Posted in C-Haze, Children, Funny, Humor, Nostalgia, Single Mom

Floods, Shop-Vacs and Maintenance Men

Sometimes I do completely ridiculous things… you know, the kinds of things that would embarrass a normal person… and as a result am served with a reminder that I am not nearly so brilliant as I like to think I am.

Life in my little apartment tends to run on the hectic side, especially when my beautiful black-women-in-training are home with me… and that fact is the only excuse I can find for this particular incident.

I had decided one evening that we would be having something for dinner than consists of ground beef.

I keep my meat in the freezer, but hate using the microwave to defrost it, as my microwave sucks- when I attempt to defrost meat in there, even being careful to use the appropriate defrost settings, the result is usually that half the meat gets cooked completely, while the other half remains frozen.

So I have instead taken to filling the kitchen sink with water, and putting the meat in there. I have found it defrosts nicely- quickly and evenly- that way.

This particular evening, I guess I was in a hurry, as I decided to fill my sink with piping hot water to submerge the ground beef… I can only surmise I must have been rushed, needing it to defrost extra-quickly.

Once I turned the sink on, I have no idea what the heck happened.

Did I get sidetracked? It’s possible.

Regardless, for some reason, after turning the water on, I simply walked away- I have absolutely no idea how long I was gone- only that at some point, as I was sitting in the living room, I realized that it was awfully muggy in my apartment…

… Suddenlyr realizing… “Shit. I left the water running in the sink!”

Running to the kitchen I find that yes, indeed, I had left the water running… and had managed to flood out my entire kitchen.

Water was overflowing out of my sink, had completely flooded my countertops, and was making a powerful waterfall down onto the floor…

… Which to my horror, was currently holding every bit of 3 inches of water.

At this point I should tell you that my entire apartment is about 12 square feet… and truly, if I’m exaggerating, it isn’t by much. How I was able to sit in my living room for several minutes without hearing the water running is beyond me.

Initially, seeing the mess I had made, I was paralyzed… in shock… and must have just stood there, in the doorway, mouth agape for several minutes.

It wasn’t until I felt water creeping under the carpet, beginning to soak my bare feet as I stood there that I actually began to move.

I immediately sprang to action and ran into the kitchen…

… Which probably wasn’t the best of ideas… remember my bare feet?

The water, of course, was scalding hot, and I burned myself. I was standing in the middle of the kitchen doing a strange burnt-feet dance, hopping up and down, “Ow! Shit! Ow! Shit!”

Finally, dazed with the pain of my burning soles, I was able to reach across the room and turn off the water.

My next stupid decision came when I decided, obviously without thinking it through, that I should unplug the sink, and let the water begin to drain.

Not really a good idea when the water that’s in there is boiling hot.

I believe I suffered third degree burns on my arm from reaching deep into the sink and pulling that pesky plug thing out, allowing the water to drain.

With this task complete, I half-hopped, half-danced back out of the room to survey the damage.

How the hell do you sop up 3 inches of water when you only own maybe 5 towels?

Simply put, you don’t.

I know this because I tried. I threw every single towel in the entire house onto the floor, and watched helplessly as none of them made a single bit of difference.

Now what am I going to do?

Around this time my 10 year old diva saunters into the room.

“What happened?”

I am ashamed to say, the only response I could muster was a panicked, “Shit!”

Unphased, The Diva asks again, “What happened?”

To which I again exclaim, “Shit!”

She tried very hard to keep from outright laughing in my face… but watching her struggle not to… kind of woke me up.

I called my friend ‘T’ on her cell phone, who both lives and works at my apartment complex.

I explained, completely over-wrought, what had happened, and asked her what I should do.

She initially suggested towels… but quickly shot that idea down after I explained that there really weren’t enough towels in the world to clean this mess up.

‘T’ decided this was a job for Maintenance.

Oh great.

I have to let some stranger into my house, so that he can not only know what a complete idiot I am, but see the evidence with his own two eyes?


This is my life.

I hung up the phone, and dutifully waited for maintenance to arrive…

While waiting, my ever-so-helpful Diva proclaimed that she’s hungry… I stared at her blankly for a moment, eventually telling her that I was in no mood to physically swim to the refrigerator to get her anything to eat, so she would need to wait.

After about 20 minutes, the maintenance guy showed up.

God love him, he was very sweet, and didn’t call me an idiot or tell me how retarded I obviously am even once.

While he was sucking up the water from my floor (he filled and emptied his shop-vac bucket at least 17 times), I could do nothing but stand there, saying, like a robot, ever other second, “I am SOOO sorry”.

He would merely smile and say, “It’s no problem- really”.

Finally, his job complete, he left.

