Living the “Golden Girls” Way at 41: It’s Possible (and Better Than You’ve Imagined)

Dear Blanche, Dorothy, Rose, and Sophia,

We did it! We did it, and we call it Siren House, and it is more beautiful than you could even imagine. We didn’t want to wait until we were golden. We took the leap when we were tarnished and rusted, broken and alone, right in the middle of COVID, parenting messy little ones, and figuring out what to do with the next 20 years of our careers.

But we did it and want to be a beacon of hope for others who want to do it, too. It’s possible, sisters. Just trust your intuition, keep your heart open, and let her find you.

hh

With the passing of Betty White, the renewed fervor for Rose Nyland memes melts my heart. I was just a little kid when Golden Girls premiered and loved it even then, kinda strange for a 10-year-old.

The women were funny, sassy, sweet, and their lives were interesting. Their home was warm and comfortable. It was a family by choice, and my own family was kinda shitty at being all those things.

I mean, my family is there for me, always. We’re funny and sassy — but we’re not sweet, nostalgic, warm, or really even kind. I’m not being unfair. There was a lot of love, but it was the tough kind. We were strong and safe first, and then maybe we could show a teeny bit of emotion with an awkward hug and always avoiding direct eye contact.

When I got married, I tried to create a warm home for my husband, and later my daughter. It was challenging since my family is meh, I had less than nothing in common with my former MAGA in-laws, and we lived 3,000 miles from our closest relatives most of our marriage.

As I created my “Sisterhood of the Traveling Woman,” I always fantasized about a future where would live on the same cul de sac or retire to the same tiny-house community in the mountains or even just prioritize one another over our families and children one fucking weekend a year.

It was a hard sell, but I continued to persist and my sisters continued to show up for three-day weekend visits in New Orleans, Austin, New York, DC, Oregon, Florida, LA, Idaho, the beach, the mountains, the mani/pedi appointments, and (eventually) the Zoom calls — and even a few dear friends came to visit when I lived in England.

My door was always open to a traveling sister, and if I was on the move, I always wanted a nearby sister to know she was welcome to crash in my hotel room.

When we gathered, we all would laugh and dream of our commune in Vermont or our Frankie and Grace condo on the beach.

“Someday, for a month or two every year,” said the married moms.

“Someday, when we’re done parenting,” said the single moms.

“Someday,” said the single women who were not married.

When my marriage ended in 2019, I moved into a swanky apartment with my daughter who lives with me half time. Rooftop pool, beautiful south-facing windows for my growing plant collection, set right in the middle of a hip part of DC, and surrounded by Gen Z. It was great, but it wasn’t home.

In 2020, we all know what went down. My apartment was a safe womb, but also accentuated my isolation at the perfect moment.

I called my realtor: I want a home. I dreamed of living in a carriage house in an alley, a duplex carved out of an old row house, or even a condo with more people my age with little kids.

One of my sisters and I were Zooming — she in her new swanky apartment down the block with her kiddos, recently having moved out of her family home, too. She said, “I called my realtor. I need a home.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“What would it look like?” she said.

“People will think we’re insane,” I said.

“Are we,” she said.

“We are mad,” I said.

We called a realtor to speak with us both. He said, “You’re mad. I love it.”

Like Goldilocks, we went out one day in March and looked.

#1 Bad neighborhood

#2 Too much work

#3 Too small

#4 When you know, you know. The warm yellow light of a late winter sun spilled through the 100-year-old wavy-glass windows. Hundreds of coats of white paint on each sill ready for another, ceilings so tall they could contain all of our hopes and dreams, and the songs of the sirens celebrating our arrival.

I’d never even set foot in my neighborhood before that March day, but I was home with my sister as soon as I walked in the door. Soon after, two other sisters joined us.

On a practical note, we purchased a legal four-unit apartment building as co-investors and wrote an operating agreement for the asset purchase. We then created a sub-agreement by which we are considered “tenants in common.”

Essentially, we live in a condo building with a more informal, but very legal, agreement between us.

In the past 18 months, the four of us, the five kids between us, the three dogs, and the recently deceased lizard and hamsters have already shared a lifetime of memories. The warm, comfortable, welcoming, community I’ve always dreamed about — and a deadbolt on my own front door for when I want refuge from all of the noise.

You can have it all.