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.