Reason 306 (kind of)

Before you get all freaked out, Jason, and call LA's finest, let me be clear: I'm not actually watching your house. In fact, after today's events, I'd say you're the one who's stalking me and I'm kind of ok with that. As much as I adore you I've been fairly overwhelmed lately with work, the adoption process, social engagements, general adult responsibilities, and planning a kick-ass, post-Christmas trip to Disneyland for the whole darn family, so please forgive me for not giving you even a tiny fraction of my attention. Sure, I laugh at your lame fish-with-no-eyes joke every time I see the ad for this season of HIMYM (can CBS edit together a new clip already?!) and once in awhile a friend mentions reading some juicy tidbit about my future BFF in a trashy magazine, but in general, Mr. Segel, you haven't been a blip on my radar. That is until today. It all started when, like a much funnier and smoother-skinned Freddy Krueger, you interrupted my REM cycle, dazzling me in Dreamland with your charm and boyish good looks. I'm not sure what actually happened in the dream, other than we hung out like old friends - well, old friends who also like to make out - but it must have been pretty excellent because when my husband woke me up I scolded him for cutting our time together short. Around lunchtime I stopped by Nordstrom Rack to buy some new unmentionables (called such because the word "panties" shouldn't be mentioned by a single living soul, I'm sure) and when I texted my hubby about my purchase he replied with some nonsense about you modeling the sexy underpants. Now, normally I wouldn't think much about you making an "appearance" twice in one day, but then while I was driving around town this afternoon my iPod shuffled up not one, but TWO different songs sung by the one and only Jason Segel. Considering I have just under 1,000 songs loaded onto my iPod and only 3 of them are performed by you, Jason, I had to conclude the universe is telling me something (and that my mp3 player has a weakness for Muppet-themed tunes). So, here I sit, pounding away at my keyboard, thinking lovely thoughts about someone 1,135 miles away whom I don't really know, but wish I did. Whatever you are doing at the moment, Jason, I hope you feel fulfilled and truly happy. As corny as it sounds, there are people in the world who think you are the bee's knees, despite only meeting you for a brief, drunken second in San Francisco so many moons ago. I hope that one of these days we can enjoy a sober tete-a-tete and that I can adore you in person.

Reason 305

Sage advice. Sure, I've only been on this planet for 36 years, but in that time, Jason, I have accrued an endless amount of wisdom (mostly based on ridiculous circumstances) and, as your best friend in training, I am willing to publicly share that wisdom if it means you'll be saved from making even one of the mistakes that I have made. So, listen closely (and try not to laugh too hard) as I cover a few "learning opportunities" from the past few years.

- I'm not sure if you're a runner, Jason, but if you ever feel compelled to lace up a pair of Nikes, pull on a pair of yoga pants, and run around the neighborhood, remember this: don't wear a pair of sexy panties under those curve-hugging pants. About 5 blocks away from your house you will come to the painful realization that sexy underwear generally doesn't offer full coverage of one's derriere. For the rest of your run you will think up ways to discreetly dislodge that small strip of black cotton from between your cheeks until you become so frazzled that you stop running completely and give actual consideration to crouching behind a tree so you can go commando. Not a good time.

- If you purchase delightful smelling peppermint body lotion you may want to think carefully about where you apply it. I would avoid, say, any sensitive areas of the body. I obviously have no idea if your lady pillows are as responsive to menthol as mine are, but let's just say it isn't fun feeling like someone has set your boobs on fire.

- Based on conversations I've had with my husband I think it is safe to assume that men don't experience the same loss of bladder control that women do as they age. One day you're turning cartwheels in the front yard, not a care in the world, and the next day you laugh a little too hard at a friend's idiotic joke only to realize you have peed your pants a bit. If, however, you know exactly what I am talking about, Jason, perhaps you'll find an experience I endured a few years back beneficial. It was the end of the school year and the 6th grade team decided it would be great fun for our students to skip class for an hour and play games in the gym. Yay for exercise and all that. One of the stations consisted of two long jump ropes turned by smiling students who were more than willing to help a teacher embarrass herself by encouraging her to show off all of the jaw-dropping jump rope tricks she learned as a wee child. Well, it only took a couple of jumps before I became more concerned about showing off how quickly I could get pee to soak through to my pants. In mid-jump and without one word of explanation I ran off to the staff bathroom to assess the damage. Luckily, my jeans were only mildly damp in the crotch region, although certainly too wet for me to casually saunter back into the gym. Those eagle-eyed tweens would be onto my fashion faux pas in a second. So, I spent the next 15 minutes or so locked in that bathroom, frantically alternating between rubbing my jeans with paper towels and blowing on them. Not my finest moment as an educator.

- This last bit of advice doesn't need much explanation. Let's just say it isn't wise (or romantic) to share certain information with your lover while riding him like a cowgirl in reverse. Specifically, to let him know that the new frozen yogurt shop across the street finally opened...and that the crappy pizza place was finally closing. There's no recovering from such a blunder (although putting your clothes back on and grabbing a cup of delicious fro-yo doesn't hurt).

I think I'll stop there, Jason, even though I've only skimmed the top of my pool of embarrassment. Hopefully my tales of awkwardness and discomfort will save you from making similar humiliating missteps in the future.  If only I could have saved you from signing on to a few of the movies you've made. Sigh.

