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.

Reason 294

Musical genius. Ok, I may not be a prodigy like Beethoven or some dancing 3 year-old on YouTube, but I do have a pretty good ear and my familiarity with popular music, especially from the 60’s-80’s, teeters on the edge of ridiculousness. Last night I was reminded of why this seemingly useless skill may come in handy one day (other than at those parties when I am motivated to kick complete ass at Cranium and musical Catch Phrase). My boyfriend and I, after watching the classic Steve Guttenberg/Ally Sheedy movie Short Circuit last week, decided our lives would not be complete until we’d spent 90 minutes of our Sunday evening viewing the sequel, aptly named Short Circuit 2. Yep, movie producers were pretty creative back in the day. Anyhoo, the scene from that little cinematic gem that always stood out to me is when Fisher Stevens and Michael McKean are trapped in the freezer at a Chinese restaurant and manage to communicate with the leading lady’s answering machine through a series of keypad beeps strung together to resemble ditties from the 50’s and 60’s. They start with “Help Me Rhonda” to alert the heroine that they are in danger of losing appendages to frostbite, and then tap into America’s “directional songbook” with tunes likes “Broadway” and “Dock of the Bay” (go to Broadway and then drive toward the Hudson docks, obviously). The first time I watched this sequence I thought it was brilliant and twenty+ years later my opinion hasn’t changed much. Yes, I know I am easily impressed. An hour after watching Johnny 5 gain US citizenship, I drifted off to dreamland with visions of you, Jason, kidnapped by nefarious, Muppet-hating villains with only an old-fashioned telephone keypad at your disposal so you could tap out a musical Morse code into my voicemail box. Being the musical genius that I am I would immediately recognize the opening strains of “Help!” by the Beatles and race off to rescue you before those evildoers forced you to watch as they tore off Kermit’s fuzzy limbs. See, it pays to be my friend, Mr. Segel, if only it means you’ll sleep soundly each night, confident that I’ll accurately interpret the chorus of “Build Me Up, Buttercup” as “I’m trapped at the nearest nursery. Save me!” Just don’t send “Witch Doctor” over the telephone lines; “ooh eeh ooh ah ah ting tang walla walla bing bang” would have me completely flummoxed.

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.