Sunday, August 10, 2008
Not everyone has the pleasure of realizing there may be a potential stalker tracking your moves. I, however, have come to that realization upon finding a card on my side-doorstep a few minutes ago.
Last weekend, a crazy woman barged into our house after I opened the door for her and sat down at our kitchen table, talking to Garfford. She was talking about many different things and remarked how beautiful our house is and how she wants it so she can grow tomatoes. Irene hid from view in the living room and I hid from the pending gunshots in the back of the house until she finally left. When Garfford reminded her to grab her purse, she replied, "Oh, I brought it in case you were here." No gun was drawn, surprisingly.
The card left tonight read, "Hello from E***** P**** You have a beautiful home." So I am not sure what will happen, but if Lifetime is correct, I can expect to find another card, this time inside the house that reads, "Hello. You Have a Beautiful Home. It will be my home." Then she will kill us all. All of this insanity would all be caused by post-traumatic stress caused by a miscarriage.
This is going to be a great source of anxiety for Irene. I almost did not tell her, but I feel like she has the right to know her life may be in danger.
- I always miss the first 70% of Motorweek on PBS. And then I watch as they pan out to all of the cars they covered over the episode, all of which I have always wanted to see covered in-depth.
- The New Facebook struggles, and I have finally had to go back to the old one since I cannot find anything.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
I am currently watching this movie. It is, by far, the worst movie I could even imagine seeing. it was not particularly boring, but just annoying in that it really did not have any particular point, which should be hard considering it was based on a true story. Here are some bullet points:
- Some extra-dark version of Samuel L. Jackson spends over an hour berating an investigator with severe cystic acne scarring.
- Mundane real-time shots of women being overpowered and strangled without any real sexual violation, even though the killer(s?) are supposed to be sexually driven.
- At some random point, some Tim Gunn-type man takes over investigation, advised by his distracting bowties.
- Flashbacks to the most lame murders of the movie.
- Boston has an ugly skyline which contributes nothing to the film.
- Accents change as drama escalates.
- Random cliches such as "innocent until proven guilty" or "beggars can't be choosers" randomly uttered by cast with no restraint.
- Acting on par with that of my first play in elementary school.
If you are looking for a great movie, try "House of Blood."
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
I wake up in the middle of the night to the new email sound of my iPhone 3G rather than that of the approaching tropical storm. Feeling around my side table I do not grasp my phone, but rather, a newly juiced up flashlight planted in my bedroom. I feel violated, but smile because it is the most unexpected convenience ever experienced.
A few hours later my alarm clock rings because we are supposed to work. I get ready and walk out the door when my cousin calls me to say work has been cancelled. So we go and have breakfast and watch the continuous rain pool up on the roads.
Also, in case anyone is wondering, our patio table will not be flying away—it has been bungeed to the deck railing. All other furniture has been removed. My only question is: what is to keep the deck from blowing away? Come on people, this is a tropical storm!
Monday, August 4, 2008
First of all, Jorge, please do not be upset. I could not have this page translate to Spanish. The following are the only languages supported: English, Hindi, Kannada, Malayalam, Tamil, and Telugu.
