Schitt’s Creek.
Deb recently started watching the series on Freevee. She wants me to watch it, too. I’ve seen episodes from Season 1 and some scenes from later seasons. After watching Season 1, Episode 4, I said, “Meh.”
While watching the first four episodes from Season 1, I didn’t laugh out loud. But I’m told by reliable sources that later seasons are wonderful. Okay. But I said to Deb, “If there are episodes where the homophobic townies are bullying or menacing the pansexual characters, I don’t want to watch. It’s been done.”
Deb said, “There is zero violence against LGBTQ characters on the show. The people of the town are very accepting of everyone.”
Alrightythen. I will watch more episodes. And to be honest, I am intrigued by the premise of the show because in the early spring of 1979, Mom, Doug, and I found ourselves living in a motel.
You see, in 1978, my mom got engaged to be married (husband #2). She sold her house in South City in the fall. Got married around the same time. Moved us to High Ridge to live with her new husband. Then she got scared. Got separated. Moved us into a motel in Sunset Hills while the husband (soon to be ex-husband) was at work. We stayed around a month until Mom could scrape together enough money to get an apartment and some beds and dressers. The apartment was on Weil St. in South City, and we were right back into our old school district. We went back to Southwest High School.
The motel wasn’t that interesting. (There certainly was no front desk clerk like Stevie.) But I know what it’s like to have a house one day and be living in a motel the next. And I know what it’s like to be happier living in a motel than in the nicest house on Skyline Drive.
Since Joy came into our lives, we have lived in three different houses. I am aware that the current house can be cluttered, untidy, too hot on the first floor, too cold in the basement. Our furniture does not match, and many of the towels are different colors. The garage is unorganized and full of stuff. The doorknobs need to be replaced. The kitchen flooring is twenty-five-year-old laminate. I don’t weedwack often enough. I don’t own a summer house in Utah. But guess who doesn’t care about those things. Joy doesn’t.
Joy is completely happy with the house. She’ll take a teal towel or the gray one. She loves Aldi donuts and Aldi orange juice. What she thinks is important is love and affection. She loves kisses and hugs and laughter and stroller rides. She is as happy playing in her four-foot pool shaped like a turtle as she is jumping into an Olympic-size pool.
There is nothing contrived about Joy. She always lets us know what she likes and doesn’t like. She likes watching ABBA sing “Dancing Queen” on the iMac. She does not like Lawrence O’Donnell. She likes playing outside; hates coming back in.
“Joy, do you want a stroller ride?” I say. “Yeah,” she says, clapping.
“Joy, can you give Dad the iPhone?” “AAAAAAAAHHHHHH!” (That’s a no.)
Joy Elizabeth 