Reason 313

Racquetball. In the last month I have rediscovered my affinity for a sport where small blue balls zip past my head at unsafe speeds and I unsuccessfully attempt to smack them with a tiny racket. For reasons unknown to man, the racquetball skills possessed by my husband, who isn't the most athletic of fellows, have improved by leaps and bounds, while mine seem to be more on the trajectory of toddler-sized hops. And yet I continue to play against him a few times a week. Such a masochist. At least I am entertaining in my gracelessness. Turns out I'm kind of like the John McEnroe of the local racquetball scene (if that scene actually existed), throwing mild tantrums and swearing up a blue streak when I miss easy shots. I'm also a bit of a rebel, playing sans safety goggles despite signs posted outside the courts encouraging players to protect their peepers and the pleas of my dear friend Emily, who is convinced a ball is going to get lodged in my socket, creating a vacuum that will suck my eyeball clean out. Have I mentioned that some of my friends are insane? Anyhoo, I hear you get your endorphins pumping by putting a bike between your legs, Jason, but if you ever want to squeeze in a game or two of racquetball and come away feeling pretty darn good about your athletic prowess, just let me know. I may even consider wearing safety goggles, if you promise not to destroy me too badly.

Image source: http://www.johncandy.com/videos/images/imgVidThumb_64.jpg

Reason 312

Kick-ass librarians. After speaking at the American Library Association's midwinter meeting this year, you must be aware, Jason, that librarians are some of the coolest people on the planet. With all of the time I spent in public libraries growing up, I already knew this, but now that I have switched careers (see reason 310) I get to witness such awesomeness on a regular basis. A few weeks ago I wrapped up a year-long library media endorsement program at the University of Washington and today I passed a grueling on-line multiple choice test, which means Washington state officially recognizes me as one of those kick-ass librarians I referenced a few sentences ago. I don't know how it's possible, but I am even cooler today than I was yesterday, all because of a little piece of paper. Just think, Jason, how many incredible librarians I could introduce you to if we were besties. I mean, you haven't partied until you've spent Friday night with a bunch of censorship-hating bibliophiles, drinking beer, eating triple chocolate cake, and watching a couple of dogs play tug of war in the backyard. Don't even get me started on the raucous games of Cards Against Humanity! I'm blushing just thinking about some of the perverse cards that were thrown down on my dining room table last week. Of course, I have met a few less-than-stellar librarians in my lifetime (I'm talking about you, cranky lady at the Newport Way branch who wouldn't let me use the phone to call my mom for a ride home), but thankfully they seem to be few and far between. So, the next time you're in town I promise to introduce you to some of my colleagues who consistently blow my mind with their passion, innovation and dedication to this profession of mine. Just promise me you'll brush up on your knowledge of Dewey beforehand. I'd hate for you to feel left out when all of us start cracking jokes about MARC records and you think we're talking about Mr. Antony's latest album.

image source: http://www.quickmeme.com/img/a3/a3b9a8def0c03992594ad87663795cd7a1353bb4de82195d4a17301b68da2272.jpg

Reason 311

Big days. I'm sure you don't realize it, Jason, but you were present for two of the most important days of my life. Since I'm one of those obnoxiously modern feminist types who questions traditional gender roles, I decided I couldn't wait for my then-boyfriend to get his act together and propose; I'd be a genuine spinster before he got down on one knee and professed his undying love for me. Not because he doesn't adore me, but rather because he is a procrastinator to the nth degree. So, I took the bull by the horns and, in front of many friends and a few strangers who had had too much to drink, I sang Lewis a medley of songs that reflected the evolution of our relationship, ending with "Marry Me" by Bruno Mars. As I'm sure you've surmised, my dear friend, he agreed we'd make a fabulous married couple (and we do) and then we celebrated with cupcakes and a very well-received rendition of "Life's a Happy Song" while the accompanying movie clip played behind us. So you see Jason, you were actually present the night I got engaged. You also made an appearance on my wedding day. Once the vows were said (and I must say they were delightfully funny), rings were exchanged, and Lewis planted a big, wet, lickery kiss on me, we blissfully waltzed down the aisle flanked by family and friends to the smooth stylings of one Mr. Jason Segel, BFF extraordinnaire. That's right - our wedding song was "Life's a Happy Song". Seemed like a better fit than "Dracula's Lament". Now every time that ditty shuffles up on my iPod I get a ridiculously dopey grin on my face and am transported back to that overcast day in July when we threw the best darn wedding most guests had ever been to. I mean, bacon was served. Need I say more?

