required to attend another CPR course. Two years of working with unstable teenage boys at the group home convinced me I would be an excellent teacher (hmm, I wonder if that moment of clarity was a direct result of my aforementioned breakdown). I'm sure you've guessed by now that carrying around a CPR certification card is part of the teaching gig. All told, over the past 10 years I have probably spent more time learning how to clear vomit out of an unconscious person's mouth than I have on dates. My god, that's a depressing thought. What's even more depressing is I have never had an occasion to practice all the knowledge I soaked up in those riveting training sessions. That's where you come in, Jason. If you ever break a bone, suffer a nasty gash on your forehead, or go on a bender and pass out in a puddle of your own vomit, I will come to your rescue. If you get any bodily fluids on the interior of my car, though, you're on your own. Upholstery cleaning wasn't covered in any of my classes.

Reason 98

Snail mail. I imagine it is quite obvious from the 97 other missives I've posted that I am a fan of the written word. Some say I use too many words on a regular basis. To them I say "bah!" Clearly, those cynics don't appreciate the power contained by text on a page. I also happen to be a naysayer when it comes to technology, mostly because all of the wonderful gadgets that consume our lives also tend to detract from the beauty, terror, passion, humor and kindness one can experience when her eyes drift from left to right, top to bottom, relishing every curve and straight line that delightfully connect, filling up the once-blank space before her (ok, that was a lot of words). Sure, people still write on a daily basis, but these messages are often brief, uninspired and, much to my dismay, filled with glaring grammatical errors. I fear we have lost a bit of our art and creativity with the advent of email and text messaging, and what's even more disheartening is that most people don't care. Well, Jason, I care. Which is why, if we were friends, I would vow to send you actual letters that you can hold in your giant hands. I would scour the greeting card racks at every stationery store I frequent in search of the perfect card for whatever occasion has befallen you. I would write a witty note or jot down words of encouragement, whichever was more appropriate, and then I would slobber on the flap of the envelope, afix a stamp, and send my heartfelt greeting on its merry way. If I had done my job you would chuckle gleefully or perhaps shed a single tear if you were moved by my words, and then you would clasp that card to your chest and thank the universe for bringing a person who supports the United States Postal Service into your life. Of course, all of this is contingent upon the price of stamps being reasonable, so don't get too hopeful. I love the postal system, but it seems the men and women in blue are getting a wee bit greedy with their demands for 42 cents. A girl's gotta' eat, afterall.

Reason 97

Olifactory loveliness. The last time you were on The Late, Late Show Craig commented on how good you smelled. Now, I don't remember you smelling either wonderful or hideous when we met in San Francisco (I was probbaly too stunned to notice), but I will take Craig's word for it. I, too, have been told by multiple people that the funk I exude is quite comforting. In high school one of my friends borrowed a sweatshirt of mine and held on to it for months, only relinquishing it when my smell had worn off. I don't know if it's my pheremones (which certainly don't seem to have an effect on the opposite sex) or the fruity products I use in the shower, but I have never heard any complaints in regard to the scent I emit. My classroom, on the other hand, smells like sweaty, pre-pubescent children on a daily basis, and I pray that that particular smell never attaches itself to me because people would run in the opposite direction when they saw me coming. So, Jason, no need to fret about your nose being offended when we meet (unless that meeting takes places in my hot, stuffy classroom). I promise to bathe thoroughly beforehand and even put a dab or two of perfume on my wrists. Go ahead and take a whiff - I won't think you're strange at all.

Reason 96

Booty traps? No, booby traps! Central Cinema, a kick-ass theater that shows older movies while serving delicious pizza and other savory concoctions, is hosting a Goonies quote-along tonight. Oh, Jason, why don't you live here so we could delight in doing the Truffle Shuffle together? Apparently, there will be Bingo, props and a costume contest, as well as a giddy audience of at least 50 dorks yelling at the Fratellis and giggling when Andy accidentally smooches Mikey in the cave. I read an article recently that mentioned the first screenplay you sold was remniscient of the Goonies plot, so I bet you hold a soft spot in your heart for that charming band of misfits and could impersonate Chunk retelling his movie theater puke debacle almost as well as I can. If you read this in time to catch a flight up to Seattle let me know. I will happily ditch my date to share a bowl of popcorn with you. That definitely wouldn't feel like I was babysitting and not getting paid, and I bet you'd even get a "Holy Mary, mother of God, would ya' look at that!" out of me.

Reason 95

Two words: Beth's Cafe. This hole-in-the-wall restaurant has been a mecca for Seattleites since 1954, and it would be my pleasure, Jason, to introduce you to it. Beth's is known for its breakfast (the burgers and such on the menu are really just to placate the crabbiest of diners), especially the 12-egg omelets (!) and bottomless hash browns. Yep, I said bottomless. Not that anyone could polish off more than one plate of the delectably greasy, yet crispy, shredded taters. Still, it's comforting to know the option is available. Beth's is open 24 hours a day, making it the perfect place to crash after a late show or a great way to cancel out the calorie defecit you built up by walking around nearby Greenlake. The waitstaff look like they stepped out of a magazine that profiles the hippest of the hip urban 20-somethings, yet they are friendly to everyone and genuinely appear to enjoy their jobs. The prices are reasonable, the plates are heaping, and customers are even encouraged to create their own art while waiting for the cook to yell "order up!" Most of the colorful masterpieces are taped to the wall, creating one giant mural that entertains and constantly evolves, to the delight of everyone who stops by. I'm sure the hostess would be happy to add your Crayola insights to the wall, Jason. I think a picture of us dining with Kermit and Piggy would fit right in with the rest of the craziness.

