My original plan for yesterday evening was to go out for drinks with BB, but things changed and we decided to reschedule.  However, apparently my husband was not willing to deviate from his carefully planned evening of reading a boring-looking book just because I decided to stay home.  So there we sat, him reading intently with baseball on TV in the background, and me staring at him and occasionally trying (and failing) to start a conversation.  Finally I gave up and told him that if he wasn’t going to acknowledge my presence I was going to turn off baseball and put on my Netflixed movie.  Fine, he says.

So I did.  And as usual, I wanted my time back after it was over.  What is it with me?  I always insist on renting and watching crappy horror flicks geared primarily towards teenyboppers, and more often than not I end up regretting it.  It’s like an illness from which there is no cure.  I really do like scary movies, but some (or ALL, according to my husband) of them are just lame.  Which is certainly the case with One Missed Call.  WOW.  It was nothing more than a crappy knockoff of The Ring with a little bit of The Grudge thrown in for good measure.  The acting was bad and there were a few too many pointless scares thrown in (you know, creepy dead-looking faces, jerky motion, ghostly howling, that sort of thing).  I also had issues with the following plot points:

1. The “hard candies” looked like red marbles.  In fact, that’s what I thought they were almost the entire time until it was stated otherwise.
2. There is no way in hell that anyone would have such a freaky-looking “toy” on display in a child’s room.  Or anywhere, really.
3. Whatever was moving in the sink was not explained.
4. The fact that movie people are always content to be in a completely dark house, by themselves, late at night.  After witnessing numerous scary events.
5. The hardly-explained overly-decorated envelopes that kept showing up in the main character’s house.
6. The little troll-like thing with the glowing red eyeballs.  The hell?
7. The fact that I don’t think ANYONE would wear such a crappy t-shirt to a good friend’s wake.
8. The inconsistent M.O. of the killer, and the random timing of the telling phone calls.
9. Taylor.

I need to check my Netflix queue and stop the insanity already before they send my next movie.  What drugs was I on when I put all this crap in there anyway?  Oh yeah, a cocktail of pregnancy hormones.  That explains a lot.