Rewind Television

When I look back on my own childhood, it seems like a simpler time. Maybe that’s a perception shaded by the way memory softens things, or a side effect of the internet and 24 hour news, but the world felt a little smaller and safer then, even if it wasn’t. Maybe it’s the innocence of childhood that I miss.

I want to go back to believing that Bill Cosby was a fun-loving television dad and not the scandalous subject of the evening news.

I want Al Bundy to be America’s favorite idiot again.

I want to go where people know that people are all the same, I want to go where everybody knows my name.

Okay, I’ve been watching a lot of Cheers and I’m nostalgic for the '90s.

The other day my husband and I were reminiscing about the role television played in our childhoods; how each day ended with watching sitcoms as a family and the pinnacle of each week was Saturday morning cartoons. The kids complained that there was no such thing now and I pointed out that there’s no need for it. They can watch programs made for their demographic 24 hours a day, whatever shows they want without commercial interruption, often on their own devices. There is no urgency to sit down together at a certain time to catch up on a family-friendly storyline, and when we do, I’m either bored watching kid shows or cringing through questionable content—that’s not quite going over their heads anymore at this age—as I watch the shows that are considered primetime t.v.

Television isn’t revered as a family activity these days but I have fond memories from the unintentional routine of watching familiar shows together after dinner. When I was a kid we were all staring at screens too, it just happened to be mostly the same screen at the same time. Screen time created conversation and connection.

When I heard Full House was getting a sequel called Fuller House on Netflix, my initial thought was, “…seriously?” I just couldn’t imagine why, despite loving the show for years as I grew up. Are we just totally out of ideas? I wondered.

And then I realized maybe we are and felt a sense of relief. Maybe shows like the Muppets and Fuller House are making a comeback because their humor works for kids and adults in a way that feels comfortable, and the nostalgia invites us to remember our own childhood and the things we hold dear.

(Like John Stamos. He’s aged well.)

My kids are going to have plenty of fun memories involving beach days and vacations and significant events; I also want them to enjoy the simple pleasure that comes from less exciting times like watching television together as a family after dinner. But I want to do this in a way that’s appropriate for them and not boring for me and entertaining for all, and that seems to be the hard part.

Fingers crossed that Netflix reboots all of the ’90s classics and that Cheers is next.

Long live Uncle Jesse.  

Ship Wrecked

Last Saturday night I went out to celebrate the not-40th birthday of one of my best friends. (I am lucky enough to have several.) Her husband thought it was her 40th and planned a beautiful dinner at The Bay House, which is the best restaurant in our very restaurant-worthy city, in my opinion.

It was not actually her 40th, so we celebrated her 39th and used this as a dress rehearsal for the real thing.

Her husband is Andy Hunter, executive chef of The Bay House, and this is the only, and I mean the only, place I like seafood or will try anything adventurous. I even eat oysters. Anyone who has dealt with my complicated appetite is amazed to hear that I would even sit at the same table as an oyster.

I ate all of that. I shared it but only because I had to.

I like raw tuna there (called something fancier) and I think that's very grown up of me.

So he's like a magician, really, making things I don't eat into things I love to eat.

We usually go with other friends of hers and then they become my friends. Also, it's on the water and has live entertainment and her husband arranges for us to have Hemingway-inspired drinks because we're book nerds. He took us outside and sabered the top off of a bottle of Veuve Clicquot which was pretty badass -- so the whole place is magical.

We stayed until the restaurant closed down and then went to a bar at the Ritz where some famous chefs who were in town for a famous wine festival were hanging out. By then we were loud and laughing often, and probably not as funny as we thought we were (but maybe...generally, we're pretty funny, we think.)

We were lured out with promises of Waffle House (always an indicator that the night has gone wrong, and that tomorrow will be regrettable) and at some point thought tattoos were a good idea but weren't organized enough to figure that out, thankfully.

We ended up back at their house and played Cards Against Humanity until 4am and laughed so hard that I lost my voice and my abs hurt for two days.

Or that could have been from the throwing up the next day.

Because although I (really) enjoy my occasional glass(es) of wine, I am not a big drinker. I rarely even reach buzzed. We were all a good bit beyond that.

Big Kid was concerned that he could catch whatever terrible illness I had, and felt bad that I was sick again after I had just recovered from an ear infection.