I named this blog over a phrase which I hear quite often. I work in a bunch of orthodontic offices. Different doctors have different ways they go about doing the same thing. One of these things that all doctors do differently is placing brackets on the teeth. I will spare you all the boringness, but it is necessary for you to understand that the teeth "must" be kept dry in order for the brackets to stick (I use must loosely because it is a great source of disagreement between me and a few other people on whether this is always the case). One way to keep the tongue and saliva back is place a small rubber device at the back of the mouth, which the patients bite down upon. This is supposed to keep the jaw still and the tongue back. The only doctor who insists on using it is my grandpa, and the application of this device is often the turning point in the orthodontic experience, mostly for the patient. Probably more than ninety-five percent of patients struggle with this device because it is required that they keep biting. It is a problem for me because I have a compulsive motor tick dysfunction, so I immediately want to spit it out. Other patients are just bad people, and they let it move around, infuriating Garfford. I call this the turning point, because many patients' first Garfford experience will begin with something as benign as sharing warm apple pie straight from the oven of a doctor down the street. They will feel at ease; that a gentle man will be prodding their mouths. However, this gentle man will turn into an explosion if they do anything that might even come close to distracting him, undoing something he is trying to do, or simply irritating him. The following things they should not do: cough, gag, giggle, move their feet, touch their faces, scratch itches, swallow, moan, allow tears to be noticed, furrow brows or release the tongue depressor! Any hopes and dreams and aspirations of an easy experience are destroyed with one mistake. That is, until they are finished, at which point, no matter how terrible they were, he tells them they are a "good patient." This blog is named after the middle part of the tongue depressor experience. This blog is a turning point; it contains all of my thoughts after I calmly issue my commands and make my assertions. Beggining with "now," the inception of the title is the point at which Garfford has been disobeyed, to be ended in an instant.
My first story I would like to share is one of a little bitty tropical storm that is causing a bit of angst in my household. Flashback to this morning, where I had no idea that one of the most serious events to ever take place would possibly be happening within twenty-four hours. This problem has a name actually, though it was made up by a board of people who do that: Eduard. No, not 'Eduardo' but Eduard, pronounced Edward. So far, Eduard's only victim is my poor grandmother, who has taken the possible effect of this thing to heart. While trying to enjoy my greasy chile relleno with Garfford today, his wife calls to speak about preparations she is making in regard to a storm brewing off the coast of the Gulf. A little background on Garfford—there are several ideas that it is not smart to bring up with him: it might not be a bad idea to get a different car; the acceptability of different words or conversations, or points of entry into these conversations have changed in seventy years; the buyer cannot just terminate a lease at will; the appearance of the house does matter when the Bucks come; and a storm is something to give consideration. My grandma made the mistake of using a keyword, 'storm,' while attempting to start a conversation. Over the noise of Mexicana, Garfford heard only this word and retreated from cell phone with an "I love you" and a snap of clamshell. This conversation repeated, virtually in its entirety, at 4:00 pm.
Upon entering my home by the kitchen, I notice a Hurricane Andrew Era battery-powered radio on the mahogany table in our den. I stub my toe on an ice chest hauled up the stairs in preparation for what may be Eduardian nuclear fallout. All perishable items are removed from the refrigerator, being cooked in preparation for a three-week limbo of no refrigeration, predicted by my grandma based upon a similar event that occurred twenty-five years ago. Over ten pounds of beef are being prepared along with all vegetables within reach into a meatloaf filled with mother's most heartwarming ingredient: anxiety. My grandma orders Josefina to add more vegetables, more meat, more veggies, more meat, more anxiety, more meet—until there is no more to add. She remarks to me that this meal will be for after the storm. There is another unrelated meal being cooked as we speak—I can only imagine it has been selected because it is the most perishable. All televisions are set to different stations forecasting the storm. The city mayor is reassuring Houstonians that we will get through this together; neighbors will help neighbors. My grandma interrogates Josefina about what Telemundo has told her about impending doom. Josefina infact confirms this doom—a news-reporter who, of course, looks eerily like the Virgin Mary, has predicted the Rapture, which begins in Houston, Texas. I am ordered to make a supply run and purchase medication incase Walgreen's is closed in the following weeks and get more ice if, that is, there is any left.
So I went to 24-Hour Fitness to work out, and while on the bike I notice that the storm, giving no consideration to our family hysteria, decided it would rather hit Louisiana. Again. When I returned home, I made a joke that made evident my reckless, stupid behavior on account of me not caring what happens and being irritated because I forgot to get something from Walgreen's and it would probably be closed before I got around to going back. My grandma demanded the remote from Garfford to which he responded, "Nuh. I got it." He turned up the Home Shopping Network and suffered through it simply to irritate his wife.
I guess I would take this thing seriously if we did not have a whole season down here suggesting this is a commonplace. Oh, and if we were not inland. And this was actually a hurricane.