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"?