TV recap - LOST: Recon

"Recon"

9:05 - Yumm! Sawyer sweaty and shirtless in bed. Is he back to con man ways? Oh wait, I'm sorry he works for the police. The man who never followed rules, broke the law and was a criminal is now a detective. Definitely never saw that coming. Damn Sawyer or should I say La Fleur looks de-lic-ious, shirtless with his police badge around his neck.

9:08- Love that Sawyer or should I say Detective James Ford and Miles work together. Their back and forth banter is hilarious. I also love that Miles is setting him up on a blind date. Will it be Juliet?

9:10 - Really Sawyer? You knew Flocke EL isn't actually Locke. So why were you all shocked when he said he was the black smoke thing and that he killed all the people in the temple. No one can do an angry stare like

9:15 - Ooh Detective Sawyer is setup with none other than Charlotte. This should be interesting. Oh Detective Sawyer only you could say "Do you have a whip" and have a woman find it cute, coy and charming. I'm sorry Charlotte since when did a purple folder look like a t-shirt. Come on now, if a hot guy like Sawyer and I got it on, didn't pull the "I have to get up early in the morning so ...." routine, cuddled and then asked you for a glass of water I wouldn't start rifling looking through a binder you found in his drawyer.

9:20 - Ahh a trip down memory lane, Sawyer and Kate's hot bear cage sex that Jack saw. Okay Sayid is really beginning to creep me out. In fact this BFTDS (Back From The Dead Sayid) is worse than the one who tortured people for a living. Now, is it just me or would Claire look a little less crazy if her hair didn't look like a bird's nest. Is it wrong that I cracked up at BFTDS's blank stare when Claire went all UFC on Kate and put a knife to her throat. Oooh Locke smacked Claire like a 1970s pimp smacks one of his women who talked back to him and owes him money.

9:25 - Every time I see Sheila Kelly I just remember her from Cameron Crowe's "Single" movie. You're the only who survived? Funny, how I don't remember seeing you on the plane.

9:30 - Burn! Miles threw out the "I'm not your partner anymore." I could totally start analyzing how the shattered mirror is a symbolization of Sawyer's childhood, heart, etc but I'm not going to.

9:35 - Did the con artist get a taste of their own medicine? Who is "Zoe?" Are they another set of "Others?" Are they new version of our infamous Ocean 815 plane crash survivors? Did they kill all those other people? Its the chubby, fat kid from "Kate and Allie."

9:39 - They work for Charles Widmore!

9:43 - Love it that Sawyer is drinking a beer, eating crappy frozen food and watching "Little House on the Prairie." Never would have pictured him as fan. Sunflower and a six pack, doesn't he know a way to a woman's heart?

9:53 - You don't know why you did that CC (Crazy Claire)? Because you've been living on the island for 3 years pretending a coconut was Aaron like you were Tom Hanks in Cast Away talking to Wilson (a vollyeball).

9:55 - Does Detective Miles still have his "I can speak to dead people" gift? Will this link Detective Sawyer to Locke? Since Locke's dad was the one who killed his parents.

9:57 - I knew it was going to be Kate! What is it with the two of them and fences or cages?

9:59 - Ahh there goes that con man we love to see and would love to go to bed with. Or is that just me? TMI? My bad.

Next week: Yes! Finally we learn why Richard is 500 years old but never ages, how he makes great eyeliner on the island and his connection to Jacob, the others, etc. This is going to be good.

I need to believe ...