I'd like to think I've supported you on a few of your big days, too, Jason. I drove over twelve hours to be in the audience the first time you performed in the San Francisco SketchFest and I was there a few hours later when you performed a second time. I've also attended quite a number of opening nights for your movies. I'm sure my $12 tickets made a huge impact on the box office stats for "Forgetting Sarah Marshall", "Despicable Me", and "Bad Teacher", I probably convinced at least two other people to see those flicks after posting my impressions on some social media site. This afternoon you are making an appearance at the Barnes & Noble at the Grove in L.A. and, while I won't physically be in the room with you, I will most definitely be thinking about you and sending positive vibes your way. A few days ago, when I found out you'd be signing books on the same coast I happen to live on, I actually consulted my calendar and checked on airfare to your hometown. Then I realized it would be a tad insane and stalkeresque to fly to L.A. on a Saturday morning, rent a car, maybe chat with you for one minute while you scribbled your name in my copy of Nightmares!, and then hop on a flight home that evening. I love you, Jason, and a plate of chilaquilles rojas from the Mexican joint at the famed Farmer's Market next to the Grove would've made my tummy extremely happy, but I just can't justify the trip. Also, I already have plans for tonight to celebrate my dear friend Tamara's birth and it would be really lame to bail on the unavoidable craziness that is bound to occur in the presence of  nine, acapella-singing gay men. Despite my absence, I'm sure you'll have a stellar turnout, Jason. I wish you all the luck in the world and pray that your hand doesn't cramp up from all the autograph signing you're bound to do. If you happen to drop by a bookstore in Seattle to promote your new book I promise to be in the front row, grinning maniacally and totally creeping you out. That's just what best friends do.

Good on ya'!

I am happy to report, Jason, that I finished Nightmares! last night and thoroughly enjoyed it. Congrats on writing a funny book with a great message that doesn't treat kids like they're idiots and will also appeal to adult fans of kid's books. My copy will be added to my school's library collection so many others can root for Charlie as he battles his demons, and you can bet your sweet bippy that I'll be talking it up. Looking forward to the second book, sir!

Reason 310

A match made in heaven. It's been a busy couple of weeks around here, Jason, and it looks like you're keeping busy too, with all of the interviews you're giving for your new book. A huge congratulations, by the way! Between filming awkward sex scenes with Cameron Diaz and wrapping up the final season of HIMYM, I am quite impressed that you managed to co-author a children's book. Now, unlike you I haven't been maniacally pounding away at my keyboard as of late (which is pretty obvious from my lack of blog posts). I have, however, filled many hours trolling Pinterest for eye-catching bulletin boards, sifting through piles and piles of highly regarded picture books, and committing new biblio-centric acronyms to memory. Why would I submit myself to such delightful pursuits, you ask? Well, after teaching squirrely 6th graders for nine years I decided to shift gears and become a teacher-librarian at an elementary school. Holy cow, I bet you didn't see that one coming...unless you know me really well and know that I am obsessed with children's and YA books and basically spend all of my free time at the public library and have stacks and stacks of unread books covering the floor of our spare bedroom and always pack at least 10 books when I go on vacation and have the word "read" tattooed on my wrist and, well, you get the picture. I guess my acceptance of this new gig isn't much of a shocker after all. Anyhoo, it seems rather serendipitous that I should become a book peddler for the elementary set around the same time that you're peddling a book to that demographic. See? We're a match made in bibliophilic heaven! Feel free to stop by school any time for an author visit, Jason, or send a boatload of autographed copies of Nightmares, or drop in via Skype for a quick interview during check out time. The kids won't mind if you interrupt my riveting read aloud, although you'll have to top my wizard outfit, which includes an exquisite hand-whittled wand made by my adoring husband. Well, I should probably wrap this up, throw on my Muppets pajamas, snuggle down under the covers, and start reading your book. I'm looking forward to taking a peek into your psyche, Jason, and wish you all the best on this new venture of yours.
picture source: http://schlitterblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2014/05/peanutbutterlover.jpg

