It's easy to invite someone over and it's comfortable. It's like Burger King delivery-you can have it your way. Does BK deliver in NYC? I'm sure they do. McDonald's does, so they better. Anyway, given the size and cost of the average NYC postage stamp apartment, you want to get as much bang for your buck as possible. But when it come to loving, I suggest you go to his house. Here's why we won't be playing red rover anytime soon:
Don't take it personal. Or go ahead. I just don't want you all up in my stuff. My personal space. My apartment is all mine for a reason and if you come up in it, looking around and asking "who's that?" in pictures and "what's this trophy from" on the bookcase, it's just gonna annoy me. And no, I don't have any trophies on my bookshelf for real, but it'd be nice if I did, don't you think? I think I'll run the marathon next year, just so I can hang my medal on the wall. Great conversation piece.
In the sanctuary. Similar to the first point, people's homes are their comfort zone, their inner sanctum or sanctumness. It's where they feel safest, where they shake it all off and let the day fall away. If you come around, tarnishing that, leaving behind your bad memories and bullsh*t, well instead of looking happily at that fluffy comforter that cost me an arm and a leg, I have to angrily haul it down the street to the dry cleaners so it no longer smells like your White Diamonds for Men. F*ck.
Nosey. Yep, like Pearl from 227, I'm nosey as hell and for all the reasons I said I didn't want you at my house, I want to be at yours. So I can check your bathroom cabinet for a prescription drug habit or see if your Axe deodorant will make girls eat my hair too.
Maid in Manhattan. In order for me to keep you from thinking I'm the crap of the earth because my apartment looks like the crap of the earth, I have to do what I hate most. Clean. Straighten up, I can do if I motivate a lot. But I chronically promise myself I'll clean on a Tuesday, only to have it not happen until two Sundays later. If you come over, I have to break that lovely procrastinating habit. I like habits. They're character building. I will, however, allow you to pay for a cleaning service. You can stay all week for that. Merry Maids anyone?
I don't know you like that. I once went on a first day with a guy who asked if he could come up and cook for me instead of going out to dinner. He was a great cook and offered to go to the market, grab us some goods, and come back to my pad to cook up a roaring feast and (this is where it's most important) watch the fight that was coming on HBO. One, I didn't have HBO. Two, you are not coming in my house when I don't know you from Charles Manson. Kick rocks on the sidewalk, buddy, cause you ain't coming up.
Just one of them days. Lastly, sometimes, I just don't feel like it. Tired, time of the month, irritated, haven't showered in a year, whatever. You just can't come over, the answer is no. Try again tomorrow.
So, kids, why can't s/he come over? Got a nasty habit you're trying to hide? Have a vicious toy poodle? Toe nail clippings all over the rug? Let 'em rip.
That bitch stole my line,