Sizzle Says

I am not managing my life very well.

Here’s an example: Last night I worked until 9pm and I could not find my hide-a-key box. What do these two things have to do with one another, you ask? I’ll tell you.

First, you should note that the hide-a-key box is a very handy tool for apartment managers like myself so that I can leave keys to the building in secret places for repairmen so that I am not forced to miss work at my other job sitting on my ass waiting. And waiting.

I had been searching high and low for this hide-a-key magnetic box in my apartment to no avail. I remembered putting it in a “safe place” which, in my case, always equates with “losing it forever.” After working late, I was too fed up to start my search in earnest again when I returned home. I was in a foul mood and didn’t want to chance an emotion explosion. Everything is blown out of proportion this week thanks to PMS. Including my stomach. Hello! Bloating! I hate you!

I digress.

When I woke up today I gave up entirely on searching for it and just decided I would wait for the repairman to arrive since he said he’d be by in the morning. I called and left a message for the repair company but come 10am, I still had not heard from them. I called again and they told me that the ordered part won’t be in until this afternoon so the repair guy won’t come out until later. Gee, thanks for telling me that NOW after I am now late for my real job.

This whole time I am sitting in my apartment waiting (and working on my third “job” but that’s a whole other tangent) when I could have walked over to the locksmith and gotten a new hide-a-key but I didn’t because I was afraid I’d miss the damn repairman. You see my conundrum? I hate wasting time. I hate being late. I hate disorganization. But that seems to be the theme running through my life lately.

I got myself together and went to the locksmith.  When I returned to the building I went to the hiding spot for the box. Guess what I found?  The “missing” hide-a-key box. Of course. That’s just like my life. Search high and low for a thing but never look in the obvious location. Usually what I am looking for is staring me straight in the face.

It’s no wonder I can’t figure out how to manage my life right now. I can’t see the big picture. I’m too focused on the minutia. And the PMS blurs my vision.

You’re breathing your breath on me.

Would you like me to breathe someone else’s breath on you?

Try using your nostrils.

(Him, breathing out his nose like a bull about to charge.)

Very amusing, mouth breather!

I forgot to tell you guys about being woken up last Thursday in the middle of the night. I told Kaply though. Here’s our conversations about it:

Sizzle: Last night I woke up at 2am because of noisy tenant and I was so PISSED I put on sweats and knocked on the door because I could hear her and her friend from the other end of the hall! And you know what?

Kaply: What? WHAT?

Sizzle: When I knocked and announced who I was they got quiet and DID NOT COME TO THE DOOR

Kaply: NO. You are SHITTING ME.

Sizzle: So I was like, um, I know you are in there since you are being so loud I could hear you from the other end of the hall. Please keep it down. I AM NOT SHITTING YOU AT THIS MOMENT.

Kaply: HAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHH. Dude. You, my friend, are a PEARL BEYOND PRICE. I shit you not.

Sizzle: ha ha ha. I was so worked up I was awake for an hour. AN HOUR! Fucking whorebag.

Kaply: I would have had a hard time not taking it out on someone.

Sizzle: I am about 90% sure this is the same chick who had a very loud earlier conversation out front of the bldg where someone said and I quote: “I have killed so many of my brain cells! But I’m not going to be worried until I only have like 5 left.” I cannot make this shit up.

Kaply: This is a sign of a true moron. It’s like you live at Moron Central. SMELL THIS.

********

Sometimes when I have to confront tenants, I hesitate thinking, “It’ll just go away” or “Someone else will say something.” But the thing is, I am in charge here. It’s a weird feeling. No one else is going to call the repair guy to fix the dryer or clean up the cigarette butts or tell the noisy tenant at 2am to keep it down. It’s me. Only me. My fear of not being seen as “nice” is definitely being squelched in this new role. I’m nice enough about it and approachable when I talk to them about the issue(s) so hopefully I’m not making any enemies. I’ll do my job as the manager and they can do their job as the tenant and if we’re both doing our jobs there should be very few problems.

Hopefully.

Probably not.

Oh who am I kidding?!

