I once had a friend with a dog. I loved my friend, but every time she came over to my apartment, she would ask if she could bring her dog. I'd have to lie and tell her I was allergic to the thing. (Note: I was not allergic.)
The truth is, this dog shed all over the damn place. I loved the little nugget, but I didn't want it anywhere near or around my Louis Vuitton vintage cross-body or silk bedsheets.
My apartment is my haven. It's the place I return to after a long, crazy day to unwind, and I can't have anyone or anything messing with it. Now, I swear I'm not a bitch; I'm just a little anal.
There's nothing comforting about knowing there are tiny little dog hairs awaiting me in the bed I've been waiting all day to collapse into. It needs to be clean, or else I don't feel clean. My mind is clouded enough, and a clean apartment helps clear it up a little.
As hospitable as I am, I do have certain rules. Those rules involve you not messing up the space I've worked so hard to create. It's simple: Please respect my apartment, and I'll respect you. Here are some of my (completely valid) apartment rules.
Please take your shoes off at the welcome mat.
OK, I have a welcome mat at my door. It's there for a reason, people. I can't have you wearing your outside shoes in my bathroom where I walk around barefoot, or gliding around the floors I just spent an hour vacuuming the fuck out of.
I am by no means domestic; I can barely pour myself a cup of cereal. But, I do hold myself to a certain standard, that standard being I'd prefer not to have any dust particles or dog crap on the same marble floors I step onto after taking a shower.
Leave your pets at home.
Again, I love dogs. But, I love them in dog parks, at grocery stores and peeking out of people's purses. Basically, I like them from afar, when I can pet them, play with them and not have to do any dirty work.
I feel the same way about them that I do about babies: They're cute, yes, but I also don't want to be responsible for them.
Don't make me out to be a dog hater, OK? I am not that girl. I love dogs. I had one for 15 years. I just can't deal with the incessant shedding, sneezing, wheezing and peeing on carpets that comes with having a dog in the vicinity.
Don't put your gross feet on my furniture.
Your feet are gross. I don't care who you are. Hell, I might not even know you and I already know this about you. My furniture, unlike your feet, is untainted. (OK, it's from IKEA, so it's really not that great, but you get what I'm saying.)
Let's say I accidentally drop a piece of sushi on the same table you once threw your feet up on. Then my sushi would taste like feet, and I'm not down with that. I don't eat foot sushi.
The only exception here is if you decide to take a shower at my place, you are allowed to throw your freshly showered feet onto any piece of furniture you please.
Don't sit on my bed...
Yo, this is a BIG one. Only two kinds of people are allowed in my bed: my super-mega besties (of which I only have one or two) and the guy I'm having sex with at that moment. (I usually don't even like him that much, but where else am I going to put him?)
Otherwise, I just can't have you setting up shop in the place I sleep and, uh, do other stuff.
So really, I'm looking out for you, but also, it is a huge imposition to have you in my bed. Your clothes probably have germs from hobos and particles from sewers on them, and I'm not trying to sleep in that gunk.
Make yourself at home, just not in my bed. That's what the couch is for, people.
…or eat in it.
ONLY I'M ALLOWED TO DO THAT, OK?! I eat in my bed on the reg. Every night, I take a banana, slather it with some peanut butter and stick that into a bowl of melted dark chocolate while watching "The Office."
Sometimes, I end up having a little too much fun and end up waking up the following morning with a spoon stuck to my sheets. It's gross, but it's my thing. Stop judging me.
If you did that, that'd be unacceptable. Who do you think you are eating bananas in my bed? No. Just... no. (I'm working on trying to stop eating in bed, but it's not going very well.)
Wash your hands after using my bathroom.
This should be common sense, but I can't tell you how many times I've watched people open the bathroom door right after hearing the toilet flush. This is an obvious sign they didn't wash their hands.
If you're not a hand-washer, good for you. YOLO. That's none of my business. But, it becomes my business once you step foot into my apartment because your dirty hands are going to be touching my silverware and whatnot, and I don't want any DISEASES, OK?
I'm also not going to tell you to march back into the bathroom and wash your hands because a) I'm not your mother, and b) that's absurd. So, please make my life easier by soaping your hands up a little bit. That's all.
Don't try on my clothes.
You will stretch them out, spill something on them or do something else that's really sus, and I simply will not have that.
My clothes are one of the few things in life that make me feel beautiful. And if you're anything like me, who gets red wine all over white stuff and then swears to herself she'll never wear white or drink red wine again, but then proceeds to do both of those things over and over again, you're going to mess up my prized possessions.
Please don't take this personally. I just hate you. I'm (kind of) kidding.
Don't make long phone calls.
You came over to hang out with me, not the schmuck on the other end of the phone. Put that hotline bling down, yo. It's rude AF to argue with your mom over your monthly bank balance at my place. Like, that can wait. Why would I want to sit there and hear you argue about something so personal? Am I supposed to be polite by removing myself from your conversation and moving to another room in my own apartment?
I'm not going to do that. And sitting around while you talk numbers is just awkward. Be courteous.
Use coasters.
Use the overpriced coasters I have just sitting in my cupboards, especially if you're drinking beer, wine or Coke because when you spill those, there ain't no turnin' back.
Well, there's floor cleaner, but the odds of me using that immediately after you and I have gotten drunk together are slim to none.
After the pregame is the party, and after the party is the after-party, so by the time I get home to clean up your mess, I'll be hammered or hungover, which means I probably won't do it.
I'm a grown woman now (sort of), and these ~home things~ are beginning to matter to me. A clean home yields a happy heart.
