My Own Planet

So that's what I've been missing
It's not like I've been completely unaware of what's happening on American Idol this season. I mean, you'd have to be living under a rock (or have grown up in a bag, as it were) to have missed the whole Antonella Barba topless pictures controversy. And I'd heard a rumor (which turned out to be true) that Paula is actually coherent this season. But other than that, plus a few bouts of channel flipping here and there during commercials for Gilmore Girls and Veronica Mars, I've been pretty tuned out to the goings-on of AI6.

That is, until last night. After reading about American Idol for a few weeks on The Tyrant's blog, I realized that the fabled Alliance needed my help once again this season. Apparently there was a person called Sanjaya terrorizing the competition with a heinousness not seen since the likes of Julia DeMato, for whom The Alliance was formed in the first place. And so I resolved to bear witness to the spectacle they call Sanjaya, in hopes that doing so might aid in getting him booted from the competition.

It was kind of weird to watch an episode this late in the season and not have a clue who any of these people singing were. For instance, did you guys know that Hurley from Lost is on American Idol this season, masquerading under the name Chris Sligh? That would explain why we haven't seen him on his other show in a while, and also why "Chris Sligh" claimed to be so tired all the time in his interview with Ryan last night. That commute from Los Angeles to Hawaii must be a bitch. Anyway, although I felt myself drawn to certain performers (I found Gina rather charming, and Phil's eyes were strangely mesmerizing), I had to resist getting sucked in to yet another season of AI. I was a woman on a mission. And that mission was to find and destroy Sanjaya.

In a bit of bad timing, it just so happened that other people came into the room where I was watching TV and started talking just as Sanjaya's performance was about to begin. But even though I wasn't able to properly evaluate his singing, I didn't really need to. One look at his hair told me everything I needed to know: This person has no business being on my television. I also felt there was something very unsettling about his creepy grin. And when I heard the playback of his performance at the end of the show, it only strengthened my resolve. Yeah, this guy can't sing. And he has a creepy grin and a faux-hawk that there aren't enough synonyms for the word "stupid" to properly describe. He clearly needs to go home. Now.

Sanjaya, The Alliance has spoken. And with that, I'm going back into American Idol retirement.

Well, that backfired
This weekend, in an attempt to cool some of my Thailand-related fervor (which is still running pretty high, although not as high as it was a couple of weeks ago), I decided to watch Brokedown Palace. Because what better way to temper my excitement about Thailand than to watch a movie about two unsuspecting young girls getting thrown in a Thai prison for a crime they didn't commit? In fact, I was a little worried that this movie would make me not want to go to Thailand at all.

Clearly, I had nothing to worry about. Because now I want to go to Thailand more than ever. I just keep picturing myself as Claire Danes (why I should be Claire Danes and Bri should be Kate Beckinsale is not clear, because neither one of us look a thing like either one of them, but we'll go with it since Claire Danes and I at least share a name), wandering around temples and through markets in my khaki shorts and my floaty white top, even though this type of scene only comprised about 20 minutes of the movie, and for the rest of it she was in the Thai prison. But really, even that didn't seem that bad. Oh, sure, there was the part where Kate Beckinsale got a roach in her ear that caused her to have an infection (the scene where the roach was extracted from her ear was mercifully absent from the movie; I wish I could say the same about a scene from an old episode of ER that I still remember vividly), and there was the fact that Claire Danes never actually made it out of the Thai prison, but other than that, it didn't look too tough. They got really cute haircuts! And they got to wear flip-flops! Yeah, I could totally dig Thai prison. Although I hope I don't have to find out the hard way whether it's really like it's depicted in the movie.

Also adding to my travel envy: Nikki and Jon left for Paris on Saturday for their honeymoon proper. Ever since then, I've been getting subtle reminders that it's still three more years before another birthday trip to Paris: I'll turn on the TV and see a commercial in which a couple is gazing at the Eiffel Tower, or I'll turn on the radio to a story about the French presidential race. Clearly my plan to distract myself from the fact that my next vacation to an exciting, worldly destination is a long time away by heading to New York this weekend is not working. Perhaps I need to rent a movie in which two unsuspecting young girls find themselves thrown into prison in New York.

Going, going, gone
My mind, that is. Yes, friends, I fear that I might have finally gone actually, officially crazy. I don't know if it's the work of the mice who continue to torment my battered psyche, or some residual delirium from the cold I'm suffering, which peaked last night with a 101-degree fever and a whole bunch of chills, but on a couple of occasions today, I have read things that I am in no way able to comprehend.

