One of the events I remember most vividly from my childhood straddling the 1970s and 1980s was The Week My Parents Redecorated the Living Room.

Around 1985 or 1986, in a single fell swoop, our old living room furniture and decorations vanished. Comfortable leather chairs, deep-pile shag rugs, and dark imitation wood shelving disappeared. In their place was pale pink wallpaper, vaguely ethereal prints streaked with yet more muted pastels, glass-doored black lacquer entertainment centers, a glass coffee table, hardwood parquet floors, and, most memorably, brass. Everywhere. Brass lamps, brass-accented chandeliers, brass kitchen fixtures.

Even at age ten, I felt a rude cultural awakening: our house had gone from looking familiar, warm, and cozy to appearing angular, contrived, and deeply aspirational. My home suddenly looked less like the post-hippie clutter seen at the Keatons’ house on Family Ties and more like the doctor-headed households on The Cosby Show and Growing Pains.