Check out Beth's homepage - mmm, bacon

Reason 94

Easter egg hunts. I know what you're thinking, Jason. Easter is still a month away, so why is this crazy woman writing about egg hunts? Well, once upon a time this crazy woman was a crazy little girl who set up egg hunts for her friends every season of the year (and once in awhile hosted a Thanksgiving dinner in July). When I got the urge to hide plastic ovum filled with crappy trinkets I no longer desired, I would simply call up my neighborhood pals and tell them to saunter over in 30 minutes or so. By the time everyone arrived there would be a cache of brightly-colored eggs tucked into various nooks and crannies all over the house and yard. Sometimes I would even hide a ginormous gold egg filled with a real treasure, like a candy bar or dollar bill. Oh, the brawls that broke out over that prize! One such egg-filled event cemented my best friend status with a lovely girl who lived down the street named Claire. Some other neighbor child dragged her over for the festivities and we became glued at the hip for the next ten years. It's amazing how hokey holiday traditions can bring people together. So, if you are ever in the mood to hunt down some eggs, just let me know Jason, and I will happily set up an elaborate eggstravaganza for you and a few friends. And just in case the super secret hiding places are too tough, I'll let you in on a little secret: there is always an egg in mom's silver teapot. Heck, there may still be one there from last year. That's why it's wise to use plastic eggs at our house.

Reason 93

Amazing Race dream team. Jason, how do you feel about eating gelatinous fish, milking ornery cows, and running a mile in your underwear in freezing temperatures? I say sign me up! If CBS is ever hurting to fill the slots for Amazing Race 32 and decides to pair up the pseudo-stars of its network shows with average Janes like me, you and I would dominate the competition. I've been watching the show since its second season, so I know all the tricks - calling every airline before booking a flight, exchanging currency before arriving in a foreign country, actually paying attention to the clues, wearing paper underwear so no backpack space is wasted...my travel knowledge is endless. I'm not sure which skills of yours would come in handy, though. Maybe you could put on a puppet show for kids in Ghana or drink your body weight in beer. As long as you promise to drive stickshift and eat all the disgusting crap foisted upon unsuspecting contestents, I'll take care of the rest. I can swim, I don't get airsick, I am only minimally fearful of heights, I have an excellent sense of direction, and no one would catch on to my ruthless, cuthroat ways until it was too late. Heck, not only would we smoke the competition, we'd also be the funniest thing on TV since teams carried cheese down a hill. Well, almost that funny. That shit made me laugh so hard that I cried. I'm counting on you, Jason, to contact the bigwigs at CBS. In the meantime I'll start cranking out matching t-shirts plastered with ironic sayings and our quirky team nickname.

Reason 92

Genuine appreciation of things that crawl, creep and slither. I am not one of those women who lets out ear-splitting shrieks or blubbers incoherently when she spots a spider or some other creepy crawly in the house. I have never been afraid of arachnids (although I admit to cringing every time I see the tarantula crawl across Joe Pesci's face in Home Alone), and growing up my favorite exhibit at the Wooodland Park Zoo was the Reptile House. In middle school one of my science teachers kept a boa constrictor in her classroom and I loved to stare at its smooth, undulating skin through the thick glass, wondering what it would be like to pet those scales and see its forked tongue flick in and out up close. Clearly I am not a girly-girl by any stretch of the imagination. Jason, I've never heard you mention a fear of spiders or other misunderstood creatures, but if your adrenaline suddenly shoots up when you notice some harmless bug circling your shower drain, I will valiantly swoop in to save you (and the bug). I am also one of those obnoxious people who demand these animals be carried outside in a tissue or cup so they can continue serving the greater good. Sure, I eat meat, but I am not a murderer!

Reason 91

Text speak. Jason, you have my word that I will never speak to you as if we were having a conversation by text. I'm sure you've seen these people. Heck, maybe you've even spoken to one. They're all "and then I was totally LOL and he was, like, OMG!" Now that I think about it, I deal with these people on a daily basis - they are called teenagers. Ugh. How sad, to watch the slow deterioration of the English language. I checked out a website of common texting acronyms and it listed 'alredi' as an alternative for 'already' and 'afair' as short for 'affair'. Really?! It takes too much time and effort to include one more freakin' letter in a word? I weep for the next generation. From this day forward I vow to never use the term ROTFL unless I am actually rolling on the floor laughing and, for some emergency purpose, must text my status to everyone in my contact list. BTW, thnx 4 rdng ths.