They don't call me Combustible Catherine for nothing--everything I touch (including my old rental apartment) bursts into flames. The most recent episode happened last summer. I was in the middle of closing on my place, when the apartment two floors up caught on fire. Well, the owner's crazy ex lit it on fire, but that's another story.

Because it was arson, the fire warden wouldn't let the firemen clean up the water. It sat there for six hours, leaking down into my apartment until I got home late that night. I was in the kitchen and heard what sounded like my bratty cat Emma wrestling with a plastic bag. Then I realized that it was a rhythmic drip. I raced into the living room. There were puddles on my floor, the ceilings were sopping wet and the paint was starting to split in a grid all the way across the room. To top things off, I sprained my ankle when I ran downstairs to get the super.

I made the super quickly replaster and paint the ceilings before my closing date. Boy was that a mistake. I learned the hard way...