Mean Girls Monday: Genesis

Teevee Time: Tonight, tonight won’t be just any night, or, Ready to get “Lost” … Final Ed.

Portions of this entry have appeared before.

When I overhauled my life last year, I discovered that I am not a big guy for the television (except for 30 Rock, though even that I just periodically catch up on using the hulu), so I — without fanfare or officialdom but just mainly and casually — quit it nearly altogether in favor of holing up under the covers with a book or lurking in the batcave on the computer. However, the one show I stopped watching but have never stopped thinking about is Lost, the final episode of which airs tonight.

Nevermind the crisp and bullocks. Give me that rum. Mmm — Dharma Initiative-y.

I’ve mainly kept up this year and now I find myself looking down the barrel of the final episode. The thing is, almost literally everything in my life has changed since I first heard about and, a few months later when it premiered, began watching this show. I mean everything. Like, other than my gender, I have changed pretty much every other aspect of my life. I’ve had a child, earned a degree, married, moved, moved again, split up, shook up, sometimes I even throw up, overhauled career and self, set new goals, I mean, jeebus — I’ve been all over the map physically and emotionally since I first tuned in to this program.

L to R: Almanzo Wilder, Nellie Olson, and Laura Ingalls “Half-Pint” Wilder.

(Not pictured in the above shot: Velociraptor cyborgs and the ghost of Abraham Lincoln’s clone. Yes, clone — the Good One. The Evil One went rogue and was shot by government agent and island native John Wilkes Boothe. Oh, historical snap! Eventually they killed the Good One too and his ghost haunts the island now because it is all just Agent Mulder’s dream.) I remember one time a friend telling me that he’d hit rock bottom and I agreed I’d done the same — but we also concurred that suicide was for neither of us an option because then we would never know what happens on the last episode of Lost. Does Gilligan pick Ginger? Or Mary Anne?? Aw, just kiddin’, rabid Losties. He picks the Skipper, duh!

Who is a pretty princess?? Daniel Faraday is a pretty princess! I ♥ this character in an embarassing way, the sort of way for which I would mercilessly mock others.

It is sobering to consider how different a person I am now than I was when this interest began. I cannot even begin to count the ways, and it’s actually starting to freak me out. So now I am preparing to throw on pyjamas, pick up pepperoni pizza, and slide on down to Gorgeous George’s with the kidlet to watch the finale of Lost, and, in a wider sense, take another step toward closing what has been a very tumultuous chapter in my life.

Catch you on the flip side. (“See you in another life, brutha.”)

Spoiler: I can’t believe Darth Vader is Charles Widmore’s father.

Monocle Monday: Dino-mite tat edition

Happy Monocle Monday, dino-mite edition!

If you must get a tattoo, I will not make too much noise over this one, chitlins.

This shot pretty much fires “awesome” on all six cylinders; if I had a gun to my head and someone was like, “You HAVE to get a tattoo to prove you believe in at least one thing, E, or we will kill the people you love most!” I would frantically shout back, “Okay, okay! — I assume I will never stop thinking a t-rex sporting a monocle with top hat and balloon bouquet is pretty great, so, fine — tattoo that on my untouched milky skin, you fiend!” and be pretty much okay with it. (Seriously, my skin is caramel-macchiato-con-skim-leche-fine paradise. You will probably never experience it. What is that like, suckaaaa?)

So, it is political! You’re a Communist!

No, Mr. Green, Communism was just a red herring.

I went to the Target earlier today with my mother. She was there for Tilex and I was there to buy a new booster seat for the car for my kidlet.

While there, I got two separate comments in different encounters—with people who I am sure did not even know each other or shop near each other while at the store—about my shirt. It was a red shirt with a yellow hammer and sickle on it. The symbol of Communism.

When my mother saw me in it, she had said merely, “I haven’t seen you wear that in a while,” and I’d replied, “It’s Labor Day; it seemed appropriate.” We laughed and were off to Target. But I got the sense that the first woman I saw was offended.

She was getting her infant son out of her backseat as we were getting out of my mother’s car, which was parked adjacent to hers, and the woman said to her son loudly enough for us to hear, “Oh, my. That’s the hammer and sickle, you’re too young to know anything about that,” which I guess is true enough; I mean, the kid is too young to know pretty much anything about anything except eating and pooping on which topics he was basically born an expert, but there was something weird about her demeanor as she said it. I think she wanted me to say something back. Despite my written rants, however, I am not the sort to get in to a conversation with strangers if I can avoid it, so I avoided it.

Later, I was picking up some Pond’s Cold Cream in the cosmetics section because I roll OLD SCHOOL (seriously, Pond’s Cold Cream, baby soap, and witch hazel are the only things I put on my face and I attribute my good skin and relatively youthful appearance to this habit), and a young woman passing with a cart said, “I like your shirt,” and clearly meant it, like she wanted to particularly express to me that she earnestly liked that I was wearing it. Which was just as strange as the other woman, although more pleasant.

I’ve had this shirt around four years and never heard a peep about it: once I even accidentally wore it to a Chinese restaurant (got a few double-takes from the waiters but mainly no attention at all). I find it very strange that people zeroed in on it today, at the Target of all places, like not really an open forum for debate, I’d think. Are we in a climate of increased sensitivity to dissent or just fuckin’ WHAT.