Reason 293

Wildlife Safety. In the last month or so I've read several news stories about not-so-smart humans having disastrous encounters with our ursine brethren. I'm not sure why Yogi and his clan have suddenly become hungry for human flesh (perhaps it has something to do with people destroying their beautiful, tree-filled habitats), but I'm fairly confident, Jason, that if you and I ever frolicked through a meadow in bear country, we would be just fine. How can I be so certain? Well, for one thing I'm intelligent enough not to leave delectable morsels next to my car/tent/bicycle or slather my luscious body with honey (heaven forbid Winnie the Pooh track me down and lick me from head to toe). I was a Girl Scout once upon a time, so I know to hang food from tree branches (or extremely tall older brothers), out of reach from a grizzly's razor-sharp claws. Also, armed with the knowledge that mosquitoes aren't partial to my blood, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't taste good to a bear either. He would probably take a chunk out of my meaty thigh, spit my flesh out in distaste, and amble off in the opposite direction, warning his friends not to bother with the gamy, two-legged creature hanging out with every bear's favorite movie star. This past July I spent a week in Whistler, B.C., where I encountered twelve adorable brown bears, one of them from about 50 feet away during a morning jog. None of them seemed the least bit interested in me...much to my disappointment. Lastly, I grew up watching old Disney live-action films like The Parent Trap, and if those precocious twins taught me anything it's that bears simply detest the sound of two sticks banging together (especially when created by a gold digging, sour-faced socialite who would clearly make a frightful stepmother). All in all I think it's pretty clear you have no reason to fear a bear attack once we're friends. Unfortunately, Jason, I can't say the same if we're hanging out in Seattle's gay neighborhood and a different kind of bear catches your scent. You're on your own for that one.

Reason 292

Video Game Interpretation. As a child of the 80's I've always fancied myself a bit of a gamer. As previously mentioned I still own my original NES and Super Nintendo and gleefully hook them up a few times a year to get my Super Mario fix. Heck, in high school I even spent a few afternoons testing games for Nintendo, something that always grants me cool points by my impressionable 6th graders. Well, Jason, this weekend I attended PAX, the Penny Arcade Expo, and had my mind blown by the level of passion and commitment some people in this country have in regard to gaming. And, let's be honest, the lack of hygiene and social skills was fairly impressive, too. PAX was started in 2004 by two Seattle geeks who write a web comic and thought it would be cool to celebrate all the weird and wonderful aspects of both video and board game culture; athletes are encouraged to stay home that weekend smashing beer cans on their heads, or whatever those muscled folk do. Over the years PAX's popularity has exploded - this past weekend 60,000 nerds and the people who love them filled Seattle's Convention Center to capacity, giving a shot to the Emerald City's economy and bringing downtown traffic to a screeching halt as drivers ogled scantily-clad ladies in anime outfits and gentlemen in homemade homages to Spandex-loving superheroes. My eyes will never be the same. Suffice it to say I was completely overwhelmed and totally out of my element. It was like I'd been dropped in a foreign country armed with only a granola bar and limited knowledge of retro games to help me survive. Luckily, my boyfriend (that's right, people!), whom I acquired in May, is a self-proclaimed geek who works as a software programmer, so I had my very own guide in this strange new world; all he asked for in compensation was a few tawdry sexual favors. A pretty good deal, I think. Since PAX is so popular I think it's safe to assume Seattle will host the shindig again next year. Fingers crossed, my rock star programmer boyfriend will still think I'm worth his time and will generously bequeath one of his company's 3-day passes to me so I can enjoy another trip to this alternate universe. If that's the case, Jason, you are welcome to be our 3rd wheel (trikes are way cooler than bikes, anyway). Since most of the PAX participants appear to be basement-dwellers who spend too much time playing World of Warcraft and watching their SIMs have sex, they've probably never enjoyed HIMYM or "I Love You, Man" so you'll be free to wander around the Exhibition Hall, glassy-eyed with wonder, without fear of being molested by a fat guy in a Spiderman suit. I'm pretty sure my boyfriend will happily school you on all things PAX-related without expectation of sexual favors. I bet dollars to donuts that Wil Wheaton, nerd king of the convention, wouldn't make the same offer.