For a long time my immediate family consisted of my Dad, my Mom, my younger sister (Dokey) and me. Then we lost my Dad to the bottle and eventually to his emphysema and the lung cancer and it was just us girls. We wore our battle scars differently but were united survivors- tight-knit, over-protective and fiercely loyal to one another. My Mom, my sister and I relied on each other as friends as well as family. We were an inseparable trio.

Enter: Double B.

My sis had dated a fair share of boys but was by no means a shameless flirt bordering on hussy like her older sister. (That’d be me for those of you who are trying to catch up.) Double B and Dokey became pretty much inseparable from their first date. On their second date, Double B showed up at my Mom’s door to pick up my sister only to be greeted with scrutiny and the incredulous question, “Did you have BLUE hair yesterday?” (The answer was “yes” she just hadn’t noticed.)

The years have rolled by since then. There have been small moments- nights spent over board games and too much booze, simple dinners accompanied by belly laughs, dancing with Finn to Jurassic 5 in the living room- and bigger moments- Christmas in Mexico, coming to my aid when I fell and gave myself a bloody concussion, helping me move into my first apartment in Seattle (and my second). And then the biggest moments of them all. . . the two of them standing sweetly under trees lit with tiny lanterns exchanging vows and me standing up with them, toasting their union and their love. They filled me with hope that it WAS possible. That maybe that could happen to me too someday despite my best efforts to sabotage it. And then years later when Finn came into the world- there we were, me holding my sister’s left hand as Double B held the right and we watched her push that beautiful boy into a room surrounded with so much love. I watched as Double B’s tears fell as he looked at his son for the first time overcome with precious emotion.

These are the moments that bound us to another. These are the moments that make up a life.

Double B is an easy-going guy who is skilled at many things like building wall cat scratchers and kitty ledges to occupy my cats, precisely hanging shelving and framed art, and making hands down the most delicious french toast ever. He lives up to his nickname “basket ace” at disc golf, knows all the words to certain (if not all) King Missile songs, and in his hey day concocted some very powerful cocktails at their annual holiday party. He’s a stand up guy who tells corny jokes and always runs out to pick up the take out. And he is an awesome dad to Finn who absolutely adores him.

All this is to say that over time this man who was once just some guy with blue hair who courted my younger sister has now become, I’m proud to say, my brother.

Happy Birthday, Double B.

I love you.

There is one rug in my entire apartment located in the hallway.  While it was on sale at West Elm, it was still a bit of a splurge for me. I love it. The cats also love it as evidenced by their incessant frolicking and rolling around on it like they are Tawny Kitaen in a Whitesnake video.

So imagine my surprise when I come home last night to discover the rug bunched up like they were practicing moon walking on it while I was out working. When I straightened it out I saw that someone had puked on it. On my brand new West Elm rug that wasn’t cheap. On my yellow rug. Brown puke.

(Insert expletives here.)

After all the swearing was said and done, I googled some rug remedies and thought I’d try some baking powder on it. Um, no. That wasn’t my brightest idea ever since this isn’t like regular old carpet you have installed in your house. So now I have a white-ish spot where the brown-ish spot used to be.

I’m currently soaking that section in a sink full of water hoping to get the baking powder out of it and eventually have my beautiful rug back. Fucking cats! The entire house is hard wood flooring and they have to puke on the lone rug? Good thing they are cute and I am against animal cruelty because one of them could have “accidentally” fallen out of an open second story window.

Top Five Reasons Why I Need a New Gynecologist:

1) She is predictably late. This time I could hear on the phone in her office next door as I sat in my backless gown, naked on the uncomfortable tissue paper lining, eying the foot stirrups warily.

2) She always goes on and on about her personal life. This time it was all about her new “diet” and her goal to drop enough weight for her trip to Hawaii where she will be riding down an irrigation pipe in an inner tube. I can’t make this shit up. Also, she is very sad to give up her favorite pants because they are getting too big on her. I seriously heard about that at least 4 times during a fifteen minute check up, four minutes of which was actually focused on me.

