Don’t deny it ÔÇô- when you’re having coffee with friends and the conversation inevitably turns to gossip, your roommate is one of the first people you bitch about.
And she deserves it, because seriously, she never does the dishes, and she eats all of your Frosted Mini Wheats (and then denies it), and she hasn’t cleaned the bathroom in months — months! She might have been your BFF when you moved in, but after a year of shoving aside her dirty laundry every time you want to sit on the couch, you’re reconsidering that illustrious designation of friendship.
Then again, I clearly have some unresolved issues regarding shared living situations. Over the years, I have had my share of roommates, human as well as feline. I have found feline roommates to be superior. Here’s why.
When I get home from work, one of the first things I do is take off my pants, because damn, pants, you uncomfortable. When living with humans, this behavior is frowned upon or at least generally regarded as rude and/or offensive.
When living with cats, however, if I’m wearing pants, I’m the weird one. In fact, my cats take communal nudity one step further. While the mere act of sitting around sans pants is good enough for me, my cats are — yeah, I don’t need to say it. We all know what they’re doing.
My cats are basically furry, adorable Roombas with tails and whiskers.
Bubba Lee Kinsey and Phoenix are endlessly fascinated by everything I eat, so if I happen to drop something on the floor while shoveling dinner in my facehole at 10 p.m. to a flickering backdrop of 30 Rock reruns, my cats have got my back. Bubba Lee Kinsey enjoys lots of things — granola bars, spinach, you name it — while Phoenix has the proteins and whole grains covered.
But don’t worry! I never let them eat too many of my crumblies — and I NEVER let them eat chocolate.
I like to describe the style of my abode as "shabby chic." Pretty much everything I own is secondhand, and the d├®cor does not exactly match. (Matching is overrated, I say, and a sign of unhealthy mental rigidity.)
My attitude matches my style. Pretty much every piece of furniture I own doubles as a foot rest, coat rack, dinner table, and so on. Human roommates do not always agree with this philosophy, but cats? They will not only stretch out contentedly alongside my feet on the table, they will — yeah, I don’t need to say it. We all know what they’ll do.
My cats are gross. They shed like they’re trying to fill a quota, creating cat hair tumbleweeds that blow unceremoniously across my living room. They poop in boxes and bury it with their hands. They vomit. Then they eat it. Then they vomit again.
By comparison, my habits are positively pristine -ÔÇô dare I say, saintly. In my apartment, I am the responsible party. It won’t do any good to whine about the growing laundry mountain or leave a note by the sink that says, "Dear roommate, Wash me, I’m gross. Love, your dishes," so I just do it all myself.
"But I just fed you."
"No, because it’s bad for you."
"I’m 30 years old. I can eat marshmallows for breakfast if I want to."
"You know what? Boom — feather toy. Chase it. This conversation is over."