Reason 309

Home visits. My husband and I went to Disneyland last week and decided to squeeze a morning of LA exploration in between days at the happiest place on Earth. We strolled along the Santa Monica pier, held our noses as we explored the La Brea Tar Pits, gorged ourselves at the oldest farmer's market in the city, and swung by Jim Henson Studios for a photo op in front of the gate (which, let's admit, was probably the most exciting thing we did that day). It turns out that Chateau Marmont is a mere few blocks from Kermit's home and since I know you live within stumbling distance of the famous hotel, Jason, I thought it only appropriate to swing by for a quick visit. Well, it turns out it's awfully difficult to find someone's house without the actual address. The Internet was no help at all, only generating images of you exiting a door while holding dry cleaning or some such nonsense and pics that were posted before you purchased your house, which provide absolutely no kind of neighborhood context clues. Harumph. It would be so much easier on me (and my ridiculously patient husband who indulges my every whim) if I had my best friend's home address. Not only vould we have had a lovely visit, Jason, but we could have invited you to join us at Disneyland the next day. Who would pass up such a glorious opportunity?! I don't plan on being in the LA area any time soon (because, honestly, what Seattleite purposefully spends time outside in 85-degree weather), but the next time I'm heading your way, Mr. Segel, I will expect an invite.

Reason 308

Vanity. I am not what most people would consider to be a vain person. Looking gorgeous has never been a priority and I admit to being flummoxed by the billions of dollars women spend each year on make-up, hair care, weight loss products, and plastic surgery. Even on my wedding day, when I was photographed incessantly, all I put on my face (other than a big dopey grin) was some mascara, eye shadow and lip gloss. This isn't because I am a natural beauty who dazzles everyone she meets with just a wink and a smile. Nope, I would just rather put my time, energy and money towards other things, like reading the latest YA masterpiece, perfecting my chocolate chip cookie recipe, and singing ridiculous impromptu songs to my dog until he runs away in fear. Even at the height of teenage insecurity, when my face looked like the bumpy, reddish surface of an alien planet and my hair would have made Paul Mitchell drop dead in horror, I happily directed the spotlight to me, going as far as playing Tuba Ruba in front of strangers at parties (here's a link to the commercial, Jason, in case you aren't familiar with this, um, incredible game from the 80's: click here to have mind blown). Scary, isn't it? And to think I wrapped plastic tubes around my body and writhed around like a drunken fish out of water in front of other human beings. Like I said, vanity isn't really my thing, which will probably come in handy when I'm hanging out with my future bestie with some testes, one Mr. Jason Segel, and we are tailed by soulless paparazzi. I will have no problem looking like an idiot on camera in an attempt to keep those stalkers from snapping less than flattering pictures of you scratching your bum or picking your teeth or...whatever it is you do when you think no one is looking. The one thing I will ask for in return, though, is your willingness to have a couple of photos taken of the two of us together. You see, the one picture I own of me with you, my dear friend, was taken several years ago when I weighed about 25 pounds more than I currently do and, while my heart is filled with joy every time I glance at it in the frame with The Great Muppet Caper album cover you signed for me, I look rather puffy and tired. Besides, you're looking much healthier these days too, so it only seems right to have a more accurate representation of our fabulous selves hanging in my TV room. We can enjoy one moment of vanity, I guess, and then promptly return to acting like fools, no matter who happens to be watching.

Reason 307

My awesome ringtone. A few weeks ago I finally fulfilled a long standing dream and made The Muppet Show theme song my ringtone. Now anytime someone calls, whether they be friend or foe, I do a happy dance around the kitchen, the gym (which can be dangerous on a treadmill), the grocery store - you get the picture. In fact, sometimes I purposefully let the call go to voicemail because I am so entranced by the fabulous ditty. What more proof do you need that our friendship is written in the stars, Jason? You certainly shouldn't need, say, 364 other reasons. I even promise to pick up my phone when you call...although probably not until the last 5 seconds or so. Not even someone as considerate as I am can be expected to turn off that brilliant tuba intro!

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.