"Uh, yeah, no, don't worry about it. You won't catch it. I just...maybe stayed up too late last night and had all of that food and stuff while celebrating..."

"Ah, you got wrecked. I see."

I didn't realize he had a concept of wrecked. Or even that kids these days call it "wrecked."

"Wrecked?! No! No! I did not get wrecked. I was just up playing a game really late. And maybe had, like, 2 or 3 glasses of champagne." And some cocktails and a beer but there was no need to elaborate. "This isn't fun, see? When you're a grown up, just have, like, one glass of champagne and always get enough sleep."

He smirked at me, but I was too sick to care.

I texted my friend to see if she was alright. She was not, she was certain she was at death's door and would not survive the day.

And yet within 5 minutes we were texting back and forth about the wonders of the size of the ocean, about all of the undiscovered creatures and treasures that could be down there and about how James Cameron is kind of a dick.

Being a grown-up is so much fun when you are doing it with the right people in the right places. I feel like I am pretty good at that part of this whole thing, it's really just the insurance/taxes/bills/chores part that needs improvement.

Buying Reality

I thought that buying a house would be more fun.

In my mind, it would be like having a new baby -- lots of excitement and hoping and planning and dreaming.

Instead I just feel fatter and less smart and I'm tired and kind of grouchy, so it is kind of like having a baby after all.

Mr. Ashley is obsessed with watching Fixer Upper, Property Brothers, and other real estate reality shows on Netflix and when I'm not making fun of him for that, I'm making fun of the buyers who CANNOT POSSIBLY SURVIVE without a huge dining room because they entertain all of the time or the people who might faint dead away at the site of laminate countertops.

I thought that I had more reasonable expectations. My only parameters were that it had to have two bedrooms, room for my dining room table (I don't even need a dining room, but I'm emotionally attached to my farmhouse table, okay?) and no farther from the beach than I am now.

That last part was hard because I'm only two miles from the beach. This left me with a very small and often questionable strip of neighborhoods to search. I knew I'd end up in a tiny old house that needed a lot of work but I live in one now and I'm a survivor like that so I was looking forward to my fate. I started watching Fixer Upper with a new begrudging appreciation.

(How does she just put weird shit on walls and it looks okay? If I did it I'm pretty sure it would seem like I put some tractor parts on a wall or whatever, and not look okay.)

Not long into the search, Big Kid protested for a third bedroom. It was a reasonable request from a 12-year-old who has been sharing a room for far too long. So we added another bedroom to the wish list.

little kid wanted a neighborhood with kids. We have 10 kids on our little corner of the street --  a roaming scooter gang having the best of childhoods. Also a reasonable request, but we made no promises.

We drove up and down every street in my designated area searching for options and the whole car was quiet. As we passed a row of duplexes with some people sitting out front on plastic chairs with a case of beer at their feet on a Saturday morning, little kid said, "This reminds me of...what's the word?" He thought earnestly for a moment as we waited. "...the apocalypse?"

As they say, children, drunk people, and leggings always tell the truth. So I gave up on my area and widened the search.

The house we have under contract is in a very family-friendly community with sidewalks and streetlights and a playground. It has three bedrooms. There's not really room for my dining room table but maybe Joanna Gaines from Fixer Upper will come rip out some walls (and, I mean, maybe she'll come willingly. I wouldn't kidnap her. I haven't been thinking about ways to do that because that's illegal and I'd get caught. And it's not right to do. And how would someone even do that? I mean, if someone was going to do that, how could they pull that off without getting caught? And then make her realize she wants to be friends? Hypothetically, of course.)

 Or we can eat on tray tables.

But I can assure you that buying a house is way more fun on television, and not having a dining room does kind of hurt.

A New Nest

As some of you know, I live in a weird little house. Mr. Ashley hated it at first. He initially refused to even look a second time and couldn't stop talking about how bad it smelled. It was old, had a bizarre exterior, only two bedrooms, a weird tiny corner kitchen sink, and enormous trees whose roots were cracking the driveway, foundation, and ceiling.

I loved it. The two bedrooms were set up as masters, it had a ton of natural light, it was only two miles from the beach, its weirdness was an ode to Florida's history, the Banyan trees are a treasure, and it was the cheapest rental in the best school district.