I again apologized for causing so much trouble, and breathed a sigh of relief that I was not, in fact, going to have to build an ark for my beautiful black-women-training and myself to sleep in that night.

I got dinner on the table, and quickly put the whole episode out of my mind.

A few nights later, after powering on my laptop, I found a lone message from my friend ‘T’.

“The maintenance guy thinks you’re hot”.


Posted in C-Haze, Funny, Humor

I Am Woman! Here Me… Meow?

If I’m completely honest with myself, I will admit that there are certain things about being married that I definitely miss. Don’t misunderstand- I do not miss HIM at all- but there were certain things that I didn’t have to do when the ex was still the hubby. Almost a year and a half later, I still scramble to get them done- and that’s assuming I even know how.
For example, I hate lightbulbs. Especially lightbulbs that are covered by cute little light fixtures that need dismantling in order to change them.In the eight years I was married, I cannot recall one time that I had to change a lightbulb. 

So the other day, I’m dropping my oldest daughter off at school. I’m reminding her about her lunch money, who’s picking her up after school, what we have planned for the weekend… all the while sipping on my coffee, talking on my cell phone, and trying to convince my 2 year old (who’s sitting in the back) to stop kicking my chair. My oldest daughter is successful in getting out of the car, and as I’m pulling off, mommy dearest (that’s me) slams into the curb.
From that point on, my car doesn’t drive right- I’m sure I need an alignment (don’t know what the hell that is, but I’ve heard the term used in situations like this- I figure my car is now a candidate). If I want to drive straight I have to cock the wheel to the right a little… and when I’m moving, the car shakes a lot.Whatever- it still drives, right?
Yet another thing that goes on the list of shit to be dealt with… eventually.So one morning (Saturday) while the kids are at their dad’s house, another one of my friends call me. Seems he hurt his leg while working out, and can’t even move it enough to drive. He needs to get to the bank before noon, and wants to know if I’ll give him a ride. Of course I will. 

I’m a great friend, by the way.
So off I go, and pick him up. As we’re driving, he tells me my car’s riding funny. Well, duh. I cheerfully explain what happened at my daughter’s school, with the curb. I even told him that I am certain I need an alignment (didn’t share that I don’t even know what that is. That, folks, stays between us).
He disagrees. I apparently don’t need an alignment. Instead, I seem to have something (and I’m positive this is a technical term) called a “titty” in my tire.Well what the hell does he know? He’s just a man. Plus, he can’t move his leg. Clearly, he’s not that smart anyway.So I roll my eyes, tell him to shut up, take him to the bank, then drop him back off at his place. He leaves me with this warning- “not only do you have a titty in that tire- but it’s bald. The threads are showing. You need a new tire, otherwise you’re going to have a blow out”.I figure, what the hell does he know? I’ve already diagnosed the problem. It is not a titty. That’s a female body part, not a car issue. MY problem is that I need an alignment. Silly man.
So I head home, case closed. Or so I thought.When I got home, I couldn’t get the term “titty” out of my head… so to aleviate my fears, I take a peek at my tire.OMG, there are THREADS- little silver ones- poking out! Dammit, that can’t be good, right? I reluctantly realize, my friend is right.

Where the hell’s my friends when I need them?? I hop in my car, as clearly, the only responsible thing to do is to get a brand new tire, right?

I took my butt to the tire place (and don’t you worry, folks- I was MORE than prepared for those jerks to tell my I need to top off my blinker fluid. They try to screw me, on account of my being female. Little did they know, I JUST had my blinker fluid topped off at my last oil change. My turn signals were working just fine, thank you (hee hee)) and had my tire changed. The difference was miraculous. Seriously. When I got in my car, it drove BEAUTIFULLY!! Who knew that the problem is actually a titty?!?! I don’t need an alignment after all (whatever that is)!!

So I drive home, very proud. I don’t need no stinkin’ man. I can get a new tire all by my self, thank you very much!


Once home, I walk inside my house, check my e-mail, and lay down on the couch for the Law and Order: SVU marathon.

I’ve had a long day- having major work done on my car, and all- so I promptly fall asleep.

BANG, BANG, BANG on my sliding glass door is what wakes me up. I jump off the couch… “what the…???”

Standing outside my door is the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen in my life. I’m not kiddin’ y’all. This man is gorgeous. Sucks for me, because I’m in sweatpants- and I have chicken hair, on account of I’ve been snoozin’ on my couch for the last 2 hours.

I answer the door, very curious as to what this magnificent specimen could want with me…

“Hey lady… just thought you should know- your car’s been runnin’ an awfully long time”

“I saw you when you pulled up- thought you must be comin’ right back out… but it’s been awhile, and your car’s still runnin'”.

I left my car running- in my own parking lot- for two hours.