Reason 291

Knowing when to quit. When witnessing someone give up on a task, like running a mile or patting one’s head while simultaneously rubbing one’s belly or even performing an at-home circumcision on your 3 month-old using an instructional YouTube video (yes folks, that actually happened this week), some people love to spout what they believe to be the following motivational cliché: winners never quit and quitters never win. Well, Jason, I say that’s hogwash! Sometimes quitting is exactly what a person should do. In fact, I’ve done it several times and miraculously my self-esteem didn’t plummet lower than the ratings for the final season of “Heroes”. In high school I participated in an exchange program that allowed me to attend a sister school in the swanky Boston suburb of Newton. Ever since my middle school years, when I spent thousands of hours swooning over New Kids on the Block, I had my heart set on going to college in Boston, so it seemed logical to test the east coast waters my junior year and go on exchange. Well, color me surprised when I arrived in Bean Town and everyone walked around with an invisible stick lodged firmly in their bums and my classmates tried to impress me with talk of getting wasted at parties with the male soccer players from a nearby school. Toto, I thought, we are definitely not in Kansas anymore. I was used to laid-back liberals from the “best coast” who swilled endless cups of Starbucks coffee and chatted excitedly about literature and film, instead of booze and hand jobs. My three-month stint in Massachusetts was cut short by a month or so and, though I felt a tad guilty about jumping ship, I was thrilled to be back in my rainy hometown among like-minded teenagers. For college I decided to stay in familiar territory and journey a thousand miles south or so to Scripps College outside of Los Angeles. I planned on working in the film industry after slaving away for four years and southern California just made sense. Plus, I had gone to an all girls’ school for eight years, so the vagina-friendly Scripps seemed like an excellent match. Well, Jason, I bet you can predict what happened. That’s right, I was fairly miserable so far from home (the suffocating heat, smog, endlessly brown environment, and lame parties just didn’t float my boat), so I packed up my bags in May with no intention of returning next Fall. Anyone sensing a theme? Flash forward three years when I have graduated from the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma (30 miles south of Seattle) with a useless degree in Sociology and no clue as to how I want to spend the next chunk of my life making money. The film industry was still calling to me, but I wasn’t ready to head back to L.A., so I joined Americorps with grand ideas about giving back to my community…in Maryland. Blerg. I agreed to participate in the program for 10 months, but somewhere around the 6-month mark a cloud of depression started following me around so, in order to maintain my usually sunny disposition, I bid farewell to my service comrades and flew home, vowing to never move away from the Seattle area again. So far, so good. Looking at my history a small-minded person may consider me to be a quitter. I prefer to see myself as someone who is smart enough to walk away from a miserable situation to avoid transforming into a murderous lunatic. As your friend, Jason, I promise not to scold you when you give up at something that is slowly sucking all the joy out of your life. In fact, I will applaud you for being wise enough to get the hell out of there and never look back (your involvement in Gulliver’s Travels was a fine opportunity to practice this philosophy; ah, hindsight). I guess ultimately it’s all about knowing what’s worth slogging through and, luckily for you, I’ve decided I’m not going to give up on this blog. It may take me another year to complete, but one day I will write the 365^th reason why you should befriend me. Just like those sexy closeted men from Brokeback Mountain, I can’t quit you, Jason Segel. You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.

California, here I come...

On the off chance that you're free next Saturday, Jason, I thought I'd let you know there is a 93% chance that I will be frolicking in Disneyland that day. I'm flying into San Diego to spend much-needed time with my current bestest friend and both of us would be happy to have you join us in the Magic Kingdom. Plus, if you come to me it will be a lot less awkward than me setting up a stakeout outside your house. Just think of all the fun we could have - geeking out while we watch Captain EO, complaining about the park changing the Swiss Family Robinson experience into a Tarzan reference (I mean, really), guffawing at the corny jokes told during the Jungle Cruise, taking way too many pictures of us posing like Indiana Jones while waiting in line for his kick-ass ride, trying to freak out the other tourists by making eerie noises when our Doom Buggy inevitably stops in the middle of the Haunted Mansion - the entertainment options are limitless. I promise not to complain if I get drenched on Splash Mountain (well, I'll keep the kvetching to a minimum), vomit on the teacups, or force you to go on Dumbo, which may be the lamest ride in the whole place. Just shoot me an email if you're up for some rip roarin' shenanigans and we'll start planning the Disneyland trip of a lifetime (or at least of February 2011). If you play your cards right I may even treat you to a pair of personalized Mickey ears. How could any red-blooded American resist?

Reason 290

Personalized songs. As I was driving home the other night from yet another completely uninspiring first date, a little ditty came on the radio that managed to buoy my spirits and make me think that life as a celibate nun might not be the right path for me afterall (especially since I'm a perverted atheist). I don't know what kind of pact the follicly-blessed Hall and Oates made with the devil, but they have written some of the catchiest, bubbliest, most smile-inducing songs of the pop music genre and when "Sara Smile" lilts forth from my speakers, all my romantic angst just disappears. There's something magical about hearing one's own name in a song and I am fortunate enough to know of  three songs that contain mine - the aforementioned 1976 classic, "Sarah Maria" by James Taylor (yes, it's obscure, but I went through a phase where I just adored the former heroin addict), and the song that everyone, to this day, feels compelled to sing to me, "Sara" by Starship. That little gem was released in 1985 when I was eight years old and I still remember eagerly looking forward to my elementary school's yearly outing to Skate King (why do roller rinks always smell so weird?!), wondering if this would be the year a cute boy asked me to skate during the Snowball Session while a soothing voice imparted timeless wisdom from the DJ booth - that's right little 3rd grader, no time is a good time for goodbyes. Well, after thinking about all of these amazing songs written just for me (we'll ignore the fact that some artists can't spell Sarah correctly), I realized I don't know of a single tune written about the Jasons of the world. How sad for you, my friend. I guess I will have to take it upon myself to concoct a brilliant opus all about my future BFF and the things he loves. Obviously, there will have to be a Muppets shout out, props to Disneyland, a few amorous words for your hometown, and perhaps even a line or two about your membership in the full frontal film club since folks keep bringing that up even though you made Forgetting Sarah Marshall over three years ago (Jason Segel has a penis - get over it, people!). Let me know if my lovely lyrics should include anything else. There's no guarantee I'll include your suggestions, but, as your amigo, I will do my best to keep a straight face while you opine on the wonders of flip flops or some other tragic fashion craze you seem partial to.

