I seriously don’t get people who make you take your shoes off when you enter their homes. I mean, I can dig it if you have some kind of religious reason and such, or even maybe if you have some crazy Persian rug made from baby seal hair, gold leaf and scented with dried Cristal flakes. OK then I’m down. But fuck, you can’t tell me that you’re ten dollar a square yard, builders grade carpet is going to last that much longer with or without shoes trampling on it.
I spent the afternoon at a neighbor’s house for a Mother’s Day barbeque. I didn’t want to go, but my baby-mama pushed me into it, she said “aw come on, it’s Mother’s Day”… and besides, she already put out this morning, so I felt I had no choice.
As I walked in the door, I saw a pile of shoes staring at me in the main hall -- shit, I know what this means. I tell you, every one there had their shoes off, walking around in socks, crazy talk! I’m like fuck that, there’s no reason for me to take my shoes off. I mean, if my shoes aren’t welcome in your home, then I’m not welcome. That’s how I see it. I mean, what do my shoes have, the Ebola on the bottom? Are they contagious?
Just to the left of the front door and foyer area (AKA shoe resting area) was the dining room with all the food laid out. Hockey puck looking hamburgers, hot dogs, meatballs, etc, etc. eh. I was greeted by the homeowner, my neighbor, who was busy saying things like “help yourself“ and “my home is your home”, all the while nervously looking down at my sandaled feet -- back to my eyes, and back to my feet. I could tell he was wanting to say something. Uhm…er…well…but never seemed to get up the balls to break out the words asking me to remove my unholy footwear. Oh the sacrilege. I didn’t make it far, when my wife elbowed me to take off my shoes. I acquiesced , it was Mother’s Day and all. Plus, I think my bare feet bottoms were probably dirtier then my sandles, so I took a smug comfort in that.
OK. On to my main point in here. Yes, I got it -- you love your home. I mean, I can see the pile of shoes sitting by the door. You love your carpet and your stairs and your walls and your windows…but really and this is a big point here, I don’t care to take the “grand tour” of your home. I don’t care about your sun room. I don’t care much about how you chose the colors in your family room, and your stupid cliché aquarium themed kids bathroom shower curtain. And most of all really, I don’t care to see your upstairs at all. See, here’s how I see it. If I decided, on my own, to just take a walk upstairs to your bedroom -- say I really made myself at home. Maybe I decided to lay down on your bed and catch a bit of the basketball playoffs on your flat screen TV that you were so happy to show off to me, wouldn’t you get a little pissed? I mean, I promise not to lay my dirty, dirty footwear on in your bed…remember? You made me leave them by the door! So, if I’m really not welcome up there, in your room, then why show me it? It’s like showing me your wife’s vagina and asking me not to take a sniff. I really find the whole grand tour thing very uncomfortable. I don’t want to see where you sleep. I don’t care.
See, I’ve gotten to the point in my life where I’ve decided not to play act it out anymore. I refuse. Fuck it. Why fake it? “Oh, I love your curtain choices” “Great fake hardwood floors in the foyer, it really brings out the color of the faux wood cabinets” Fuck that. I skipped the grand tour. My wife thought I was being rude, but honestly, I think she’d be glad that I didn’t. And that was my big Mother’s Day gift to my chick -- skipping the tour. Happy Mother’s Day hookers.
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