I quit. I’m gettin’ married again.



Posted in C-Haze, Dating, Funny, Humor, Relationships

God is a comedian, and Other Dating Lessons Learned

We all meet people here and there… on myspace, at the grocery store, a bar, wherever. If you happen to be single, and dating people, you’ll likely give your phone number to that lucky man/woman who caught your eye. Hopefully they’ll call (or these days- text), but sometimes they don’t. Othertimes they do, but for various reasons, we decide we’re really not that into this person after all. Or perhaps they aren’t interested in us, and over time, the communication stops.

When this would happen to me, I used to simply delete the number from my phone. Doesn’t everybody? Well actually I guess I know the answer to that question… I am learning that people put my number in their phones with the intention of allowing it to remain there for all eternity. This can make for some awkward times, especially as the men I tend to meet are big texters. It isn’t as if they’re calling, and I can pick up on who they are by the sound of their voices. Once or twice a week I find myself getting a random text message from someone I have long since deleted from my phone. When this initially began to happen, I would text the person back with a simple but polite, “who is this?” I soon realized that this is a great way to piss people off. When people are putting my number into their phone (again, for all eternity), they are apparently under the assumption that I am doing the same. So when I have the gall to ask who they may be, I tend to get cussed out.

Bearing this in mind, I recently decided to change my tactic. When I would receive these random messages, if I was curious enough to know who’s sending the message, I would respond back with a “hey- how have you been?”. I’d just act like I knew who it was, with the idea being that over the course of our back and forth messaging, they would say something, or refer to something that would make the lightbulb go off in my head- and I would have that sudden “aha!” moment. I can then make my decision as to whether or not to continue chatting with him. Either way, I now know who I’m getting the messages from, and I can therefore choose my course of action- to continue to communicate, or not.

So, the other day, I get this random message from yet another number I do not recognize… “hey you- do you miss me?” Clearly, to respond with, “who’s this?” would be inappropriate. So I text him back, “where you been?” Surely his response will jog my memory…

Throughout the course of the day, we continue texting back and forth… small talk, and I continue to wrack my brain trying to figure out who the hell this man is. His number is vaguely familiar… his name is right on the tip of my tongue… WAIT!! It’s “Steve”!! Whew, that was close! I remember “Steve”… he was the guy I saw a few times all those months ago, who apparently dropped off the face of the earth- or broke his fingers- because he stopped calling.

So “Steve” has apparently awaken from his coma… and is asking me out. He wants me to meet him after work at this trendy little spot up the street from my office. I agree, thinking, why not? Not like I have anything else going on tonight.

I pull up, walk inside… searching, searching… where is he? Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see someone waving, and can hear him calling my name- “Chrissy! I’m over here…” Slowly I turn in that direction, and realize, to my horror… it is most definitely NOT “Steve” that’s waving at me. In fact, it is not anyone I know, nor is it anyone I ever remember even laying eyes on. Now what?

I’ve never been known to do things the simple way- which would have been to walk up to the guy, explain that there’s been a big misunderstanding and admit that I have no clue who the hell he is. Instead, I took a deep breath, put on my best oh-my-God-it’s-so-good-to-see-you-again face and boldly walked over to the table he’d reserved. As soon as I sit down, I realize I’ve likely made a mistake, and should have run the moment I realized I’m meeting a total stranger. Who the heck IS this guy, anyway??

I am feeling pretty awkward by the time our food arrives, as I still have not succeeded in figuring out this man’s name, nor has he said one word about himself that has triggered even the smallest spark of recognition. However, I’m Chrissy, the Hard-Headed One, and I am still not ready to rat myself out. Suddenly, between bites of yummy seafood, I get a plan. I’m so sneaky! I calmly ask him, “so, do you have any nicknames? I love hearing about people’s nicknames, and where they came from, because I think it’s a peak into their personalities…” Pretty slick, huh? I say a silent prayer… let’s hope his nickname is Chris, because his real name is Christopher, or something equally simple. That way, problem solved, I will KNOW who I’m sitting with!

He pauses… mouth disgustingly full of food. He slowly puts his fork down, swallows (I swear I could HEAR the gulping noise it made), looks me in the eye and says… “you don’t have a clue who I am, do you?” BUSTED! I momentarily considered playing the, how-dare-you-accuse-me-of-going-out-to-dinner-with-a-man-I-was-only-pretending-to-know card, but really, what was the point? Instead, I lower my head, shovel another forkful of food into my own mouth and admit, “nope. I have no idea…”

I learned a few things that night. First, God is a comedian. Second, I am not nearly as slick as I thought I was. Third, never delete another person’s number from my phone.

For those of you that are curious… the answer is no. I never heard from him again.