The Chronicles of Marge

I Know Who You Are, Ellie

Team Darlton knows me very well. We have an episode devoid of Sayid and what do they give me: the love story of the century with Desmond and my best gal pal Penny. But wait, that's not all...they named their son Charlie! Hobbit lovers the world over swoon with delight and women everywhere reach for the box set of “Pride and Prejudice,” which really has nothing to do with “Lost,” but what else is a girl to do when a TV show makes her so happy?

Anyway, I admit my thoughts last week were weak, but my brain is kicking into high gear now, and boy, do I have a theory for you now (which I’m sure you all have figured out but please pretend that you haven’t so that my self-esteem can get a quick boost; it’s winter and all—I NEED THIS.)

But before I lay it out for you, let’s discuss a few other things. First, we know where the Desmond/Penny story is leading us: to the high possibility that my best girl will meet a sad and tragic end at the hand of a revenge-seeking Ben. If Widmore really wanted to keep Penny safe, he would not have given Desmond the address for Daniel’s mother because any dumbass out there can tell you that Desmond and Penny are in love for eternity and why would they ever part ways again? Stupid man. But Widmore is actually playing Desmond because he knows that to get back to the island he needs certain pieces of the puzzle to fall into place—he needs Desmond to relay Daniel’s message, and my hunch is that the island is more important to Widmore than his daughter is. Yeah, not winning Father of the Year. That would go to your son-in-law. Take a note, you dipstick.

So Richard and John first meet in 1954, where Richard is prompted to go search for John a few years later at his birth. Therefore, it is John who suggests to Richard at this point that John is the island’s leader. It makes sense to me now why Richard is always suspect of John’s leadership abilities—I mean, he got the idea from the man who wants to be king of the jungle. John has self-created his destiny in so many ways but largely based on what other people feed him. He’s much more a pawn than he ever recognizes or, I think, ever wants to be. God bless him.

Dear Daniel Faraday: Get rid of the effin’ tie, man. Is that shit safe in the jungle? No. It is called Death by Strangling, and although it may never happen because I believe you are a key player in the shenanigans, it is a real possibility. You’re going to get that thing caught on a tree branch and then the Black Smoke will appear and you’ll run and then you’ll slip and fall and that will be that and Miles will detect your corpse years later when he walks by that tree and he’ll be all, “Death by tie, man.” So SAFETY FIRST, fool.

Also, we know how you like your women: strawberry blonde with a British accent and a touch of nosebleed and the need for a bedpan totally in her future. Dude, if I were Charlotte, I would have had a reckoning with you after the second nosebleed. But apparently, this woman is under your “spell” and trusts you completely and you threw in a very matter-of-fact ILY in front of strangers and this is all just part of your game. And we know this because you’ve got Theresa, your strawberry blonde #1, hooked up to machines and being cared for by Widmore. I think you’ve run some human subject testing on Charlotte too and you know there’s little you can do for her but let her bleed out all over the island. I say, MAN UP.

Which leads to The Large Marge Theory of the Week: Did anyone else catch it when Ellie seemed to recognize Daniel when he was first captured? Do you know who she actually is? HIS MOTHER, Eloise Hawking, who Desmond is on his way to see. And do you know who his father may turn out to be: Charles Widmore, who is on the island back in 1954 and 20 years later probably hooked up with his island crush to create a manorexic, pencil-tie wearing, physicist nerd, who just happens to know more about what’s going on than any character who started out on the show in Season 1.

By the way: too much eyeliner, Richard. It reminds me of 1994, which looked something like this:

Sweet lord.

Lost: Season 5

OK Friends of Lost, you’re going to have to prepare yourself this season for some delayed recaps from Marge. I know. It is horrible, but life is hard and you don’t always get what you want. And to those of you who are dissatisfied by this, I say the following: you obviously never sat in the car in the driveway of your house as an adolescent for 45 minutes waiting to leave on a family “vacation” (read: camping in a tent and fighting mosquitoes) while your father discovered several last-minute activities that he had not thought of the day before that had to be done or else the world as you knew it would end, so you sat there, squished in the back seat of a Ford Ltd Crown Victoria with your sisters and a box of crayons and an ugly pink elephant and three pillows and three security blankets and three sets of very skinny elbows all over the place, and there goes dad across the yard with a bucket of water and then he appears with a rake—which was my dad’s nice way of saying “SUCH IS LIFE, SUCK ON IT.”

Back to the subject at hand: I’m struggling with what to say about the 2-hour premiere of Lost. Maybe it’s because I’ve spent the last 8 months deprived of critical thinking skills, which obviously I don’t use in my real life, or maybe my heart is still recovering from watching a certain someone flop around the screen like a raggedy doll, to which I say:

Dear Family Reyes: Please handle The Sexy with care. Also, Dear Team Darlton: Thank you for bringing The Sexy back into my sad, sorry life, also known as Winter. Finally, Dear Jack Shephard: Thank you for reviving The Sexy—and for shaving, finally. No wonder Kate didn’t call you: she thought you were still sporting that abomination. It was gross, but it is gone now, and please don’t ever grow it back.