3) She makes me not want to have babies. This time she told me about how one of her patients was making her mad because she wouldn’t listen to her reasoning. Apparently, this very pregnant woman would not let her induce labor even though she was over two weeks late. The doc claimed the baby looked “very bad” - which she repeated to me a couple of times so she probably said the same thing to the parents. What does she mean by this “very bad”- like is the baby about to die in there? The father-to-be had asked the doctor what a Doula would do in that situation which seems to have pushed her button. Uh oh.

4) My boyfriend could give a more thorough breast exam during foreplay. I have a very large rack and genetically cystic breasts. Even a skilled doctor needs to take some extra time to really be sure there aren’t any suspicious lumps. TMI. Excuse me. Hey Fella, can I schedule a breast exam with you?

5) She doesn’t pass the kleenex. What I mean is (excuse me boys, this might be where you want to just skip to the comments) that she slathers on the KY for the pap but doesn’t bother to wipe it off or at the very least, to hand a girl a tissue after so I am forced to sit up and um, well, there’s no delicate way to put this so I will just say it: drip out onto the tissue paper lining. It’s very unpleasant.

In summary, I’ve had more attention during a quickie.

At least I learned my heart rate is great, my blood pressure is good and I weigh less than I thought.

I’m still finding another doctor though.

There’s this little blog conference coming up in a month. I don’t know if you’ve heard about it. . .it’s called BlogHer. Oh, you have? Of course you have! How silly of me! Everyone in the blogisphere knows about it.

I’m actually a volunteer for it. I’ve already been hard at work wrangling the volunteers for the event. Since this is what I do for a living, it’s not too big of a stretch even though I’ve had to inundate the coordinators with logistical questions since I have never been to the conference before. I’m excited to attend mostly because I want to meet people. But then if I think about that too much, I start to freak out a bit.

What? Me? Freak out? Um, you’ve “met” me. Lies do not become us. Of course there is some spazzing going on.

It’s rather silly really since this is not the first time I have met bloggers in person. I’ve had the pleasure of hanging out with many and there hasn’t been a bad experience yet. And if there was, do you think I’d blog about it? I wouldn’t but does that thought ever plague you? That you could meet a blogger and they don’t like you so they blog about it. Ack! Ok, maybe it’s just me. I over-think most everything anyhow.

My biggest question about BlogHer is: What in the hell am I going to wear?! Because when I am here writing this blog, I can be in my pajamas with no make up on and you can think I’m amusing and cute but that’s not really gonna fly in San Francisco. In certain parts of San Francisco, it would, but we’re talking about specifically at BlogHer. Pajamas as an outfit are already ruled out. Is anyone else concerned about this or am I the only vain one?

I’m not sure what I’ll be wearing on Saturday at Daveattle but since it’s a smaller crowd I’m not as preoccupied about it. For those of you in the Seattle area, some of us bloggers will be meeting up around 5:30pm THIS Saturday. This is the second annual Daveattle (brought to you by Dave2 at Blogography) and it is bound to be a good time replete with laughs and beer and maybe even cupcakes. Want details? Email me!

And if you’re going to be at BlogHer, let me know so I can stalk look for you.

Want to know a surefire way to feel old? Go to an outdoor concert sponsored by a local radio station whose demographic wasn’t born before 1984.

That’s what I did Saturday night. Surrounded by scads of scantily clad young girls wearing outfits inspired by the era I grew up in and meat head boys without shirts, many drunk or high, stumbling up the grassy hill glassily looking for their buddies, there I am sitting on a blanket, yawning, and it’s not even 10pm.

The minor annoyances like how the line to the port-a-potty was so long and the people ahead of me were so sloppy drunk & stupid I just decide to hold it. For 3 more hours. Or how one band’s lead singer over-used the word “fuck” to the point of sounding completely ignorant. And I like the word fuck, so that’s saying something. And don’t get me started on the cigarette smokers who attempted to surreptitiously smoke on the no smoking lawn section.

The line up included Nada Surf and Pennywise but we were there to see Flogging Molly. For those of you unfamiliar with them, they are a 7-piece Irish American Celtic punk band. They are all kinds of awesome. It’s difficult not to bop around when you hear their music.