Reason 300

Psychic connection. A few days ago I woke up with a dopey grin on my face as I attempted to cling to the last wisps of a delightful dream I had about my clandestine BFF. That's right, Jason, you and I were traipsing around Disneyland, enjoying all of the rides and over-priced souvenir shops, with nary a pesky fan interrupting our perfect blue-sky-and-sunshine day with requests for pictures or autographs. To be honest I was quite surprised that my subconscious was conjuring you up. It isn't that my cerebral cortex doesn't adore you, Jason, whether it is light outside or not, but rather that my brain has been occupied with other things the last few months, like planning a wedding, writing oodles of thank you cards, starting back to work, and berating my uterus for being too old and crotchety to properly house a fetus. Oh, the joys of being 35. Anyway, as lovely as my dream was it was all but forgotten by the time I arrived at work where 75 tweens were waiting with bated breath for my lesson on reading disabilities (I killed it, by the way). It wasn't until the next evening when my dear friend Tamara posted an article on my Facebook page that I realized why my subconscious had been acting up. It turns out that you had flown into my great city with your current squeeze, the very talented Michelle Williams (I totally approve), the very day that I dreamed about you. Shock and awe! The only conclusion I could draw after hearing such news was that we have some kind of psychic connection, especially since your first order of business in Seattle was to stop by Cupcake Royale, which is hands my favorite cupcake place in the area. I hope you enjoyed a Triple Threat for me. Since you are such a magnanimous guy you posed for a photo with two of the employees and that picture made its way to the blogosphere where Tamara happened upon it and immediately alerted me of your presence ( Jason with the lovely cupcake crew). I am thrilled that you finally made your way north to the Emerald City since the first time we chatted you admitted to never having been here, but I do admit to being a tad perturbed that you didn't track me down after the strong case I have built for our friendship. Lucky for you I forgive fairly easily. Much like an elephant, however, I rarely forget, so next time you're in Seattle I fully expect you to invite me out for a cupcake or I may be forced to find a new bosom to buddy up to. Consider yourself warned, Jason Segel.

Reason 299

Geeky deals. I'm sure my friends would agree that when it comes to fashion, I am a veritable encyclopedia of style and knowledge...if the only entry in that encyclopedia was about wearing jeans and t-shirts every single day. That said, it should be no surprise to anyone that one of the first things I do each morning is check the daily offering at shirtwoot.com, a website that sells a different t-shirt 365 days of the year. The designs are often hilarious and geeky, a fabulous combination for folks like me, and contributed by artsy nerds who also worship at the Church of Woot. A few weeks ago the daily deal was a shirt emblazoned with the word "inconceivable" with each letter referencing a person or event from "The Princess Bride," which, as everyone knows, is the best movie ever filmed that includes Fred Savage, screeching eels, and a world-famous wrestler with a speech impediment. Without thinking twice I clicked the "I Want One" button and sent twelve bucks off onto the information superhighway. Last week my shirt arrived and, after doing a mortifying happy dance in front of the mailbox and tossing My Precious into the dryer to loosen a couple wrinkles, I proudly sported the latest addition to my wardrobe around town. Most people stared at the pictures in confusion, clearly not cool enough to have watched "The Princess Bride" at least fifteen times. My five year-old niece gave me a once over and asked "Um, what's on your cool shirt?" Since she's only five and hasn't had her mind blown open by six-fingered men and drunken Spaniards with incredible fencing skills, I filled her in. She blinked at me and went on eating her ice cream. I have a feeling, Jason, that you would understand my shirt the minute you saw it and that you would be so consumed with envy that you wouldn't be able to sleep for days. Of course, all of that pain could have been avoided if we were friends because any time Shirt Woot's daily deal referenced an iconic 80's movie or the Muppets or something equally awesome, I'd call you immediately and convince you to buy it. I know you'd be gracious enough to do the same for me. It still smarts that I missed my chance to buy a shirt with a giant donkey pinata on it that advertised El Guapo's Pinata Emporium. My debilitating pain could have been avoided, if only we were friends.

Reason 298

*I actually hand wrote most of this post over a month ago in my dinky dollar notebook, but I'm such a procrastinator that I'm only getting around to typing it up now. Sigh.

Great minds. When it comes to bestie duties I admit, Mr. Segel, to slacking off recently. I had every intention of seeing "Five Year Engagement" the weekend it opened, but life, as it often does, got in the way and I didn't get to view your glorious backside on the big screen until last week. Now that I have seen your hilarious take on the evolution of an adult relationship, my belief that you are secretly my brother from another mother has only been cemented even more snugly into my delusional psyche. You managed to co-write and produce a film that has my chocolate-smudged fingerprints all over it. Let's put on our CSI hats and examine the facts.

1. The engagement ring. Your character in the movie, Tom, proffers a gorgeous vintage ring to Violet (played marvelously by Emily Blunt) when he pops the question on a restaurant rooftop in San Francisco. Instead of purchasing a traditional diamond engagement ring Tom opts for one with a brilliant ruby surrounded by teeny diamonds glinting in a round setting. Since I was the one who proposed to my fiance (who will be my husband in 2 days - eeee!) I got to pick out my own engagement ring, and what was my eye (and heart) drawn to a midst all the snazzy bling at the jewelry store, but a spectacular silver ring with a sapphire set in a circle of teeny diamonds. Seriously, Jason, get out of my head!