Reason 289

Deadlines. For those of you who have been keeping track, today marks the anniversary of my phone chat with a very talented, handsome, Muppet-loving gentleman who answers to the name Jason Segel. The morning after that awkward conversation I started this blog in an attempt to convince Mr. Funny Pants we should be friends. If all had gone according to plan (and let's be honest, nothing ever does), this would be my 365th post. I would have faithfully shared reason after reason with my adoring public (or at least my fawning parents and supportive friends), reaching the one-year milestone with a blissful smile on my face and Jason seated on my comfy couch, bowl of popcorn in his lap, ready to watch The Muppets Take Manhattan. Alas, I have not been as dedicated in recent months as I once was, neglecting my bid for friendship in favor of more worthwhile pursuits like cringe-worthy first dates and eyeballing the filth in my bathroom with disdain. I did, however, over the course of the year manage to act like a complete dolt in front of Jason three times and squeal with girlish glee when he posted a comment on this very blog, which only reinforced my unhealthy ambition of becoming Segel's bosom buddy (1980's drag outfits and cheesy sitcom script not necessary). Looks like stalking has some benefits, afterall. Despite my recent apathetic approach to wooing you, Jason, I still strongly believe we'd get along like gangbusters, and since you're so hip I know you'll forgive me for letting the deadline for completing this blog whoosh by me like air between a certain blonde celebutante's ears. In my 33 years of living I've learned the importance of flexibility; the world will not come to a crashing end if every single deadline isn't adhered to, especially those we set for ourselves. Once we're thick as thieves, Jason, I'll happily remind you of this any time you're up against a deadline and your agent is breathing down your neck. Life is too short to be slaving away at a keyboard, cranking out new pages for what's sure to be Carrot Top's comeback movie. I'll even forgive you if you neglect some friend-related due date. Just don't forget my birthday or there will be hell to pay. We Leos do not like to be ignored.

Reason 288

Snow madness. I don't know if this holds true for your sunny neck of the woods, Jason, but for at least the last month all the local media outlets have been warning Seattleites about an impending visit from a fesity little lady called La Nina. Apparently, she's stopped by the area before and wreaked all sorts of havoc. Meteorologists have been prediciting the worst winter in over 50 years and people have been waiting with bated breath to see if there is any truth to their mumbo jumbo (we all know meteorology isn't a real science). Well, on Sunday night that weather system made an unexpected house call, sprinkling adorable irridescent snowflakes all over the Puget Sound. The citizens of my fair city became giddy at the thought of catching flakes on their tongues and showing off their most recently purchased cold weather togs. Then Monday morning arrived and La Nina had become a woman scorned, determined to ruin every adult's commute and grant every child's wish of school getting cancelled by dumping inch upon inch of the white stuff up and down western Washington. Snow-pocalypse had begun (I swear I heard the clopping of 4 sleigh horses in the distance). Now, when it snows around here people freak out just a little. Ok, more like a whole lot. Sure, we can handle 100 days of rain in a row, but if a quarter of an inch of snow accumulates on the ground all common sense goes straight out the window. It probably doesn't help that the local news stations track every blip on the Doppler radar, send lowly reporters to the tops of every hill covered in a sheet of ice to film cars sliding out of control, and interview little old ladies who are bound to slip on the sidewalk and break a hip if the cameras run long enough. We can't escape the snow insanity. Last night I watched the news at 9:30 before I went to bed and when I woke up at 6am and turned on the TV I swear the exact same segments were being aired. With the amount of time our news anchors spent chatting about the pregnant woman who was stuck in traffic for 5 hours, one would think there is nothing important happening anywhere else in the world. Um, didn't someone fling a bomb at South Korea? If you are ever on location filming a movie in my great city, Jason, and there's snow in the forecast, don't be surprised if the entire western region of the state shuts down. I'll be happy to shine some light on the mass hysteria and then drive you to the nearest Safeway so you can stockpile a week's worth of canned goods in your trailer. Julie Andrews may think snowflakes are fine and dandy, but around here they are certainly not one of our favorite things. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go put on a 4th pair of socks. Should I be concerned that I can't feel my toes?