8 AM doesn't make anyone look good.

When my parents bought our house back in 1995 (or maybe it was 1994? Years were irrelevant to me back then) I'm sure they weren't thinking about how horrible the entryway really was. On the contrary, they probably thought it was beautiful. Giant open windows, centralized staircase, perfect for interior decorations during the holidays, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. A lot of you probably agree, we do have a lovely house. But this is why the entry way is horrible: there is no where to hide.

The picture on the right is the stairs up to my room, or as I like to refer to it, my "wing" of the house. I can say this, because I am the only one that ever uses these stairs anymore. (And it's not just because I live in the Thibeaux Estate by myself, just so you know.) But the downside to the location of my wing is that I have to cross the open flooring at the top of the stairs to get to it. Again, it's not the I mind the walk, it's that I am totally exposed to anyone with an assault rifle at my front door. I'm as good as dead. And what's worse? Anyone trying to sell me something, or save me, can see that I am home.

This is when my guilt reflex kicks in. Something you should know about me: I don't answer the door if I know it's not for me. (It's never for me.) I don't answer the house phone if I know it's not for me. (It's never for me.) I don't listen to messages that aren't pertaining to me (unless it's a message about one of my brothers, preferably from a teacher, and hopefully he's in trouble. They never got in enough trouble, in my opinion.) and I absolutely do not get the mail unless I think something for me is coming. These are the facts. However, just like my situations with the mailman, I hate to lie, and I feel guilty when someone knows that I'm avoiding them. My mother did not raise me to be rude to strangers. (I came up with that habit all on my own, I'm proud to say.)

So this is why our entryway is horrible. They can see me. All of them. So I am forced to go, unwillingly, to the door, and I am forced to unlock it, and then, I have to talk to people I don't know about things I don't want, or don't care about. And my conversations have gone like this:

Two men, in suits, walk up to my door. They ring the doorbell once. Wait approximately thirty seconds, and then knock. And I think: I fucking heard you.

I open the door.

Guy #1: Hi! We're from the Christianity Mission Team and we were wondering if you had a minute to talk to us.

Me: Um, a minute, sure.

Guy #2: Are you skipping school today? he laughs.

Me: No, I've graduated college, but thanks. I don't laugh.

Guy #2: Oh, well, good for you! What do you do?

Me: I'm an audio engineer.

Guy #1: what is that?

People don't get what I do for a living. Honestly. Not even my family, really. I have a half-hour speech, explaining all the types of things an audio engineer does. Like sound reinforcement for live concerts, (which gets the response: So you're a musician? No, no I am not.) audio for film and TV (which gets the response: Oh like the lights and stuff? No, more like the sound and stuff.) and the ever popular music recording (Oh, so like you make CD's? Well no, but you're getting warmer.) Most of the time, I just don't feel like having that conversation. So I have taken to going with what all my non-audio friends and family tell other people who ask them what I do.

Me: I do something with computers.

Guy #2: Oh, cool! So, is this your house?

Me: Well, since I'm standing on this side of the door, and you're on the outside, I'm going to go with yes. What the fuck kind of question is that? No, no I actually broke in just a few minutes ago, and I'm about to rob these people blind, but I figured I had a few moments to talk with you guys, so here I am!

Guy #1: We have some documentation we'd like you to read, just about our mission and what we do, does anyone in your home speak spanish?

Me: I think our maid does. But she's only here once a week, and I think she's Catholic.

Guy #2: And how is your relationship with God?

Me: ...Solid.

Guy #1: And do you think that when the time comes, you'll go to Heaven or Hell?

Me: Hard to say, really. What about you? Heaven or Hell?

Guy #2: he's a little taken aback by my tone, because at 8:30 in the morning, I don't want to think about going to hell. Heaven, I'd say.

Me: Really? If you say so.

Guy #1: You know, there is always time to ask for forgiveness, He is always willing to welcome back the lost.

Me: Well, I know where I am, but the next lost person I see, I'll make sure to give them your flyer thing. Thanks!

And the door closes, and I walk back up the stairs, over to the television, and watch several episodes of Judge Hatchett. And every single time, I vow that I will buy curtains for those windows, or find an invisibility cloak.

Maybe I'll just put a sign on the door:

Don't like Chinese Food,

already have a lawn service,

already have a maid,

found Jesus,

and don't support anyone: neighbors or otherwise.

best wishes,

eleanor