that there is more to life than what is currently happening in mine. That this can't just be it. I have to believe that everything I've imagined, dreamed about, wrote about, fantisized about is possible. Because if it's not, if it's all lie I won't survive. I won't make it. Now, I know what you're thinking that I've being over dramatic, making mountains out of mole-hills. But I'm not. I'm being raw and honest and real. To which you respond with but look at you, you have your own apartment, your own, YOUR OWN apartment - something you thought you would NEVER have. I mean how many days and nights did you cry over living at home, dreaming for the day when you wouldn't be there in that hot, cluttered, stuck in the past, "since when did I join the cast of hoarders" apartment. You got out of there. That is not your own. This place, where you are now is yours. You're right. You're absolutely right. You're Ken Jennings right. But guess what I realized - this isn't all it's cracked up to be. This isn't everything I thought it would be. In fact, nothing has changed except my bank account, which has decreased dramatically. And you know what? My reaction to all of this, the reality of all of this scares the living shit out of me. Because I had expectations, huge, life-altering, red-carpet, "Price is Right" winning expectations about how my life would change once I finally got my own place. And you know what's happened? Nothing. I'm still friendless. I'm still lonely. I still feel fat. I'm still sad. I'm still alone and to make matters worse with tons of bills to pay. I've almost gotten to the point where I'm completely jaded about most things in life. I'm tired of living my version of the life I want through other people's eyes. I'm tired of seeing it so bright, clear and vivid like an artist and I'm not talking like a sketch or doodles. I'm talking the complete and finished project with the signature, in a frame and hung up on someone's wall. I'm tired of waiting and wanting for the life I want to begin. I'm not asking for me to wake up tomorrow and boom it's begun ... okay maybe I am but that's not going to happen. But if a piece of it, if some of the shattered pieces of my life, of me could just come together and form something, something tangible, something touchable, something real, something that I want that will lead me towards the next path or stroke of the life I want, the life I need then perhaps I won't continue to feel like I'm continually unraveling, drowning, struggling to stay afloat. I feel like I'm an understudy in my own life.

I have to believe that he is possible. That it is something I can attain and actually have in the flesh, grab on to it and never let go kind - not some ghost or a breeze that just passes me by.

I'm uninspired. I'm lost. I need to believe. I need to believe. I need to believe. I need to believe.

Am I being 'Punk'd'?

No seriously, where is Ashton Kutcher? When is he going to jump out and scream "psyche," and reveal that these last 4 years I've been punk'd and it will go down as the longest punk in history.

Can someone explain to me why outside my room in the fake ass courtyard that has become the hangout spot for thugs-r-us, there is some wannabe rapper singing/rapping in between him coughing up his lung due to his case of swine flu. No really? When did the memo go out that outside my room they're doing auditions for "America's worst rappers"?

Where is that clown that would come out on Apollo's Amateur night to take the bad contestants off after the audience has booed them? Where is he so can I escort Swine Fluzie off his so-called stage. I'm sorry, did I just hear him heave like a bulimic chic after lunch? And what's worst about it is that I'm afraid to look. I don't even want to see what he looks like or give him the satisfaction to think he has an audience. I'm sure you're wondering why don't I just close my window because if I do all the air will be sucked out of my room and I'll be trapped in heat. I'm talking Africa, walking across the Sahara desert heat. No, thank you. And I know I'm bitching and moaning on my Mac laptop while kids all around the world are dying for some food or water but just let me continue drinking my bitter juice okay (granted, I do have a lifetime supply but I promise you, I'm trying to cut back).

It's bad enough I'm stuck in my parents apartment still when I all want to do is click my ruby red slippers (in my version they're either slammin Christain Loubtin or Chuck T's) and go home - my home - not my parents, MINE. Whether that's in NYC or Cali it doesn't matter to me. All I know is that I'm tired of this. I'm tired of feeling like I'm waiting for my growth spurt to happen. I'm tired of everyone saying give it time, it'll happen. Well, you know what that line isn't working on me anymore, so go back home, grab a pen and some paper and do a re-write and then come back to me.

It's like I'm trapped in a Catch 22. I refuse to stay home with my sick father and limpy mother and if I go outside I risk the chance of getting infected and hollered at by Swine Fluzie (or the many other outbreaks that roam NYC) whom as we speak is still going at it - heaving parts of his lung on the cement and singing/rapping.

Ashton, wherever you are, you can come out now. I won't be mad really.

I want to know how much longer I have to put up with this shit in the City.

Perhaps I'm asking for too much?

