I Just Can’t, Vol. 1: People Who Make You Take Off Your Shoes In Their House

The problem with coming up with really great categories for your blog is that you never think of them all in the beginning.  An awesome idea always comes after you’ve been writing for awhile, long enough that combing through your archives for stuff to throw into your new, terrific category is too hard.  I’m too lazy to clean out the litter box before I can smell cat pee from the sidewalk, so I’m sure as hell not going to go back and re-organize all my archives.  As far as blog effort goes, all I’m cut out for at the moment is waiting for Blog City to close and hoping like balls I get my WordPress export.

When coming up with a new category, you briefly wonder if not archiving is shortchanging anyone who happens to be reading your blog by category, but then you realize that no one gives a damn about what you think and you’re a douchebag for assuming someone would be librarizing your categories in the first place.  But then you check your tracker and see that people really are reading by category, and you wonder why on earth everyone likes the “Sads” category so much.  Do you all need me to be depressed for you to have a good time?

Hm.  Probably you do.  But wait until you see my newest category!

I JUST CAN’T.

It’s because my “I Hate” category is seldom-used, because even I sit back and think “hate’s not such a strong word on it’s own, but when the H is capitalized and the category is just those two words, I seem like a real dick.”  Now, I might actually hate the stuff in I Just Can’t, but choosing simply “I Hate” for some things seems like overkill, and in real life, I’m more apt to avoid something I don’t like than hate my face off about it.  Walking away with one hand in the air saying “I just can’t” is more my style.

So…

I Just Can’t, Vol 1: People Who Make You Take Off Your Shoes In Their House

There’s an episode of Sex and the City where Carrie Bradshaw goes to a friend’s house for some family-ish party and she’s asked to take her shoes off at the door.  The host’s reasoning is that shoes bring in all sort of unsuitable-for-child-immune-systems germs, and Carrie’s reasoning is that her shoes are part of an outfit and the host is crazy.  Which was probably true, since the host was played by Tatum O’Neill.

Anyway.

To me, part of being a good host is relinquishing a certain amount of control.  I can tell people when to get there but I can’t make them show up on time.  I can plan a menu that turns out ugly or not done at the absolute second I wanted, but I also have the option of keeping everyone liquored up and full of snacks.  I can buy good wine for people who’d rather drink Natty Light, and I know that some amount of my house will end up messy.

Understanding these things makes one a good host because being a good host is about welcoming the people you care about no matter what.  It’s about saying “come on in, spill a drink and use more toilet paper than you really need and forget some crucial thing that I’ll have to run to your house to deliver before work in the morning, but come in, please, because I like you and I want you to be here.”

A good host does not ask people to take off their motherfucking shoes at the motherfucking door.

Making your guests take off their shoes before entering is offensive and control freaky, and implies that your precious light beige carpet is more important to you than having a decent time with your friends.  I know you think your house is clean, but my socks stay much cleaner while they’re inside my shoes than they do scuffling around your house.  Plus someone always drops an ice cube, and there are few grosser feelings in the world than walking around with a wet spot stuck to the bottom of your foot.  Or worse, oh god, salsa on the floor.  I would probably rather walk around in human brains while barefoot than in spilled salsa while wearing my socks.

Your housecleaning habits should not supersede your guests’ comfort.  I am more comfortable wearing the shoes I picked out for the evening than I am tucking my feet under my lap so they don’t freeze.  I am also more comfortable not smelling the old cheese feet of that dude who lives next door to you just because you stripped him of his confidence-providing New Balances.

Relax.  I didn’t walk through dog shit just before coming through your door.  And speaking of dogs, my shoe germs aren’t nearly as bad as what’s happening when your dog scoots his asshole all over your carpet (take that thing to the vet, don’t you know it has worms?!), and that’s if you aren’t an Ultra Terrible Person who doesn’t let your dog in the house to begin with, and if that’s the case then I don’t want to be invited at all.  But seriously.  I’m just sitting here.  I’m not walking all over your kitchen counters or sticking my toes in your child’s face.  I want to be here with you because you’re my friend, and I can’t be friends with some nutjob who lives in a house free of footsteps and full of spills.

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About erineph

I'm Erin. I have tattoos and more than one cat. I am an office drone, a music writer, and an erstwhile bartender. I am a cook in the bedroom and a whore in the kitchen. Things I enjoy include but are not limited to zombies, burritos, Cthulhu, Kurt Vonnegut, Keith Richards, accordions, perfumery, and wearing fat pants in the privacy of my own home.
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