The memorable musings of Catherine O’Hara’s character, Moira Rose, on “Schitt’s Creek” were more than entertainment for me. Moira was my touchstone as I struggled with the reality of an unusually transient life, having lived in 29 homes by the age of 46.
When I heard that O’Hara had died last week, I nestled under my favorite couch blanket and hit play on “Schitt’s Creek.” I’d seen the series countless times, often quoting the hilarious lines that she delivered with such singular eccentricity — dripping with sequin-laced cunning.
Like the Rose family, I was forced to move. As a child, new addresses were presented as progress — for your dad’s job — as my family absorbed an ethos in the ’80s and ’90s to go where opportunity sprouted. For me that meant five schools in five years between the ages of 13 and 18, with only the promise that I was becoming an excellent judge of character by being dropped into new social milieux over and over. As an adult, moving became quieter and more tinged with shame, prompted by divorce, a layoff and rent hikes every handful of years as I tried to “make it” in the big city.
I started watching “Schitt’s Creek” in 2018 as the ink was drying on my second set of divorce papers. I was 40 on a leave of absence from my high-profile executive marketing job. Most days I wandered through my three-story suburban dream house, lying on my stepchildren’s beds and sobbing. Moira’s quips brought me closer to a smile than anything else at the time as she called her TV son, David, a “disgruntled pelican,” and as she famously didn’t know how to “fold in” the cheese.
Mine was an emotional ruin, and I related deeply to the show. The Rose family had fallen from affluence to poverty, finding themselves living in a small-town motel. Just as they had a hard time adjusting to their bankruptcy, I felt a similar pain of not being where I wanted to be in life. I’d soon erect a for-sale sign on that lush green yard and move to a condo somewhere, far from the idyllic cul-de-sac, the animal-shaped cookie cutters and the excessive dishwasher cycles that punctuated my blessed family life. Like Moira, I had no choice but to accept my gutting circumstances.
Moira survived displacement by turning it into theater. O’Hara managed the character’s outbursts as meaningful, playing each scene with lovable eccentricity. How much I related to one of her quotes — “This wine is awful. Give me another glass!” — as I poured cheap grocery store wine for myself, hoping somehow a drunken fog would undo the pain of unpacking stemware in a new kitchen that didn’t feel like my own.
Her unabashed nature modeled an energy, if not a humorous script, when I returned to work after what seemed to some a mysterious six-month absence. In an episode in which the internet and her neighbors think she has died, Moira walks into her Jazzagals rehearsal beaming: “Fear not. She hath risen.” I summoned that very main character energy when I strutted back into my office — and picked right back up on the corporate whirlwind of meetings with needy co-workers who took the cue from me and acted like I had never left.
Moira was there for me off and on as I tried to settle into a new life and stop the pattern of moving every couple years. But, in 2024 my landlord said he was raising the rent by an exorbitant $400 a month. Interest rates had climbed, and the housing market was stagnant. There was little inventory available to buy, so I moved into a garden apartment with a month-to-month lease until conditions improved. I wanted to crawl into my closet and fold the door closed just as Moira did during her hysterical meltdowns.
Instead, I summoned the icon’s stronger moments. When the Roses lost everything, Moira wore wigs to the grocery store, pronounced “bébé” like she was inventing a new language, and, most critically, never compromised her dignity. Instead of harassing myself over my housing stability as proof of a character flaw, I reframed my moves as a whimsical plot twist, just as she had.
One more move finally brought me to a townhouse I hope to call home for decades to come. Moira even changed how I moved in. I didn’t fold myself into a smaller version to fit the space; I instead arrived with a hint of defiance and the enduring belief that being uprooted doesn’t have to mean being undone.
I once viewed my 29 moves as 29 failures to sustain stability, and those in adulthood as failures to build the life I wanted. O’Hara did a lot for me: She played her character on a fine edge of faltering poise that showed me it was acceptable for me to do the very same.
I’m finally settled now, my boxes unpacked in a space that feels permanent. But if the floorboards ever shift again, I’ll be navigating it with my proverbial favorite wig ready. Just like my Moira.
Andrea Javor is a Chicago-based freelance writer and marketing executive working on her memoir about poker and love.
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