2. Top Chef reference. I jumped on the Top Chef bandwagon a little late, but once I discovered the competitive cooking show there was no turning back. Since much of "Five Year Engagement" revolves around the culinary world it makes perfect sense that a character would utter the soul-crushing line made famous by Padma: Please pack up your knives and go. I'll have to start working that into my conversations. Do you think parents would have a fit if I curtly dismissed unruly students from class with that little gem?

3. Pickle peculiarity. Sure, I enjoy a dill pickle every once in awhile, but I certainly wouldn't consider myself to be an afficianado of the briny vegetable. My fiance, however, is another story. He is mildly obsessed with pickles and demands a jar of the bumpy green things live in the back corner of the fridge at all times. Heaven help us the day he needs a fix and the pickle jar is empty. Sometimes I think it would be easier if he mainlined pickle juice instead of wasting precious minutes actually chewing his food. So, you can imagine how tickled he was when the character who owns the small-town sandwich shop goes on a pickle rant in front of a customer, chastising her for choosing a type of pickle for her sammy that was clearly an abomination in the eyes of pickle-lovers everywhere.

4. Faking orgasm. Nora Ephron (R.I.P.) wrote what is probably the most famous film scene in history about women faking orgasm in her masterpiece "When Harry Met Sally", but it wasn't until you sat down to scribe "Five Year Engagement" that the world would glimpse the truth about men faking orgasms. In an awkwardly hilarious bedroom scene your character, Tom, is not particularly enamored with Violet, his fiance, despite the fact that his nether parts are doing the nasty dance with hers (oh, the things we do for the people we love). Their normal passion and playfulness has been replaced by a dreadful feeling of sex-as-drudgery and it is vividly clear to the audience that neither half of the charming couple is enjoying themselves. In order to get the whole sweaty mess over with Tom pretends to have an orgasm, jumps out of bed when he's "done" and ambles off to the bathroom, but not before disclosing his dirty little secret - it was all an act! After both cringing and guffawing through this scene I realized I had once had a conversation with my (other) best friend Steve about the possibility of a man successfully faking climax. It was an enlightening chat and I always thought it'd make great material for a romantic comedy. I guess I need a new plan now that you've stolen my thunder, Jason.

5. Walking the aisle. I hate to spoil the end of "Five Year Engagement" for all ten of my dedicated readers who missed out on such an endearing and authentic portrayal of 30-something love, but I can't, in good conscience, wrap up this post without mentioning Tom and Violet's walk down the aisle. After five extremely trying years, our lovebirds decide to have a semi-impromptu ceremony in a beautiful park. Tom picks a band from the two Violet have lined up, they both change into fancy duds behind sheets held up by family members, and then joyfully clasp hands and walk down a grassy aisle toward their future. Since I see myself as an independent gal who doesn't put much stake in wedding traditions I have chosen to forego the whole  "being given away by my father" thing and instead walk down the aisle, hand in hand, with the love of my life. I know Tom and Violet would approve of the offbeat wedding we've planned (and I bet you would too, Jason, if you had been wise enough to befriend me ages ago and snag an invite). Perhaps by the time you're ready to get hitched you will have come to your senses, and I will be grinning like an idiot as you vow to spend the rest of your life with a very lucky lady...after walking down the aisle together, of course.

Reason 297

Totally engaged. It has been said, especially of Hollywood wheeling and dealing, that timing is everything. Well, Mr. Segel, three weeks ago I sang my heart out in front of a bunch of strangers, gave a bumbling but charming speech, and then proposed marriage to my incredible boyfriend of ten months, Lewis. You can pick your jaw up off the floor now. He, of course, said yes, although it did take some encouragement to get him up on stage. Hmm, maybe that isn't a good sign. Won't dwell on that little detail. When my future fiance finally arrived at my side I slipped a swanky handmade LEGO ring halfway down his finger (the man has some meaty hands) and then made out with him a bit too gratuitously, considering my parents were in the audience. We noshed on some delicious cupcakes, retreated to our booth in the front row, and basked in the nauseating glow of love the rest of the evening. A bit later we got back on stage to perform "Life's a Happy Song", replete with Kermit headgear, the perfect end to a perfect proposal. You're probably wondering, Jason, how the aforementioned romantic shenanigans support my years-long quest to be your bestie. To that I say, isn't it obvious? You and the lovely Emily Blunt made a film last year called "The 5 Year Engagement" which opens nationwide in just a few weeks on April 27. Now, I'm not saying that I planned my brilliant proposal to coincide with the release of a romantic comedy about my BFF being engaged for a bazillion years, but it does seem a wee bit fishy. See how supportive I am of your career, Jason? Or are you being supportive of my pivotal life moments? I think my brain just exploded a little bit. Whichever the case may be, you can count on me to drop release date info into any conversation I have about my engagement from here on out. I'll promote the taffeta and tulle out of your movie, and I won't even expect you to mention my engagement at all the press conferences you're sure to slog through (although a congratulatory phone call or email wouldn't be frowned upon). I hope the film has a very long run...but I hope Lewis and I have a longer one. Cheers!