The first was a set of instructions for a wireless mouse set that I received as a gift from a trade show I attended last month. While checking the instructions to see if the mouse would be compatible with my iBook (of course it's not), I came across the following sentence: "You can get rid of the bondage of wires and enjoy your beautiful life from the high technology." Now, clearly, these instructions were translated by someone for whom English was not a primary language (elsewhere in the instructions was the command "You'd better use the mouse on the white desk"), but I can't even fathom what "enjoy your beautiful life from the high technology" should have translated to.

A short while later, I received a press release about, as far as I can tell, dog toys that are shaped like vegetables. The press release said: "They also contain a dog’s daily requirement of rompoflavin, chompohydrates and Vitamin Wag.  Each 'crop' is certified unique.  On the more practical side, they are bouncy, buoyant, minty and 100% guaranteed." I don't even know where to start. It took me about three read-throughs to get past "rompoflavin" and "chompohydrates." Also...minty? Now, you must understand, I am no stranger to the concept of minty dog toys. For Christmas, I got my puppy nephew a toy called the Minty Fresh Breath Ball (which is still apparently his favorite toy, and thank God, because the dog needs some breath help). Anyway, the point is, the Minty Fresh Breath Ball's big selling point was that it was minty. It's even green! If you're going to make a dog toy that looks like a vegetable, why would you make it taste like mint? Shouldn't it taste like...oh, I don't know, a vegetable? Elsewhere in the press release, it was mentioned that the ball could be filled with treats and spreads. "Spreads"? Like what? Artichoke dip? Spreadable cheese? Why would you give a dog spreadable cheese?

My head hurts.

Home improvement
Yesterday evening, as I was wandering the aisles of Home Depot, it occurred to me that I spend an awful lot of time there for someone who doesn't even own a home. I mean, it's not called Apartment Depot, right?

I was there to buy two things: one, some weatherstripping foam to seal of the gaps between my baseboards and the floor to hopefully prevent further mouse invasion, and two, a new strainer for my tub drain. So far, these purchases seem to be working out quite well. Well, the tub strainer does, at least. I guess only time will tell if the weatherstripping will do any good, but I already feel a little more secure in my apartment. (Or at least I did until, when Swiffering under the radiator, I came across an alarmingly large piece of poop. And also until, after I turned out the light to go to sleep, I heard a terrifying scratching/scurrying sound in my living room that kept me up for at least another hour. So yeah, I actually feel less secure right now than I have for the past couple of days. But I do feel good about the gap sealing.)

Anyway. Performing these little repairs got me thinking: Why am I the one doing this stuff? Oh, sure, I bet if I asked my landlord to do it, they would, but this kind of stuff is so cheap and relatively easy to do that it never really occurs to me to ask. But that's precisely the point--I shouldn't have to ask. If preventing mouse problems is as simple (I'm hoping) as an hour of shoving some foam into cracks in the baseboards, why wouldn't the landlord just do that to begin with, instead of fielding countless tenant complaints and having to pay for the Completely Ineffective Exterminators to stop by my apartment every week? And my landlord in Birmingham was always complaining about people clogging up their drains. But the tub strainer I bought cost all of $2 and took approximately three seconds to install. Why wouldn't he just put those in all of his bathrooms to begin with?

I think the real question here is: Why do I keep living in such crappy apartments? I think I know the answer to that one. It's because I want the charm of an old building but, on an editor's salary, can't afford the places that have been properly renovated. And because, like an idiot, I still hold out hope that one day I'm going to stumble across that Carrie Bradshaw/Monica Geller/Bridget Jones/Amelie-like gem. Although, as Kristen was quick to point out to me the other day, Carrie Bradshaw also had mouse problems. I guess no apartment is perfect, not even the fictional ones.

In rodentia
So as you may have heard by now, I've had some mouse problems in my apartment. Friday evening was the final straw, it seems, for both my tolerance and my sanity. I was sitting in a chair in my living room, innocently browsing the web, when all of a sudden, a mouse nonchalantly wanders out from under my couch. Naturally, I jumped up and screamed, "Ugh! Get out of my house, mouse!" But apparently this mouse (let's call him Giorgio) was a little hard of hearing, because he took "get out of my house" to mean "retreat to the kitchen." A little while later, after a quick trip to the store to purchase more traps, I was standing at the kitchen counter filling the traps with peanut butter when Giorgio darted out from under my cabinets and scurried under the stove. Not wanting to spend the rest of my evening playing the cat role in his little cat-and-mouse game, I immediately sought shelter at Rob and Monika's house, where I spent the night in their mouse-free office/makeshift guest room.

The next morning, I stopped by my landlord's office to ask whether I could be moved to a new apartment that did not have mouse problems. They told me it wouldn't be financially feasible for them to move me to another one-bedroom apartment, but that it was a moot point anyway because a) they didn't have any one-bedroom apartments open, and b) all of the buildings were having problems with mice.

