When Hurricane Milton was on the verge of hitting Florida last month, a mom in a Tampa suburb made waves on TikTok, standing firm against evacuation orders. She confidently shared why she felt safe staying put, saying, “My husband built this house to commercial standards. It’s a residential property, but it’s built to commercial grade.” It was as if she was brandishing it like a protective amulet.
The allure of “commercial-grade” is pretty easy to grasp, especially in times of looming disaster. The term brings to mind both the everyday conveniences we rely on and the robust infrastructure designed to endure nature’s tantrums. Think about commercial-grade as the invisible force that brings you those piping-hot Krispy Kreme donuts at the airport or provides life-saving oxygen at 30,000 feet.
Consider the elaborate bunkers that become play havens for the affluent elite. These shelters are fortified with state-of-the-art air and water filtration, bulletproof and blast-resistant walls—and hidden within these fortresses—luxurious distractions like bowling alleys, movie theaters, lazy rivers, and go-kart tracks.
These indulgences highlight the aspirational nature of “commercial-grade.” It’s the kind of opulence fit for the rich and famous. When media outlets discuss lavish homes like Candy Spelling’s Los Angeles estate, what often garners attention are not the costliest features, but the most whimsical ones—a gift-wrapping room, for instance.
It just feels lavish, transforming ordinary living spaces with a dash of commercial flair. Little wonder children don’t daydream about modest little ranch houses. Instead, they conjure up visions of impervious, fortress-like homes, where they could roam a Costco at will, nestle into a Mattress Emporium for the night, everything they need enveloping them in comfort. They know they can’t live in a store indefinitely, but the dream is just a step away when you recreate it at home. Imagine having a soda fountain in the kitchen, a McDonald’s in the foyer—just like Richie Rich.
Some well-to-do adults still cling to this dream. Take my dad’s parents, for instance. Despite their middle-class status, their frugality was legendary—they wouldn’t even buy him a baseball glove, a lack he has spent his adult life trying to make up for. Upon acquiring a house with a guest room, the first thing he did was set it up like a hotel room, complete with a minibar and luggage stand. He’s equipped the house with the same steak knives you’d find at Lone Star Steakhouse and sheets like those at a Hyatt. Storage spaces brimming with backups of everything underscore his vision of the American dream—one of abundance, not luxury brands.
But why does having a McDonald’s within your home feel so thrilling compared to having someone who can fetch a Big Mac for you on-demand? Isn’t a vending machine that dispenses free sodas just like having a well-stocked fridge? For many, the thrill lies in simulating the act of purchase without shelling out cash, eliminating the transaction but not the joy.
This idea especially appeals to those for whom buying introduces a kind of anxious anticipation. Their fantasy isn’t a limitless store, but one where everything is perpetual because it’s already been purchased. This became starkly clear during the supply-chain disruptions following COVID-19. Many Americans had the funds but couldn’t access goods, learning firsthand that financial ability doesn’t guarantee availability. Thus, the appeal of an in-home pinball machine isn’t just in endless gaming, but in never needing to scrounge for quarters.
Sociologist Ray Oldenburg coined the term “third space,” referring to public social spaces like cafes and parks that foster community beyond home (first space) and work (second space). With many professionals blending work into home life, this third space seems to be merging, too. Why visit a park when you have a backyard, or a cafe when your kitchen can serve barista-quality coffee? When deliveries bring everything to your doorstep, the necessity of external shopping diminishes when your home becomes the store.
There’s a temptation to criticize this as a form of self-isolation, a reflection of broader societal issues. But I understand it. In my city, a trip to the grocery store is a half-hour walk. Naturally, I find myself wishing it were nearer. Then another thought: maybe just a 15-minute walk, or better yet, five minutes away, or ideally on the ground floor of my building, erasing the need to step outside. You start with reasonable comforts: an in-unit washer and dryer, a slice of greenery, a smooth commute. Yet, as you chase these ideals, the evolution of a perfect city or home edges towards seclusion.
After Hurricane Milton swept through, leaving over 120 homes flattened in its wake, structures like Tropicana Field needed a new roof but withstood the storm, as did the hospital. The TikTok mom, absent from the platform for ten days, later shared a peaceful video from her back porch, showing a sunset over the Gulf. Despite the storm’s formidable force, her home held its ground. She was right about one thing: commercial-grade stood the test.
Emily Mester’s upcoming book “American Bulk: Essays on Excess” delves into these themes.
