Do real people have dens anymore? The Brady Bunch had a den. We had a den, but not until both my brothers stopped using that room as a bedroom. We set up two chairs facing a t.v. placed in the corner. Behind one of the chairs sat a desk which also faced the t.v. Behind the desk was a clothes-closet-turned-storage. I don’t remember what was in there. Probably papers. Back then people used to save a lot of papers and canceled checks.
The Brady’s den belonged to Mike, the man of the house. I think our den belonged to my mother, who paid the bills at the desk and watched t.v. until way past my bedtime. But my father also fell asleep watching baseball in there and after school it was my favorite place to sit and watch television while eating a snack of kippers and diet soda. No . . . that’s not a typo.
There are lion’s dens and dens of iniquity. Basically, I guess, dens are a place to find trouble. Mike Brady was always scheming up something in his den, and Marcia once got in trouble for using Mike’s den without permission. That begs the obvious question, what was Mike hiding in there that the kids couldn’t be in there unsupervised? I always knew there was more to those Brady’s than reading magazines in bed. By the way, Marcia was forgiven once Mike realized she was secreting away to write a nomination for Father of the Year. Man, I’ll bet he felt like a cad.
What happened to the dens? Did they turn into family rooms? Home offices? What rooms will we have in our homes of the future? How does a room just disappear like we never really had a use for it? Are rich people the only ones with dens and formal dining rooms anymore?
We have a room in the basement that we sort of re-modeled. We put in new tile flooring, restored the baseboards, eliminated moisture, and painted. Bubba has a really cool desk space with all his favorite things crowded around his computer. I put some scrapbooking things in there and packed it so full I can’t even use it. Some decisions need to be made . . . and I’m talking dumpster duty here. But Bubba knows better than to touch my stuff, and I wouldn’t think of rearranging any of his shit. Because as George Carlin taught us, all his stuff is shit and all my shit is stuff.
Now all this room needs is a name. It’s not really a home office. It isn’t a craft room. Bubba sometimes calls it the Bat Cave. I called it the Situation Room for a while. I’m thinking it might qualify as a den. After all, I’d be pretty pissed if Marcia messed around in there . . . even if she were crafting a letter of nomination for Mother of the Year.
Our Situation Room
Clearly, Bubba has the cooler space here. At least he can get to his.
Peace . . .