And so I have decided to wave the white flag. I give up. If the mice want my apartment that bad, they can have it. Even if I do somehow manage to seal off all the gaps in the floors to prevent further intrusion (a project that I'm now kind of afraid to finish, since my landlord gave me some bait packets that are supposed to make the mice sick, then compel them to leave the apartment to die, and I have visions of them not being able to find a way out and therefore dying on my kitchen floor), I doubt I'll ever really feel comfortable in this apartment again. Unfortunately, in just the small amount of research I've done since I made this decision on Saturday, I've come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as a charming, well-maintained, affordable apartment. I blame shows like Friends and Sex and the City (not to mention movies like Bridget Jones's Diary and Amelie, both of whose apartments I covet) for giving me unreasonable expectations that such a thing might actually exist.

The definition of "unfair"
On Wednesday evening, it was 75 degrees and sunny. Right now, it's 30 degrees, and freezing rain is falling from the sky.

Are you kidding me with this?

The black hole that is my apartment
I wouldn't consider myself a particularly scatterbrained person. Sure, sometimes I go into a room and immediately forget why, but we all do that, right? And I will occasionally set something down in a weird place, but it's usually not a place that's so out there that I can't figure it out with a little deductive reasoning. But lately I've started to wonder about my mental clarity, because a couple of things have gone missing in my apartment that I just can't account for.

The first was my Philosophy "skin-perfecting" moisturizer. I only use it occasionally, because it can make my skin break out, but I still wasn't too happy about this, because that stuff ain't cheap. I know I took it with me on some of my February trips, so it's possible that it's tucked into the dark recesses of a suitcase that has since been put away, but I could've sworn I saw it fall out of one of the suitcases and slide under the armchair in my bedroom. Yet, an inspection under the chair revealed nothing but a giant dust bunny. Hmm.

The second, more perplexing absence is that of the top to my mini food processor. I used the mini food processor to make a delicious mango salsa just last week, and now the top is nowhere to be found. Normally, I'd just assume it was hanging out under the ubiquitous pile of dirty dishes in my sink, but for once, I'm actually on top of the dish-doing, and yet the top to the mini food processor is still mysteriously missing. Hmm, again.

Other than the presence of an actual black hole in my apartment, I can only wonder if these items have been nicked by the new mouse that has taken up residence in my house, who, juding by his ongoing evasion of my traps, is a good deal smarter than his predecessors. Still, that doesn't mean he would be able to successfully make off with an expensive tube of moisturizer that is at least 10 times his body weight.

Death and taxes
Why is it that both of life's certainties are the things most likely to drive you to tears?

First, the taxes. Yesterday was the big day, or at least it was supposed to be. After being clued in to the presence of Free File by Brian last year, I was determined not to pay a cent for my tax preparation. Of course, since Turbo Tax's Free File cut-off income is ridiculously low, I had to find a new tax-prep web site. Fortunately, it looked like I could use the other consumer favorite, Tax Cut.

After some initial technical difficulties even getting the Tax Cut website to display properly (both my home and office computers gave me a blank screen when I logged on, hence I had to drag all of my tax documents to Dave's house so that I might use his computer), it looked like everything was good to go with my Free File. That is, until I found out that Tax Cut didn't have the form needed to report the $70 I'd taken out of my fledgling Health Savings Account last year. This meant I couldn't complete my return through Tax Cut's Free File program, which they were more than happy to tell me after I'd already entered all of my W-2 and Schedule C information. Thanks, Tax Cut. They directed me to their non-free products and services, and I reluctantly started to file my return with their $40 Premium online product, which was at least less than the $75 version I'd have to buy over at TurboTax. But once again, after I'd re-entered all of my W-2 and Schedule C information, I was informed that Tax Cut couldn't complete my return because they were missing the HSA form. Thanks again, Tax Cut. I hate you!

Just as I was fearing I'd have to fork over mad cash to Turbo Tax just to report an amount that I'm not even required to pay taxes on anyway (this is approximately when the tears began), I was saved by Tax Act. Well, sort of. They had the proper HSA form, so I was able to file my federal return for free and without too much issue, but they didn't support either of the forms required for my two part-year state returns. Since neither Turbo Tax nor Tax Cut seem to have online programs for state-only returns, this means I must file my state returns on my own. Without any help, other than from the confusingly worded IRS instruction booklets. I can only imagine there will be more tears to come.

Anyway. On the heels of all this tax drama, I called my parents last night and found out that a friend of our family died yesterday after a long battle with cancer. So I cried a little about that, too, mostly because his two daughters are around the same age as my sister and me, and I honestly don't know what I'd do if I didn't have my dad around. Although after this year, I'd clearly be able to do my taxes on my own, at least.

