Knock, knock. Who cares? or: How I learned to stop worrying and love ignoring people at my door

Canada is in the throes of election fever, an unfortunate condition you can't get an ointment for. 

People are fussin' and fightin' over the issues of the day (or the mudslinging of the hour on Twitter). Lawn signs are out in full.  

The part that scares me the most? The door knockers.

Truth be told, it's not just the political candidates pounding the pavement to shake hands and kiss babies that have me nervous. I stopped answering the door for almost anyone years ago. Our doorbell shorted out last year and I just shrugged.  

When I was a kid, before texting and instant messaging, you'd run to answer the door. It was a thrilling moment of anticipation. 

It might be a good friend who wanted to show you their new Star Wars figures! It could be a Girl Guide with some of those delicious cookies! It could be Ed McMahon with a giant novelty check for a million smackeroos!  

We literally started diving off the couch, hugging the floor where they couldn't quite see us. I'm not kidding at all.- Craig Silliphant

These days, if someone knocks without having sent a text or called first, it generally means they want to sell you something, take something from you, or both. All of them want to wake up my baby daughter while she's napping.  

Every time I answer the door, I wish I hadn't. 

It's someone wanting money for a charity that doesn't sound legitimate. 

It's a guy with a rickety-looking ladder and no insurance who wants to climb all over the house and clean the eaves. 

It's a Terminator, looking for someone named Sarah Connor. I saw what happened to all those other Sarah Connors and that's not how I'm going out.

When my wife and I lived in our old house in City Park, I taped a sign up on the mailbox. It said, 'No flyers, no junk mail, no solicitation, no salespeople, no Terminators.'

I hand-scrawled these words on a piece of paper with a Sharpie and drew little frowny faces all over it so people would get the point. It looked like the work of a beer-swilling, rake-swinging, get-off-my-porch crazy person (it was).

When my wife and I moved to Nutana a few years back, she wouldn't let me put up a new sign.  Apparently it "reflected poorly on her." Pffft.  Whatever.  She wouldn't let me price out a moat either.

Now when someone knocks on the door, we don't answer it. 

The problem is we have a big front window, so someone standing on the porch can see me lying on the couch watching a movie. We literally started diving off the couch, hugging the floor where they couldn't quite see us. I'm not kidding at all. 

It probably doesn't surprise you to hear that a dummy like me does this, but my wife is a brilliant, well-respected woman with a PhD. All of that disappears when there's a knock on the door. I've seen her hurtle off the couch while pregnant. 

After years of this, it's become so commonplace that we just sort of roll off the couch calmly, no hint of alarm, like a pencil rolling off a desk. We have full conversations on the ground about what's for dinner until we think they're probably gone.  

When my son was about three, he didn't understand why Mom and Dad would hit the floor when the doorbell rang. We'd shush him and hiss for him to take cover, as if the house was under attack. 

Now that he's six, he thinks it's hilarious. He'll sneak up to the window and try to peek out. Since he's there anyway, I ask, "Do they have a clipboard?  Are they selling alarm systems? Is it a Terminator?"  

Lately, I've grown utterly shameless. I've decided that it's my house and I am not under any obligation to answer the door. 

Last week, I was sitting at the dining room table and someone knocked. I saw my wife roll to the floor from the couch, as per procedure.

I made eye contact with the doorknocker through the window. I brazenly took a bite out of my sandwich while I stared at them with the heat of a thousand suns. My unbroken gaze said, "It's sandwich time. You are not welcome here." 

After they left, I looked at the card they left in the mailbox. It was a political candidate.

Am I missing out on life? Am I missing out on community? I don't think so. I seek those things out on my own timetable and my own comfort zone, not when the baby is napping or I'm watching a movie or eating a sandwich. 

You might think me callous and rude, or you may think me fiercely ahead of my time and wish to adopt my unorthodox ways. That's up to you. 

The only problem I've encountered so far is that I haven't tasted a delicious Girl Guide cookie in years. I consider it a small price to pay to maintain the sanctity of my fortress.

This column is part of CBC's Opinion section. For more information about this section, please read this editor's blog and our FAQ.

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