And now for my thoughts. Overall, I wasn’t blown away by the premiere. There was no cha-ching! moment for me; there was no great feeling of satisfaction at 11 p.m. However, I think Team Darlton took a few blatant (admitting to time travel) and several subtle pieces of the puzzle and laid them out for us. Here are some of my thoughts:

A Skipping Record. I love how Team Dartlon will wind a theme through the seasons. They do this better than any other TV show I’ve seen. First, our opening scene gave us a fellow getting out of bed and putting some Willie on the turntable. The fellow turns out to be Marvin Candle: Family Man, Television Personality, and Bowel-of-the-Earth Scientist. His few minutes on screen left me with many questions, but I will only ask this series here: The baby he was feeding—was it born on the island? Was it possible for babies to be born on the island at one point? Did the release of energy from the special wheel somehow prevent women from having babies on the island? Because from what Mr. Candle said, it didn’t seem like the energy had yet to be released, that the special ladder to the wheel had yet been created.

Second, Faraday, still in need of a bowl of pasta smothered in heavy cream sauce, described the island as a skipping record, which was obvious from the multiple flashes that our Losties went through. I think I counted four (correct me if I’m wrong): the first jumped back to pre-camp days, then ahead to post–hatch destruction, then back to “Brotha, I only wear Hazmat when I leave the house” days, and finally to pre-Juliet’s arrival on the island, a time when punishment for not carrying the proper ID was a swift off-with-her-hand. And although this was not mentioned, were the jumps happening every 108 minutes? Furthermore, are the Losties now the only ones who can jump time? Ageless Richard seemed to suggest to John that he was staying put in his current time frame and that John was the one jumping around. Did the exit of the O6 shake things up this greatly? Will their return put the island back in order, you know, as orderly as a whacked-out, acid-trip of an island can be?

Seventy Hours. When Ms. Hawking, the least positive player on the scene (you know, Jack shaved the beard, so at least he’s moving in the right direction!), told Ben that they had 70 hours, I think she meant 70 LA hours, which leads me to wonder if the O6 story this season will be encompassed in the 70 hours between Ben lighting a prayer candle and the O6 returning to the island. Whereas the time frame for the Losties back on the island could be totally different. I mean, these folks have the distinct possibility of ending up back in the 1840s, manning the Black Rock and having a swashbuckling good time.

Brief things I’d like to mention: Best Example of Advice Taken Seriously: Sayid to Hurley: “Whatever Ben tells you, do the opposite.” Hurley then throwing his Hot Pocket at Ben and running gladly into the arms of the police rather than follow that man’s directions.
-Best Quote: Hurley to Sayid: “Maybe if you ate more comfort food, you wouldn’t have to go around shooting people.”
-Best Blast from the Past: Ana Lucia as a traffic cop.
-Did anyone else think that one of the officers who came to Hurley’s house was Abaddon?
-Large Marge Theory of the Week: Daniel Faraday’s mother I think is Ms. Hawking. I mean, doesn’t she look like someone who would hold back food as a punishment for her children?

As always, please share your thoughts, and here’s to hoping that the O6, Ben, and Locke in a coffin come roaring back to the island in a DeLorean. Now that would be sweet indeed.

A Closer Look

Dear W:

Your February issue has presented us with the floating head of Brad Pitt. As well as a close look at his pores, which sent me straight to the bathroom where I inspected my face for, like, an entire hour in the mirror and surmised that although my pores may indeed be larger than Brad's, my salary is still smaller. I also have fewer children, equaling exactly zero, and I've never gotten to see my bare chest on a movie screen. The latter of which, I'm sure, is a great disappointment to The World.

However, regardless of what I may think of this cover or its contents, W, you've made me look more closely at my life and come to peace with the very important above-mentioned realizations, for which I thank you.

Sincerely,
Marge

Number Twenty-Three

Dear Single Women of the World:

I come in peace, and with what I hope is a great gift: How to Attract Yourself a Man Without Even Trying, Technique #23: Bicycle and Spandex. My true story follows:

On Tuesday evening on the way home from work, Miss Betty Blue and I are working our way up a hill in the bike lane on MLK. As I approach a small side street, I notice a man emerging from his car, which is parked at the corner. The man is walking in my direction and wearing this "I hope I don't have to wave my arm for you to stop and talk to me" grin, and I'm all, "Great, if he thinks I carry jumper cables on my Trek 1500, then he is gonna be a sad sorry case of Shit out of Luck, and furthermore why on earth would he stop me while I am going UP A HILL, as if that is ever the way to start a relationship, buddy." Anyway, I stop because what's a girl to do when she knows that Said Man will find her in the exact same place the next day.