Maybe I am. Maybe I am asking too much for a guy who asked you out for "grub" to verify what you two are doing the night before instead of sending you a text message at 3:30pm on the day of with the time and the place to meet at (Whole Foods). I'm sorry when did I suddenly become a member of a secret spy team. This is not a secret mission. Perhaps, I am asking too much for a guy, who asked me out to talk to me on the phone, find out what my interests are and then call me the night before to verify on the place and time. Perhaps, I'm living in a fantasy world where this doesn't exist. And perhaps the guy redeems himself because I tell him I'm not feeling well (because I've been up since 6am and the last thing I want to do is try to find him outside of supermarket like I'm looking for where's waldo and then walk around and try to find a place at 10:30 at night) and he's understanding about it, saying "it's fine, we'll do something week." And perhaps, I wanting to be nice, as well as get this date over with so I can cross it off my do-to list, file him under "another one bites the dust" and continue on this long ass bumpy bus ride that is called my love life - so I say, "if you're free and want to we can do something Sunday, in the evening." And it seems like we're on the same page but apparently we're not because he then asks me if "I'm going to be up late. " I'm sorry maybe I should rewind back to the beginning of this conversation where I clearly said, "I wasn't feeling well and was tired." Not feeling well + tired does not equal staying up late talking to you. Not feeling well + tired = Me going to sleep as soon as I finish this phone call. So perhaps that (plus one) the guy just gained is deducted because clearly he wasn't listening. Oh and on a side note: If you want to call me than call me. Don't say every time we talk, "if you're not busy give me a call." I'm always busy. So if I didn't call you last night guess what it meant is that I was busy. 2+2=4 parallel to Me + busy = Me not calling you.

Perhaps, I'm crazy for thinking that if we made plans even if they weren't solid, set in stone plans (place, time) I'd get a phone call or in your case a text message saying, "Can't do today, can we try it for next week?" Something, anything. Now, I know the logical me would say, "well the phone works too ways missy. You could have called or texted him this morning asking if you two were still on, etc., so you can't be mad at him for not contacting you when you didn't contact him either." Now while that is a true and valid point. I like to remind my logical self that he asked me out not vice versa.  He wanted to go out with me! He wanted to get to know me. I was find with him being the dude at the gym and that's that. But when he asked I said yes because it's not as if a lot of people are buying a ticket to see this exhibit and it would be good for me since I have the dating experience of a 7th grader from the 1990s. 

And I'm trying, really trying to look past the stuff that bothers me, the parts of him that are not part of my ideal man package but he's making it pretty difficult.  I'm big on first and second impressions and so far he's impressed so much that I wish I could find a Delorium, jump in it, go back in time, find my past self on the treadmill and tell her to not say yes when he asks you out, to lie and say you're in a relationship, that you don't need another game boy or another storyteller or someone who's going waste your time.

Perhaps, I'm crazy to want a a guy who plans but isn't so controlling I can't offer a suggestion or plan something for us. Perhaps, I'm crazy to want a guy who lounges around with me on Sunday afternoon, reads the newspaper and likes brunch. Perhaps, I'm crazy for a guy who wants to stay in, watch TV or go to a museum, or read.  Perhaps, I'm not asking for too much at all but what's just enough for me.

I'm curious to know how people do this on a regular basis in the City.

Am I trappend in the neverending day?

As I'm sitting or should I say snuggied at my desk (yes, it is those treacherous things you've seen infomercials for at 2:00 in the morning because I work in a igloo surrounded by TVs) I began to wonder: Is it still too late for me to get the hell out of this place, move down south, find a rich southern gentlemen (wait, do those actually exist or only in test tubes) and become a Southern belle?

Seriously sometimes I feel like I cannot breathe and that my fingers and mind are in auto pilot when I’m at work. Thank god, I occasionally listen to music at work (that's not rude right, oh well if it is, who the F cares) because sometimes I feel like I'm going to go like Michael Douglass' character in "Falling Down." You know who I'm talking about. The guy that went all ape shit on one hot ass day in L.A., walking around with a rifle, yelling at McD's because he wanted an Egg McMuffin and all they had were Big Macs. Now mind you I'm not going to go as beyond as him (AKA: carrying a rifle) but let's just say I can now understand where he's coming from.