But even if I love the music, I have come to the conclusion that I would not make a very good punk. I’m not an anarchist. I’m not even a rebel. I’m a good girl who usually follows the rules. And, thus, I feel incredibly tame and boring. Next thing you know I’ll be saying to Finn, “Back in my day, we had these things called cassette tapes.” and in a couple of years I’ll be yelling, “Hey kids! Get off my lawn!” . . .But first I have to get a lawn.

If you’ll excuse me, it’s time for my Metamucil and then the Price is Right is on.

The sun finally came out yesterday allowing me to leave my window open while I slept. I say “slept” like I got a good night’s sleep. I did not. Here’s what happened:

It’s 1:40AM and I am woken up by:

“Why are you doing THISSSSSSS?! I am not the one who’s spent all day at work DRUNK. You’re a fucking cocksucker and I hope you fucking burn in HELL!”

Says a man/boy with a high pitched, frantic, loud voice as he paces outside my apartment building.

I lay there startled awake. It’s a bit disconcerting to wake up to someone yelling obscenities. I couldn’t figure out at first where the voice was coming from. I waited, trying to calm myself in the hopes of falling quickly back to sleep.

It’s 1:50AM and I hear:

“Why is everything MY fault? You lost your own keys! You’re a fucking douchebag who drinks too much!”

That’s when I got up to look out the window. In my hazy state, the guy’s voice sounded like a tenant of mine. I’ve seen him get into hysterics once or twice and I know he suffers from insomnia so it wouldn’t be that far fetched that he’s the culprit. I see a thin, emo-dressed young man holding a cell phone up to his ear speed walking from across the street coming toward my building. It is not my tenant.

I throw myself back in bed. Now I am annoyed.

It’s 2:00AM and here he comes again, this time louder (if that’s possible):

“You’re going to tell me we’re ‘not ready’ for that and then bring someone home to fuck in front of me?! You’re a whore, Brian. You’re a fucking, stupid whore!”

I heave a big sigh knowing that I’m going to be tired in the morning.

It’s 2:10AM and I swear I hear whimpering and then whispering. I can barely make out someone crying and then I hear:

“. . .I’m sorrrrrrrrrrry. . . I love you. . .”

But maybe that last part was just my tired brain making up a happier ending then those two seemed destined for.

Oh the perils of living in the city in the heart of Capital Hill. Drunken revelry after the bars close, noisy pedestrians lingering over cigarettes outside the building and now, lovers spats at top volume.

Yawn!

At least it’s Friday.

Here are a few Sizzle facts:

1) I don’t like failing at things.

2) Baking is something I enjoy doing and that (usually) comes naturally to me.

3) Chocolate chip cookies are over-rated in my book.

4) Chocolate chip cookies will be the death of me. (Ok, a slight overstatement on my part but run with the hyperbole.)

In the last week I have somehow gotten a (proverbial) bug in my ass about baking the perfect chocolate chip cookie. One that is moist and chewy and full of delicious chips. One that makes people’s eyes light up with delight. One that I can give away to my loved ones and not cringe with worry that they are subpar. . .that they could be used as hockey pucks or weapons and definitely can’t be “enjoyed” without a big glass of milk.

Things are not good in the Sizzle kitchen. It is common knowledge that I can bake really yummy muffins, pancakes and chocolate cakes, banana bread, and other types of cookies all from scratch so why in the hell are chocolate chips so difficult? Chocolate chips are to the cookie world what spaghetti is to the pasta world. Simply easy.

And yet I fail miserably.

I tried different recipes than the usual Toll House one because that one fails me every time. I tried a recipe for ginormous cookies and must have over blended because they ended up rather dry while all the reviews of the recipe swore up and down they were super fabulous moist cookies. Then I tried the Ghirardelli recipe. This one was better but not fantastic. Chewier but thin. Dunking was not required to make them edible. Still, not up to snuff. What is wrong with me? I can’t bake these damn cookies! And of course, wouldn’t you know it, they are the Fella’s favorite.

I can’t be alone in my baking failure. Please share with me your baking debacles so I won’t feel so lame.