Reason 296

Public humiliation. Despite being a bit fanatical about music I opted out of watching last night’s Grammy awards so I could correct piles of homework while enjoying the sweat and tears of fat people on NBC who are battling it out for a cash prize, confetti falling from the ceiling, and a body that appears overly tanned and a bit too gaunt for my taste. God, how I adore reality TV. I did, however, catch a handful of performances as well as one brief acceptance speech by that cheeky lady from across the pond who has worked everyone into a thither with her melodic album chronicling the heartbreak caused by a man who did her wrong (and, let’s be honest, the man was most likely British and suffered from poor dental hygiene, so she’s better off). No, I’m not talking about Susan Boyle, although I bet she’s cheeky in her own right. Your ubiquitous co-star, Mr. Neil Patrick Harris, presented a humble Adele with the award for Song of the Year and, while she was the picture of class in a chic black dress as she sailed up the stairs to the stage, the moment was shattered when she faced the audience and started chomping away on a piece of gum. Gum! Poor Adele looked like a cow who’d been slipped a plug of chocolate-flavored cud, masticating away, her face contorting in ecstasy as she savored her moment in the spotlight. You can bet your sweet bippy, Jason, that if you are ever nominated for any kind of award, whether it be for Best Chest Hair in a Summer Teen Comedy or the GD Nobel Prize, I will discreetly remind you to spit out your gum, even if that means into my very own hand, before you run screaming up to the podium to nab your statue and do a joyous end zone dance. As much as I adore Adele’s soaring voice and feel akin to her because we are both members of the Chubby Lady Club, I can’t get past her very public gum faux pas, and I would hate to think that one day some fan of yours would be scarred for life because of a similar debacle that could have been prevented if only you and I were friends, Jason Segel. Sheesh.

Reason 295

Missed opportunities. I know I've mentioned it before, but Seattleites are crazy about movies, most likely because it's dark and wet here a significant portion of the year and we'd much rather cozy up to a loved one in a dim theater than spend time in the elements, encouraging moss to grow in our nooks and crannies. It turns out there's also a plethora of Muppets fans (not pinatas) in the Emerald City, as indicated by the Jim Henson retrospective the Seattle International Film Festival organization held throughout the month of November. The Muppet trifecta of films (the original, The Great Muppet Caper and Muppets Take Manhattan, for those who need to brush up on their fuzzy puppet studies) was screened a couple times, there was a Labyrinth quote-along with sock puppetry shenanigans in the lobby, several collections of Henson shorts were rolled - basically, it was heaven for geeks like us, Jason, who never outgrew their love of Kermit and the gang. Alas, I am pained to admit I didn't soak up any of Henson's cinematic glory because I didn't have a die-hard friend to accompany me. Sure, my loving boyfriend offered to sit through Muppets Take Manhattan, my personal favorite, but humming along to "Together Again" while he rolled his eyes at me just isn't my cup of tea. My brother tried to get me to take my nieces to a showing of something, anything, just so he'd have some peace and quiet, but juggling the needs of an easily distracted 5 year old and an almost-3 year old who wants to touch everything and everyone isn't my idea of a fun Saturday afternoon; at least not if we're out in public. So, when all is said and done, I missed out on a few little slices of childlike giddiness all because you haven't taken it upon yourself to drop me an email or stalk me on Facebook or send a carrier pigeon my way. Think of all the other amazing things we'd enjoy together if only you'd worship at the Temple of Sarah. Sigh. Friends or not, Jason Segel, if SIFF screens a bunch of guilty pleasure 80's flicks like Teen Witch and The Monster Squad some weekend you can bet your sweet bippy that I'll be at the box office when it opens. Some opportunities simply can't be squandered.