My Wife Is A Lost Widow

After a childhood raised in a home with borderline paranoids ("Bad grades? I knew that teacher didn't like you."), I sometimes feel like a recovering conspiracy theorist, especially when discussing with my wife any sour relations I've had with others. She'll lower her brow a hair while I ramble about whatever perceived slight I've been subjected to until I clue in.

However, I still can't help but wonder if my wife engineered the WGA strike to curtail the amount of time I obsess over Lost.

I've had last season's finale stored on the DVR for eight months. Eight months to a DVR is like 75 years to you and me. It's an eternity, especially when we've run into storage issues since the airdate. I just couldn't bring myself to cut it before the new season began, and now that the fourth season is shortened to eight episodes from 16 because of the strike, I'm feeling like I'm going to start scratching at myself and seeing bugs on the wall like Ray Milland once the season nears a close. I'm counting down the days to Lost's return on Thursday night, maybe even more so than the Super Bowl where my beloved Giants will take on Brady and the Boot.

Last week I Netflixed the Season 3 bonus materials disc. Aside from being at once jealous of and intimidated by the creative core of the production, I now also know that if I were airdropped into Hawaii with no chance of returning home, I might just be okay if I can get a daily dose of shaved ice.