Reason 277

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

Reason 276

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

Reason 275

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

Reason 274

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

Reason 273

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

Reason 272

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

Reason 271

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