I won, of course.

We dubbed it the Ugly Seagull like a proper beach house with a name and made it our own, making it as cute as can be until we gradually began calling it the Quirky Seagull because we no longer thought it was ugly.

And the weird little house became a part of our lives. The trees became part of the family, their roots snaking into the plumbing and the cracks widening, always dropping tree junk in the driveway. It was an annoyance but we all lived together mostly peacefully, with a few visits from plumbers to help mediate the situation.

Sometimes well-meaning people would ask when we were planning to buy a home and I would tell them that we weren't -- that I wasn't interested in the commitment or the ridiculous pricing of our area and that I liked our home and situation. Our landlord had owned it for a long time, and owned it outright. He seemed firmly established in the area. I thought maybe we'd be lucky enough to live in the Ugly Seagull until the trees finally won; that one day in my old age, I'd be stepping over the roots growing through the living room floor but I still wouldn't mind because beautiful beach sunsets were a 5 minute drive away.

I knew Mr. Ashley would never go for it but I entertained the idea of buying this house if the opportunity ever arose, foolishly accepting its eventual fate as a tree house.

And then, four days before Christmas (what the fuck, landlord?), we found out that the Ugly Seagull was up for sale -- most likely as a tear down, at a price we cannot afford.

Four days before Christmas aside (what the fuck, landlord?), I was mostly upset at the thought that someone would tear it down, this perfectly lovely weird little house. Then I took a look at the rental market and was mostly upset at the thought of being homeless. A mortgage payment would be less, even with the absurd housing values.

I thought long and hard about leaving our area for somewhere with a lower cost of living but I love it with a weird intensity. I feel so blessed to feel gratitude about where I live. I feel a thrill each and every time I step onto the same beach I've always known. Maybe I could experience more traditional success elsewhere, but I feel like I won the geographical lottery here.

And that's how we might have accidentally bought a house. I'm not getting my hopes up until someone hands us the keys, because I'm pretty sure someone will figure out that we're adult imposters and put a stop to all of this. We meant to buy a house in a few months, but the real estate market here (in my price range) feels like running into traffic blindly -- there's no great time to do it, but if you see an opportunity you have to act fast.

The other day I was sitting on the floor of the shower, happy about the possibility of the new house but mourning the potential loss of the Ugly Seagull and a little irritated at the universe for bossing me around, when I heard the toilet gurgle; a tell-tale sign that the roots are reminding us of their presence.

And I laughed.

Maybe it's time to let the land have the house and for us to move on.

To something with three bedrooms, a pool, and proper storage space.

New Look

"Big Kid, how do you want your hair cut?"

"Well, I don't know how to say this, but like a young Joseph Stalin. Let me pull up a picture."

"Wow. Who knew he was so handsome?" 

"Yes, but how do I tell her I want a dictator's hair?"

So many dictator jokes, guys, but it was the wrong audience.

Propheting

Some yoga friends recently arranged to have a screening of Kahlil Gibran's The Prophet, an independent animated film by Selma Hayek. The kids were really looking forward to it and on the day we were going, little kid asked what it was about. 

"You know, I'm not 100% sure. I think it is actually based on an old book, a form of poetry, probably something middle eastern."

He looked confused. "Well, that is strange."

"Yes, it should be interesting to see how they turn something like that into a movie."

"It will probably be funny. A rhyming movie about a bank heist sounds funny."

"A bank heist?"

"Or whatever -- the robbery or crime or whatever."

"I don't think there is one."

"Then why is it called The Profit?"

"Oh -- oh, it's not. P-r-o-p-h-e-t. Like a messenger from God."

He looked crestfallen. "Really? Are you being serious right now?"

"Yes, hon, this movie will almost definitely not have a bank heist. I also don't know that it will rhyme."

"Well, I'm not going to lie, that is disappointing. I was really excited."

He ended up liking it more than any of us, although I was really moved by some of the incredible combinations of words.

(Spoiler alert to provide context for the reading: 

He dies. That's not a huge shocker though. The end of the book/movie was gorgeous and I went home and looked up the words I remembered immediately and still read it to myself occasionally.)

It had its slow points, though, and I do think a bank heist may have helped move things along.