Anyway, he says hi and asks if I want some bus passes. He pulls out what looks to be a thin set of cards and offers his gift. And I'm all, "Is it possible to flee and be gracious in the same moment?" And not because he was foaming at the mouth or apprising me of his preference for boxers over briefs, but more because I am awkward in social situations, particularly when they involve single men who don't know that I'm married. So I explain to him how I have looked into the bus routes many times and would have to ride the DATA bus downtown and then transfer to the TTA—pardon me, now known as the TT bus because apparently demonstrating "authority" when it comes to transporting people publically is not what marketing officials think of as "good PR" but rather referring to a big-ass bus system with an abbreviation that reminds me of what little children do in the potty is just fine—all of which is to say that taking the bus to work would take more than an hour, whereas riding in the rain or cold on my bike still gets me home sooner. So I tell him that his offer is very thoughtful but he can keep the passes (which he says he gets at work for free—yeah, well then why aren't you on the bus, dude?). He then mentions that he also bikes to work and that we met once before, and then I proceed to get him confused with another speckle-bearded man that I rode with through a cold mist once and who I've not seen since. But no. Today's Man is not Cold Misty Rain Man, but rather a man who I—allegedly—met briefly while I turned onto Hope Valley and he continued straight. And for the life of me I can't remember the encounter, but I decide that maybe deflating the ego of a man who had stopped his car on the side of the road for me is not the path to take here, so I pull my best, "Oh, right. Yes, I do remember you now."

And then we exchanged first names only. His name is Dan, and upon hearing this, my mind jumps back to 2003, when I was living all on my own in Charlottesville, Virginia, and had several unpleasant encounters with Dan Dan the Stalker Man (so named by our SYTYCD Guest Chronicler Kate, who may be the only person reading this who remembers this story). Dan Dan the Stalker Man was a 30-something FATHER OF FIVE who saw me with my great aunt when I went with her to church one Sunday. Weeks later, Dan Dan tried to flag me down on the bypass, proceeded to follow me to K-Mart, and then blocked me and the Margemobile I into a parking space. Later encounters unfolded as follows: I had the misfortune of running into him and some of his FLKs (Funny-Looking Kids) at the farmer's market. I ran into him at the post office and tried desperately to get out of a conversation that involved the state of my spiritual health—his message to me was that I needed to think about heaven right then and there, but quite frankly, that's a difficult task when you are a 24-year-old woman in conversation with a potential pervert. And finally, he came to my apartment one night—I never told him where I lived—bearing a CD of music from his Christian band. Yeah, I'm all for church, but I am not all for church that shows up uninvited at your front door in the form of a mediocre bass player who hints of serial killer and thinks recording some tunes in his garage and pandering them door to door to all the single females he knows is giving his religion a leg up in the world.

Dude, the CD went straight in the trash: unopened and unplayed.

Which is all to say that I've met a few Dans in my time and maybe attracting their attention by cycling around town in spandex isn't the way to go. And maybe I shouldn't share this technique with all of my single female friends. But then again, several of you have put me on the lookout for hot single men, and Man Cyclists tend to have pretty good-looking legs. They may even offer you gifts, and who knows, had I let Dan the Bus Pass Man catch a glimpse of my sternum, he may have offered to take me out for a beer.

Jason would have been proud.

Before You Leave the House

So somewhere in between Boredom and Ennui, I’ve discovered that the Internet, when it is your last friend and only connection to the Things of This World for hours on end, really has nothing to offer except an expedited route to carpel tunnel in your right hand and questions such as “Did Gwyneth really just have the balls to complain TO THE WORLD about her holiday weight gain?” Which she did, and which actually shouldn’t surprise me at all coming from a woman who named her firstborn Apple and her Web site Goop—the latter of which basically ensures that I will never visit her site again because “Goop” does nothing but remind me of things that happen in the toilet on a really bad day. Yeah, work is slow; I am about to lose my mind; and this is all I have to write about.

