Pet Cemetery

Truth: I kill every pet I own. Not on purpose. Not with my own two literal hands. Really, the opposite–  by the lack of my own two hands (a.k.a neglect). I’ve never been diagnosed with ADD because I don’t have it, except for when it comes to pets.

My first incident was Sassy. Sassy was adorable when she was a kitten, but the second she became a teenager and realized she didn’t like humans, I was over it. To make matters worse, Sassy did not adjust well when my family got another dog. She became the middle child– forgotten and angsty– which resulted in her pooping and peeing all over the house. My mom did not like this, mostly because she was the one cleaning up after “my” cat and well, cat urine smells pretty bad. (Mom, I’m sorry, Sassy was my kitten, but when she became a cat, she became yours.) Needless to say, Sassy didn’t last long at the Krolewicz household. My mom didn’t even try to lie and say she went to “kitty heaven” (does such a thing exist? probably not). She told me straight up that she took Sassy to the Humane Society where she was “most likely euthanized.”

If this was my cat, it would probably kill me, not the other way around.

There were other animals, Furby the hamster, bunnies from the county fair, Snakey the lizard, the list goes on. All dead. The worst, by far, was Charlie the cockatoo.

I inherited Charlie from a college friend who decided to hitchhike across America post-graduation. Apparently, birds don’t make great travel companions. Charlie was very annoying. Ever walk outside and hear a bird chirp and think “oh, that’s pleasant”? This was nothing like that. Sure, Charlie was usually watered and fed, but he was not happy. In addition, Charlie had a habit of escaping from his cage. To complicate things, my apartment had mice, so we had mouse traps set out. Mouse traps are non-discriminate– they snap anything that lands in it, mouse or bird alike. One day I received the inevitable call from my roommate who had come home to find Charlie with his leg in the mouse trap. The Animal Emergency Hotline was not much help. Apparently there isn’t much you can do for a bird with a broken leg.

Needless to say, Charlie died. We played “I’m Like a Bird” by Nelly Furtado at his funeral but it was winter so we had to bury him under a mound of snow. 

-DK

Living with Roommates 101

A lot has changed in the last two and a half years. I got a credit card. I moved away from my childhood home to another state. I started a new job. I saw the Grand Canyon. I turned 25 and then 26. A lot has changed. A lot, though, has stayed the same. I’m still unmarried, childless, and working several jobs. And I still have roommates.

When I moved to Denver, I lived rent-free in the basement of a family friend for several weeks before finding my way into a communal living situation. It’s a great location, the price is right, and it’s fully furnished. It also came with 6 roommates.

I love having roommates. There is always someone to lend me grass-fed cow butter or let me snack on their gluten-free crackers and beef liver. However, with that many people living together under one roof, there are bound to be problems – and sexual tension.

I made the mistake of “dating” a roommate for a hot second when I first moved into the house. It got awkward when he wanted to tell our roommates. It was one of those classic you’re-35-and-unemployed-with-six-roomates situations and I preferred to keep it a secret (although he did meet my mom?). Shortly thereafter, I ended things with him in a very passive way that took him a couple days to figure out, all the while maintaining/feigning normalcy around the house.

Let’s just say it was not great. It was one of those classic moments when you are home for Christmas break and you get a text from ex-but-still-current-roommate informing you that he is moving out because of said failed relationship that lasted all of three weeks and when you return two weeks later sure enough he has moved out of the house where he’s lived for the past three years and you hear he went to Mexico to work on his novel which is a murder/thriller that he later self-published on Amazon.

One review reads, and I quote: “Have you ever read a book and had this feeling that characters and locations were based on people you know in real life? This is one of those books … Lock your doors, crawl under the covers and get ready for a damn good thriller.” Classic, right?

Guys, I think as an almost adult it is okay to have roommates. Most of my roommates are older than me (one is 45 with two kids!). That being said, should you date a roommate? Sure. Why not. But be warned: your alter-ego with the same name may appear in a book about murder.

-DK

Am I an adult yet?

You guys, I feel like in the past two and a half years I have started exhibiting more adult qualities. I know, right? It’s a little weird and I feel uneasy.

For example, I recently utilized this magical thing called ‘Curbside Service’ at my local Meijer grocery store. Some may say ordering your groceries on-line and picking them up the next day is lazy. I say it is a blessing from the produce gods.

I despise every aspect of grocery shopping:

• walking down the aisles
• venturing across the store because I forgot ONE THING (usually toilet paper)
• the people
• grocery carts with faulty wheels
• long check out lines
• realizing that even though I trekked across the store I still forgot the toilet paper

Literally the only thing I like about grocery shopping is eating my groceries. Curbside Service eliminates everything I hate about grocery shopping and I am so excited that I told everyone at work, I FaceTimed my parents, I tweeted about it, and now I’m writing a blog post that is basically an unofficial endorsement for Meijer. I also bought almond milk.

Is this what being an adult is like?

 

-SG

I’m Fit and I Know it

It’s been awhile since we’ve posted. In the 2.5 years since then, many exciting things have happened to me –including but not limited to– becoming the proud owner of a Fitbit*. Do I work out a lot? No. Do I run? Fuck no. Among other features, my Fitbit helps me see how far I walk (or don’t walk) in a day. It also tells me how many floors I’ve climbed, how many calories I’ve burned, and the time. Even more so than all of that, I use my Fitbit to tell me how much sleep I get.

We all know how important getting a full 8-9 hours is for our happiness, productivity, and health. My Fitbit has a feature that tracks sleep (I think it’s based on heartbeat? I actually have no idea.) This has come in handy for me many times, primarily after a night of drinking.

For example: the other morning I woke up at 2:08 a.m. (exact time as per my Fitbit). I was fully clothed in not pajamas and my phone was dead. Earlier in the evening I had gone to the opening of a new wine bar, where the wine was free and flowing (and might I add much higher quality that my typical, sedimentary 3 buck chuck). According to Fitbit, I fell asleep at 8:11 p.m. Good thing one of us remembers. Unfortunately, it couldn’t tell me why I’d left, how I got home, or if I said goodbye to those I was with. (Maybe some advances for the next model?*)

A couple nights before that I’d stayed up until 6 a.m. playing cribbage and drinking and used that as my excuse for sleeping until 1 p.m. However, when I checked Fitbit, it told me I’d actually gone to bed at 7:04 a.m. That extra hour makes a huge difference in: 1. My lack of sleep and 2. Making my story all the more hardcore.

So thank you, Fitbit, for keeping me honest and informed of my poor life choices.

-DK

*idea is trademarked. Fitbit probably is, too.