Listen, I’m tired of people pushing me around. Yeah, I was born with a “push” sign on my back, a “pull” sign on my bosom. But, that’s the way the good lord made me. You got a problem? Take it up with the big guy upstairs. I’m a goddamn door. What do you expect?

Not all of us can afford to blow a bundle on a little electronic “nip-tick” (I’m looking your direction, automatic doors). And even if I did have cash to burn, I wouldn’t trade it in for a make-over any day. No way, no how. I’m not into this post-millennium digital party scene that all my peers are flocking to. I’m not just gonna open up for anyone, you hear? You’ve got to do a little bit of work before you get me to shift ajar.

And yeah, I’m heavyset. Big is beautiful. So is wooden. And, hell, I’m maple. I have classic good looks and taut brass knockers to boot. Can you say the same, you plastic-assed, wire-ridden, generic knob-suckers? Where’s your character? Oh yeah, I know, you left it at the factory along with your soul. I was hand carved, you hear? And yeah, I may have some imperfections, but that’s what makes me, me. I’ll say it loud and proud: I retain water if it’s humid outside; I may get a little rigid on your cold ass when the barometer drops below zero on a February morning. I’m not embarrassed to be natural and I don’t need a glossy faÁade to raise my self-esteem. I don’t care if the world sees me for who I am because I’m pleased with me.

And another thing: No snot-nosed moppets are gonna be ringing my bell this Halloween. That’s right, because I don’t have one. This entryway doesn’t do cheap and tacky. Thank you, but I’ll stick with the Lion Shaped knocker that Sir Wallace Montclave adorned me with during our courtship in 1863—back when a man knew how to treat an entryway. You want some sweets, Pork Chop? Well, call me Professor I Don’t Give A Damn, because I don’t believe in a free lunch—especially when it consists of eight Kit-Kats and a pack of Juji Fruits. Why don’t you go see a revolving door if you’re unsatisfied? Word has it they’ll let just about anybody in, as long as you know how to position your body weight against a plastic surface appropriately. You could be a horse with a donkey’s mama and that wouldn’t stop you from getting inside one of those rotating harlots. Let them have their little clique and let them have their little orgies. See if I care. I don’t need the constant support of other doors to prove my existence worthy, and I don’t need the constant pedestrian traffic ruffling my feathers either. Chew on that.

So, I was having a giggle fest with Abigail, the typical door next-door yesterday. She’s new to the area: moved in with the “dream house” the young married couple had built by the abandoned Kids “R” Us last month. Let me tell you, that Abigail is as naive and vain as they come. Covered in paints, lubed up on canola oil, she’s practically begging for a breaking and entry. But at least she wasn’t the typical Victorian prude that I usually find myself talking to. So I held my judgments to myself in return for a quality gossip sesh. I’m only wooden, after all. So, Ab and I are checking out the metal passenger-sides on the used Mazda Miata that had rolled into the neighborhood last night. “Yeah, their cute and all, but I prefer the big roll-aways on the conversion vans myself,” Abigail confided in me.

“Well maybe if you classed yourself up a little, got rid of some of that white Dutch Boy all over you, that conversion would come-a-mergin’ right up to you,” I chided, playfully.

“You think you’re gonna school me, grandma?” Abigail suddenly lashed out aggressively. “Why don’t you take a multi-vitamin, ’cause your creaky-ass joints are keeping me up all night.”