Oh, except that Jason and I did attend the Carolina versus College of Charleston game last night courtesy of some free tickets from a friend who, like any other sane person in the world, thought that 9 p.m. was a ridiculous time to schedule or attend a sporting event. I must admit that we (or as Jason would really like to point out—his wife) couldn’t make it through the last 10 minutes. I also wish I had brought my glasses because the contacts were starting to fog up and I was having to squint a bit to get a clear look at Danny Green’s arms—gosh, what a crush I have on that man from the neck down and oh how he can glide through the air… But I’m rather glad that I didn’t bring the glasses because then I really would have been the Old Woman in Attendance due to the donning of the only UNC shirt she didn’t know she had in the house but that her spouse pulled out of a drawer 5 minutes before departure. I thought my nonpartisan hoodie would be fairly cute to wear to the game, but heavens no! Wear the damn blue shirt that says “Carolina” across the chest and is so big it covers your ENTIRE ass and makes all the college girls cringe at ever one day being 30. Note to spouse: it might have been better for my self-esteem had I gone without pants, then the Cute Young Things would have seen my bike-riding leg muscles and thought “Damn, 30 cannot get here sooner.” Additional note to spouse: I’m cutting the bottom of that shirt off before I ever wear it again. And final note to spouse: look at your wife’s ass before you leave the house with her. Make sure you can still tell that she has one, and yes, I’ll try to remember to check out your crotch to make sure your zipper is up. I know, I’ve let that one slip a couple of times recently. Apologies.

Anyway, so with 14:36 on the clock in the second half, we made a pact that we would leave when whichever of the following milestones occurred first: Carolina reaches 80 points or we hit the 10-minute mark. The two happened concurrently.

But even though we left a bit early, and even though the Tarheels blew the Cougars away, and even though we sat on row T in the upper level in a pair of seats that literally straddled the crack of the Dean Dome where two sides of the stadium met, we had a great time. The best moment came when Psycho T bent down to recover the ball and a Cougar player jumped up and forward to attempt some defense and ended up landing where Women the World Over have always yearned to be: on top of Tyler Hansbrough. When Tyler, obviously still focused on the ball, stood up, the other player was lifted up with him, stuck in a perch on his shoulder. The poor fellow stayed there for a few precarious seconds because I don’t think either dude quite knew what had happened or what to do when a player literally gets attached to another player. Needless to say, the stadium erupted in laughter, and it was the funniest thing I’ve seen since the dawn of the new year.

Holiday Roundup

Oh, the holiday season has been so kind. When I last reported in on Christmas Eve, I had a fever blister on my lip and a sty on my eyelid. Today, a damn Kilaeua has erupted on my forehead that looks like it will attempt an archipelago. Great.

Pedaling backward: I spent Christmas Eve and the following four days in glasses, wiping the crust from my eye and applying Carmex to my lip in the hope that no one would think I had some other form of herpes. Instead, no one noticed or at least everyone was too afraid to comment on the Children of My Face for fear of where my answer might take them. Christmas with the Family Ryalls was good but fairly uneventful. My mother mentioned the need for a muscle relaxer. My dad made some fake mirror windows to put on one of his outbuildings so that we can all see ourselves as we go in search of an oil pan. Sister Vern showed off her new leg tattoo. Sister Katharine made some paper that almost caught fire while drying on the wood stove. And Jason vacuumed my mother’s living room. The man really has no equal.

Jason and I concluded our holiday season with Christmas at the Family Mathes on New Year’s. Our time spent there included a lot of wine and a lot of domino playing, which I won, thank you very much. It also included a family walk through the woods, during which I stepped into an invisible hole and ended up face down on the ground. I was embarrassed, yet pleased with my physical resiliency and ability to hold back tears. I was about to think that my holiday season would end up on a better note than it started, but after the festivities were over, and Jason and I found ourselves heading back to the Real World of 2009, known as “My Womb and I Will Be 31 This Year—Yeah, We Know, Bitches,” I found myself in tears on a long country road somewhere in Chatham County. Luckily, I wasn’t on foot thumbing for a ride to Durham but in the passenger seat of the Margemobile II in the midst of a spousal argument that was rooted in the main reason that spouses fight: FOR ABSOLUTELY NO REASON AT ALL. Jason decided to take his frustrations about life and other people out on the only set of ears in his life that he could find not attached to his person—those belonging to his wife—and I was struggling with emotional fragility and the fear of never using the bathroom again, which I realize now was all caused by PMS and eating massive amounts of brie.

However, please fear not for my mental health—although come February, the fear may be quite strong. I’m going to take the advice of a friend who told me today that in this season of gray, miserable weather (weather that refuses to produce snow or a collection of hot, 20-something men who work the checkout at the Whole Foods) that I should count my blessings. So here we go: I have my health; I’m working my way through a bag of Ghirardelli bittersweet chocolate chips, which I can do almost guilt-free because I burn more than 1500 calories a day by riding my bike to work; my husband brought home a bottle of red wine; and finally, my mother gave me a bottle of Oil of Olay Age-Defying daily renewal cleanser for Christmas to remind me that it is NEVER TOO LATE TO START DEFYING MY AGE, which is such a blessing. But now I remember that Kat and Vern each got a bottle too and I realize that my mom found these in a three pack at the Sam’s Club or someplace. I tell you what: my mother cannot resist a three pack for her daughters. I swear, if they sold Fleet enemas in a three pack, each of us would have gotten one in our Christmas bag too, and then I would have had even more to be thankful for in this post-holiday season of funk.