So we're renting the back apartment in our friend Miranda's house. We're all coming and going at various times: Miranda, Sarah, the kids, and me. The other day the neighbor from across the street—a big, beefy oil-biz boy—started chatting with Miranda. "So you live there, right?"
"Yeah, I own the house."
"And… the other two?... with the kids?..."
"They're my friends. They're renting the back apartment."
"Oh, I thought maybe you all had a Big Love thing going on."*
I wish she hadn't been quite so quick to disillusion him. We could have gotten a really hilarious Three's Company-esque** plotline going.
* For those of you not so attuned to the pop cultcha, Big Love is an HBO show depicting the shenanigans of a polygamous Mormon family in Salt Lake City.
** The thing that always struck me (and sort of infuriated me) about Three's Company when I watched it as a kid was that there was never any resolution. The entire episode was just setting up a comedic situation, and then… closing credits roll. What the hell is that? Then, next episode, they're back to business as usual. How'd it get fixed? What happened in between? But maybe I should relax. Maybe I should reject the patriarchal, over-linear, phallo-centric dictates of the traditional sit-com form and learn to accept ambiguity: the unresolved conundra, the blurred gender roles, the interchangeable blonds, the mysterious life-force which is Larry. Perhaps I should finally recognize Three's Company as the nuanced deconstruction it truly is. Bravo, Jack! Bravo, Janet! Bravo, Crissy (and the other ones)! Take your thrones in the Pantheon of Po-Mo. Our debt to you is beyond measure.