It's the time of the season for restlessness
I realized after I wrote my post yesterday that this adventure-hungry mood I've been in lately is not exactly a new phenomenon. In fact, the urge to dash off somewhere exciting seems to strike me habitually each year around the end of February or the beginning of March. Last year, Dave and I were thisclose to jetting off to London for a long weekend before responsibility won out; in retrospect, I'm glad we gave in to our sensible sides, as doing so allowed me to be able to move here a couple of months later.

And the more I think about it, the more I'm glad that I've once again been forced into being responsible. Keeping the trip to Thailand in October means not only will I get to be fiscally responsible and possibly visit Tokyo, but also that I'll have time to do all those things I need to do before I go to Thailand. You know, things like learn more about my new camera, undertake the search for the perfect tank top, learn to speak Thai (or at least pick up a few key phrases, like how to order a beer), lose 10 pounds, and buy a cute J. Crew swimsuit on sale (those last two may be somewhat related). And besides, I am an almost-27-year-old adult who should be able to grasp concepts like "delayed gratification."

Yeah, right.

As we've already established, I don't actually have to be a grown-up for another year and 25 days. And so I've decided to deal with my restlessness by breaking my self-imposed travel embargo for the month of March and planning a trip up to New York to visit Danielle over my birthday. I said myself that I needed something new to obsess over. And that something is going to be a birthday cupcake from Magnolia Bakery.

A woman obsessed
Lately, for some reason (which probably has something to do with the fact that my last proper vacation was two freaking years ago), I have become obsessed with planning my trip to Thailand, even though it's not slated until October, which is still seven months away. (Actually, nearly eight, when you consider that the trip won't be until the end of October, and it's only the beginning of March right now.) The result of this premature planning obsession is that I have been bombarding my friend Bri, who just bought a house and therefore probably has a few other things on her mind, with a series of e-mails that go something like: "Ooh, I found a cool place for us to stay in Bangkok!" "No, wait, I think this place might be even better--or is it?" "Hey, we might be able to check out Tokyo on the way back!" or "Screw Tokyo--let's go in May instead!"

This last, most recent e-mail was borne out of the sneaking suspicion that, if my obsession is allowed to continue at a similar pace until October, I may either: a) implode, or b) overdose on all things Thailand-related until I decide I don't actually want to go anymore. However, due to things like Bri's aforementioned house purchase and the fact that she has not yet obtained a passport (one of these days, my friends are going to realize that they should all keep updated passports for when I spring these crazy, impromptu-international-travel ideas on them), plus the fact that it would be mildly fiscally irresponsible on my part (not that that's ever stopped me before), it looks like the fast-track Thailand plan isn't going to happen. But because I'm just about one pack of construction paper short of making a paper chain to count down the days until October, I've decided that I need something else to focus my energies on. Perhaps I should spend some time exploring this city that I live in. It's no Bangkok or Tokyo, but I hear it's pretty cool.

Good riddance to February, United
Never have I been so glad to see a month end as I was to see February draw to a close yesterday. The end of February is always cause for some celebration with me, as it means the beginning of March, a month that contains both the official start of my favorite season (spring) and my birthday. However, I was even more excited to bid good-bye to February this year, since the month was nothing short of insane, thanks to staffing changes at work, random snow days, mysterious illnesses and a whole lot of business-related travel.

Unfortunately, on this final work-related trip (completed on Monday and Tuesday), a PR rep who clearly was unaware of my feelings about United Airlines booked me on one of their flights. There's only so much protesting you can do when someone else is buying the ticket for you (which is to say, none), so I grudgingly accepted it. While my experience this time wasn't quite as catastrophic as the last, I did spend a grand total of five hours waiting in airports due to various delays. Now, I realize there's a chance that this wasn't entirely United's fault, but let's look at the facts here: Since the beginning of December, I have flown six times on Southwest (are you beginning to see what I mean about the insanity?), and not once did I experience a major delay. Actually, I think some of those flights may have even departed or arrived early. It's also a fact that one of my delays on United was caused in part by the flight attendant wanting to go get a cup of coffee. Seriously.

I'm also blaming this mysterious illness I seem to have suddenly contracted (which has all the chills, aches and nausea of the flu, but without the throwing up) on United. Never mind the fact that my boyfriend seems to have the exact same mysterious illness, or that the insanity of February has left me exhausted and therefore with a potentially weakened immune system, or that Tuesday morning I ate a muffin that may or may have come into direct contact with the ground (don't ask...there was an attempted seagull attack involved). If there's some way I can possibly blame United for this, I'm going to do it.