Reason 304

Personal cheerleader. Being one of those lucky people who was born and raised in the Seattle area, I have long been an advocate of reducing, reusing and recycling, which means I have a plethora of reusable grocery bags living in the trunk of my car. Plastic bags at checkout? Don't make me laugh. One of my favorite totes has pictures of various Muppets plastered all over it. Yes, it's totally fabulous, but it's also a great conversation starter. Practically every cashier who is lucky enough to lay hands on it breaks into a huge grin and comments on how much they love the Muppets. In fact, I just jogged over to the Safeway across the street and witnessed this very behavior. When I copped to being a bit of a Henson fanatic the clerk nodded exuberantly and started chattering away about the most recent movie, which my BFF (that's you, Jason, if the last 303 reasons didn't clue you in) happened to cowrite and star in. Being the most excellent friend that I am I praised you thoroughly, lauding your work in "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" and sharing that I had met you briefly in San Francisco and that you were just as funny and gracious as I had hoped. Of course, both times we interacted you were bombed out of your mind and not even sure how a pen worked, which isn't the best tidbit to share when defending the awesomeness of someone (unless I'm defending you to a barbaric fraternity member who frequents pimps & hos parties and thinks women's liberation is about going braless). It would be nice to have a few more appropriate stories in my back pocket to whip out whenever a cashier, or anyone for that matter, starts gushing about Jason Segel to his very own bestie. That's why it's imperitive we hang out more frequently...or really at all. I can only cheer you on from the sidelines for so long. Eventually I'll realize that cheering for you is great and all, but being on your team is a lot more satisfying. Take note frat boys, that's what women's lib is all about.

Reason 303

Rebellious behavior. As I strolled around the neighborhood this morning with my dog I thought to myself "Other than that whole masturbating in public thing, I am just like Peewee Herman right now." You probably wouldn't guess it by looking at me, Jason, but I can be pretty wild sometimes. In high school some of my friends and I ran around my school's soccer field topless (in complete darkness so no one spotted a single nip, but still, we were wild, WILD I say!) and just the other day I left work at 2:58, two minutes before teachers are contractually allowed to leave for the day. Well, this morning I decided to crank up the rebelliousness a notch and roam the streets of my sleepy neighborhood sans bra. That's right, I was out in public without mammary support and didn't care who noticed. Sadly, I don't think anyone noticed since we only saw one other person and he was concentrating on breathing regularly so he wouldn't collapse while running up a monster hill. Still, I felt like quite the daredevil with my girls jiggling about under two layers of clothing, and I daresay I'd go bra-free again if a dear friend (wink, wink, nudge, nudge) encouraged me to slip into my sexy little rebel pants. Heck, maybe I'd even "forget" to put underwear on under those pants! Nope, that's pushing things a little too far. A chubby girl going commando can only lead to chafing and nobody wants that.  B-cup and bra-less, though? Count me in.

Reason 302

Guinea Pigs. One of the best things about getting a pedicure is access to trashy celebrity-centric magazines that I normally don't read because I am too cheap to shell out $3-4 to find out that a Kardashian has gained weight or poor Lindsay is back in rehab. Sure, having a woman lovingly shave dead skin off the bottom of my feet is swell and a deep tissue calf massage feels sublime after a long week of schooling children, but neither of these activities is complete without a little Hollywood dirt. Yesterday I was reading one such rag and came across a brief bit of news about you, Jason Segel, my future BFF. Turns out you have come up with an idea for a YA book series about kids overcoming their fears and are shopping it around town. I don't know a ton about book publishing, but you should probably peddle your wares in NYC since the LA publishing world doesn't extend much beyond maps of star's homes. Anyhoo, I'm sure I have mentioned, Jason, that five days a week I teach darling 6th graders about the awesomeness that is reading, attempting to sway them to devour certain titles so that their humdrum lives will finally have purpose and meaning. I am quite the fan of humorous action series, which is apparently what you are attempting to write, and that genre of fiction is deeply loved my most of my students. If you ever need to bounce an idea off of some potential fans or get feedback about a chapter or two, I will happily offer up some classroom time and force my children to submit to a read-aloud. It's the least I can do for such a good friend.

Reason 301

The wall. When I was a volunteer with Americorps my teammates and I were forced to participate in some hokey team-building activities at an off-season summer camp in the middle of New Hampshire. One of the exercises required us to help each other up a 9-foot wall using nothing more than our arms and legs. Now, I have never been a small woman and I also happen to be a tad fearful of heights that aren't enclosed, so attempting to scramble up a completely vertical wall while people I'd known for a month or two were pushing on my butt and yanking on my arms was not my idea of a good time. After five minutes of listening to my teammates grunt and groan and me falling to the ground several times, I threw up my arms in frustration and called it quits. I did not give a shit about getting to the top of that wall. Fast forward more than ten years to last night when I ran into a wall even bigger than the one that defeated me on the other side of the country. My husband and I found out a few months ago that, after more than a year of trying to get knocked up, I would never be able to conceive naturally because my Fallopian tubes were scarred beyond repair and would have to be removed. That meant our only hope of having a baby biologically was via IVF. We're about a week away from egg retrieval, which means I have been shooting a variety of hormones into my belly for over a week now, as well as getting ultrasounds and blood draws done frequently. Last night I hit the IVF wall and, boy, did it hurt. The thought of intentionally jabbing a needle into my belly fat for several more days is practically paralyzing and the hormones make me want to lay in bed all day feeling sorry for myself and stuffing pastries into my gaping maw. Several tear-stained and snot-filled tissues from last night's pity party are in the garbage can next to my bed and I imagine there will be more joining them after tonight's fiesta. All in all, it's been a magnificent last twelve hours. So, what does this all have to do with you, Jason? Well, in some circles you're known as a pretty hilarious guy, and if we were friends I'm sure I could count on you to call me up and regale me with ludicrous tales from your Hollywood life, which would distract me from all those needles, medications, bills, and the fact that the lovely folks at the fertility clinic are more familiar with my cootch than my dear husband. You could help me over that wall, Mr. Segel, and put a smile on my face while doing so. And if you ever find yourself standing in front of a wall that's a little too tall for you to climb, I'd be right there, pushing on your butt and cheering you on.