The Hells Angels House

I just bought a Bungalow in Chicago.

Well, first I lost mind, left my church, got a divorce, moved back to the city, got a new job, new tattoo, new hair, new husband (didn't see that coming), some new friends, new perspective and THEN...I bought a house.

The house was lived in HARD. It needs a hug.

If you ever been house hunting, or apartment hunting, for any period of time beyond one day, you know that after a while...they all look the same. It doesn't seem to matter that one is a Tudor and one is a Victorian. You forget that one is eleven stories up and another is in the Garden. THEY ALL LOOK THE SAME IN YOUR MIND. So, while house hunting, my new husband and I would give the houses nicknames.

Sometimes they were cute names, like the "Kathy needs an English Tudor on Addison."--this name enabled my husband to make fun of my tendency to create new words AND give the house a name that will help us recall which one it was. Then there was "Dolores' house on Montrose"--she was the owner who seemed to like us.

We bought THE HELLS ANGELS HOUSE. That's right. We picked the one with bikers on the front lawn and dirt in the yard (we are told by the neighbors that their pack of wild dogs tore up the grass). It was the house with the living room converted into space for their heavy metal band to rehearse within. The house with so many people living in it that we suspect the owner, aka Gramma, sold it just to get everyone OUT! (that's what I would have done).

So here we are, cleaning and cleaning and cleaning the Hells Angel House. Home sweet home.

Maybe once we remove the drum set, the shot bar, the sex toys tossed about in the dirt yard for the dogs (I hope), the scrapes and scuffs and holes in the walls, we will reveal a lovely little bungalow for our little family. This is going to be quite a journey.

Hopefully blogging is cheaper than therapy.