There’s something important I should share about my family: we are not rich.
We have never been rich, we will never be rich, and if we ever somehow become rich, we will not know what to do with said richness and I will likely eat shrimp rings for dinner every night because that seems like something a rich person would do.
Which is the long way of saying my family and I don’t have much in common with the Roses, the family at the centre of Schitt’s Creek, who, before we see them ejected from their mansion in the series premiere, enjoyed a life of opulence, only to see them betrayed by their business manager, sending them to live, penniless, in the titular rural town of Schitt’s Creek.
My family are not pillars of the entertainment industry, nor do we have access to a collection of incredible wigs. We’ve never lived in a mansion, and my life experiences pale in comparison to Alexis or David’s. And that was fine, because Schitt’s Creek is a beautiful work of perfect fiction.
At no point in my adult life did I think I’d share anything with a family who, well, wasn’t real.
But then the pandemic hit. And whether we liked it or not, many of us all got a taste of that classic Rose closeness — only instead of financial ruin spurring a new life in a small town, our reality was much more rooted in anxiety, concern for our health, and the quiet acceptance that should any of us venture outside to do anything, we were putting our lives at risk.