Other moments I daydream what would happen if I just went home, packed everything and bought a one-way business class ticket to London. I'm talking about one of those seats that turn into a bed, where you get slippers a blanket and food and not for extra. Granted I haven’t gotten figured out what I would do once my ass and 4 suitcases (If I'm going to be living in a hostel I can at least look cute) land in the London airport. Most of the times I secretly hope I bump into Jude Law, Colin Farrell (post-rehab) Justin Timberlake, Idris Elba, Tim Riggins AKA Taylor Kitsch (why would he be in London you ask? Because it's my fantasy) in a cute cafe while I'm getting a delicious cup of tea and a scone, resulting in us talking for hours about anything and everything until he invites to me dinner at his place, which eventually leads to us in a relationship and me moving in (IE: Think Vicky Cristina Barcelona, minus Javier Bardem and a crazy ex-wife). But I digress.

It's like as soon as I'm finished with some tedious or time-consuming task another one is added on. I feel work and my assignments are like that blow up Bozo clown, the one that every time you hit it, it never stays down, instead it just pops right back up. What was that supposed to teach us anyway? Endurance? Never give up hope? Perseverance? How about none of the above. All it taught or gave anyone was a direct hate for clowns, how to build rage and frustration for an object to the point you want to rip it to shreds (Once again I somehow circle back to violence - maybe I need to go to anger management class, or take a kickboxing class. If I was saying all of this to my friend who I'm going to call Buddah, she would say I just need to get laid, which I do but that's for another post and another time).

And to make matters worse (I wish I could say better) I have a date Friday night at 11:00pm. Hella late, right! Lets just hope I can stay awake. Now, that is how I know that deep down I'm an old biddy at heart. I'm 25 so going out at 11:00 should be second nature to me particularly since that’s the time most NYC adults in their twenties or older start getting ready to go out. Not me though. By 11:00 weekdays or weeknights, I'm usually in my PJ's in bed. Who are we kidding; when I get home I immediately get into the PJs. I whip them on quicker than Clark Kent went through revolving door, exited in a cape and tights and flew off like Superman. Except I'm flying my ass to bed where I watch Grey's Anatomy (where's my McDreamy?) 30 Rock, The Office and old episodes of Friday Night Lights where I drool over Tim Riggins and Matt Saracen wishing I could be in a huddle on their beds screaming "Full Eyes, Clear Hearts Can't Lose!!!" But lets u-turn and try to get back to the point. I have a date, a late date with this guy, let's just call him Jim because I met him at the gym. Aren't I clever? Anyway here's the backstory: When I first met him I thought he was nice and cute, possibly played for the same team. Then I saw him again thought outside of the gym where I gave him a hug (now remember I thought we played for the same team). Fast forward: I'm doing my thing on the treadmill, singing (quietly) along to my jams, imagining my fierce fit body months from now looking like Beyonce when he appears and asks me if "we could get some grub sometime." As I read this now I must of been clearly delusional perhaps from the sweat or the fumes in the gym because no one really says, “grub” and not when you’re asking someone out on a date! Him using the word should have been sign to say no but it was like my mind and mouth were on autopilot and I didn't know any other words like,"Thank you for the invite but I have a boyfriend" or "Can't see you me at the gym? I'm trying not to eat! "Not this week, let's try next week." But no my ass had to say yes because it's been so long and beggars can't be choosers and who says no to a free meal and he's a clean vegetarian, who showers, shaves and wears cotton not hemp. We've talked a couple of times on the phone (I'll save that for another post) where he's gained a few points and recently lost a couple.

That's not where my issue lies though. My issue is his name. His real name. I can't say it. It just doesn't sound right coming out of my mouth or anyone else's. Why you ask? Because it sounds like a name only a southern 96-year-old man with one tooth, who drinks moonshine has. Is it wrong that I'm already ending this before it began because I don't like his name? What is wrong with me? Shouldn't I look past the surface? When I told my mom she immediately responded with "Oh no, that's not going to work. He's not right for you." No influence there Mom, thanks. Oh and did I mention she says it every time with a Southern accent as if she's the old wife or town friend of the 96-year-old, one tooth moonshine drinking man. Thanks mom, you’re really helping me get past this. I just can't picture introducing him to anyone and saying, here's my boyfriend "Jim." I can barely say it myself. I think I might ask him if it's a nickname for anything? But without the "that's a weird name, why did your mother pick that" tone. Let's see how things go between now and Friday. It should be interesting.

I'm confused, annoyed and in desperate need of a day off in the City.