I'm in love with a man named Martine. . .

The most important man in the single gal's life is not her father, her brother, her boyfriend, her best friend, her trainer or even her bartender. . .it's her maintenance man. Trust me, ladies and gents, laugh all you want, but I speak the truth. Ever since I've embarked on this great adventure of living alone, I have been met with a great many challenges that have helped me to grow as a strong, independent, self assured young woman. However, that being said, there have also been quite a few times where, even I, will admit that it would have been nice to have a man around (i.e. to be my wing man during the great roach incident). Well, ask and you shall receive folks because lo and behold the universe looked down, took pity upon my poor single soul and sent me the greatest gift a girl could ask for. . .Martine.

I remember the first day we met. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, flowers were blooming and there was a sweet summer breeze that filled the air. I had just moved in and the building manager had called me to her office to retrieve a rather large package that had been delivered for me. When I got there, I realized that it was the infamous futon that I had decided would serve as my bed.
Once the building manager awkwardly asked me where my boyfriend/fiance was to help me carry the box and was then shocked to find out that I possessed neither, she started rambling off in Spanish about "girls today" and began feeling around her cluttered desk for her walkie-talkie. It was then that she called to the heavens and summoned down the angel, Martine to help me. Now, me, being the stubborn ass that I am, insisted that I could handle the situation by myself (Note: this office that I had to go to is in fact across the street in my complex's sister building). So, there I was dragging this massive piece of crap out the double doors and into the street. Well, the manager must not have had faith in my capabilities (not that I blame her) and called for Martine anyways - and thank goodness because as I attempted to pull the futon off the curb and into the street, I stumbled over the curb myself, lost my grip on the box and wound up sprawled out in the street, underneath that friggin futon. As I laid there, preparing to see the white light. . .or get laughed at by passerbys my savior, Martine arrived.

Now, Martine is by no means a Roman god, but rather a little old Spanish man with a white santa beard, a beer gut and a balding head covered up by an old, faded baseball cap. However, he has a little heart of gold, god bless his soul. He ran right over and lifted the box off of me, helping me to my feet. He smiled and in broken English scolded me for taking it by myself. As he lifted the box with great ease and led me across the street to my apartment, he lectured me about what was and was not safe for chicas to be doing.  When we finally reached my door, I thanked him profusely and reached to give him a hug. Well, I don't know if I honored him or scared the shit out of him because the look in his eyes was definitely friendly and yet, freaked the fuck out at the same time. After that, I continued to wave to him and ask him about his day when I saw him. I've even met his daughter and chatted about Dora the Explorer. At first, I thought he took a liking to me because I was the only person in the building who was under the age of 40 and didn't look like Rick Ross, but then I realized that I'm pretty sure I'm just the only person that ever says hi to him and asks him about his day - and let me tell you what folks - I don't even go to that office anymore. Martine picks up my packages from the office before I even get notified that they have arrived and leaves them inside my apartment for me. If I need a lightbulb changed or a drain unclogged I need not wait an hour before my needs are attended to. He even opens the laundry room for me after hours if I run out of panties and need to run an emergency late night load. I've never considered myself much of a a good Catholic, but let me tell you I thank God every day for sending me that man. We've only just met, but I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

I fought the roach. . .and the roach won

Living by yourself, especially as a woman, there are countless moments where you find self-assurance and great accomplishment in the completion of the minutest of tasks. Hell, putting together a futon made me feel like I could have built the sphinx. However, with that said, there is also the occasional moment where you find yourself wishing you had an extra hand around the house. For instance, oh i don't know, maybe like when you find yourself in the midst of a mexican standoff with a cockroach!
So, there I was one fine evening, minding my own business, attempting to take care of some school work, when I casually looked up from my book to see a rather large and suspicious figure looking up at me from the table. Yes folks, it was. . .a cockroach. The little fucker had me so scared I couldn't move for ten minutes, then I realized I had to take action before he got away and rallied his friends to come attack. I slowly closed the textbook sitting in my lap, raised it and slammed it down. Freaked out by the fact that the man cave had been invaded by one of these disgusting little suckers and scared shitless at the idea that by some chance he had survived the impact and would come out from the shadows to seek revenge, I piled every book I could find on top of the one I had used as a weapon and quickly grabbed my sweater and purse and fled the scene of the crime.
My heart was racing as I flew down the street, making a direct bee line for the 24 hour grocery where I was determined to find a stronger, more effective weapon than a marketing textbook. I stood in the "home and hardware" aisle for at least a good 15 minutes staring at a wall full of bug bombs, roach sprays and flea traps, trying to figure out my next move. Then, all of a sudden a little Spanish man appeared and began to finger through the various bottles of Raid before picking up the one that I had sitting in my basket. Ah hah! I had found a man who held the answers to all my questions! I creepily inched towards him and smiled. When he smiled back my diarrhea of the mouth caught up with me as I spilled the entire story of my evening and asked him just how effective this spray stuff would be. While he stared at me with "well ya freakin weirdo" eyes, he assured me that the spray should be fine but if I really wanted to make sure those suckers weren't coming back I should invest in the bug bomb. As I went on reading the bug bomb labels, my poor little bewildered friend fled the aisle and left me to my own internal debate about just how badly I wanted to make sure these little suckers knew who was the boss of apartment 204. After another 20 minutes of deliberation, I finally decided that Raid would be my weapon of choice (not so much because I didn't think that the bug bomb was necessary, but more so because have you ever read the back of those things?! I was too afraid that I was going to wind up exterminating myself in the process). So, I made my purchase and began the walk home, when my stomach began to twist. What if he survived? What if his family found him dead and now they were going to seek revenge? I couldn't go back. They were waiting. So, I went to Starbucks to prolong my return. I even debated going to a movie. Hell, the thought of surrendering the apartment all together and letting the roaches take over even crossed my mind. Then, I slapped myself back to reality, put on my big girl panties and walked home.
When I finally got to the door, it took me a good few minutes to actually bring myself to revisit the scene of the crime, but as I entered it seemed as though all was as I had left it. I quickly whipped out the Raid before I even had a chance to remove my sweater and began spraying every doorway, window and corner of the apartment. When the job was done, I sat down on my futon (that I built with my bare hands) and took a look around the man cave. I had defended myself against the roaches without help from anyone. I was going to be okay. I'm telling you its those little things that give you the confidence necessary to take on the greater things in life (even though I continue to fully Raid the apartment once a week and it took me a good two weeks to actually lift the books that had killed the little guy and deal with the scene of the massacre.)