Bungalow Barbie

The End of Innocence, Another Bitter Pill Life Lesson

2010-06-01T12:29:00.000-07:00

Being jarred awake--or aware--is really a gift you know. So much better than not ever waking up or paying attention. I keep telling myself that--and to have gratitude for having a learning curve. I am hoping it makes me feel better. Or at least opens the door to a new normal...soon.

Three weeks ago, my bungalow, my bungalow dream, my home and my safety were violated. My rose colored glasses were pulled off my face so hard that I still feel the scratch marks today. Without my glasses, the glare of the world hurts my eyes and forces me to look deeply into the dark spots, not sure of what I will find.

We live in Cragin, a Chicago neighborhood that is on the Northwest side. Diverse, working-class, suffering from rising foreclosure rates and lots of paranoia from both the rise in anti-immigrant "chatter" as well as the cockroach-like spreading of gangs in the city. It exemplifies what is meant when locals describe the culture, crime and nuance of Chicago as "block by block". One block is neat with a tidy row of homes and the next is trashy with high lawns and roving Latin Kings. It's hard to know where to walk you dog sometimes, let alone where to let your kids ride their bikes.

Three weeks ago I was enjoying my neighbors company, gardening in my front flower bed. The sun was out, it was a warm, early evening. All the kids on the block were racing up and down the sidewalk on their bikes and scooters. The little girls, including mine, watched and made fun of the little boys--on cue. It was perfect.

The Chicago public elementary school at the corner has a playground and soccer field that are almost always in use. Kids, teens, adults and the ice cream man are there daily. I thought it was a nice feature of the area. A school, a safe zone.

That afternoon, I looked up and noticed large groups of kids leaving the playground at once, headed towards us. My eyes saw them, my brain began to tell me something was wrong...but not fast enough.

A teen boy crossed the street--my street--and turned away from all of us neighbors...who were watching him. He pulled out a gun and began firing at a van moving down the street towards the school. Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

I remember turning to seeing the gangs scatter and disappear...and then looking for my kids. I dropped what I was holding and began running towards them. I was screaming "Get down! Get down!". It was all I could think of. If there was going to be a shoot-out, they needed to get down. Once I reached them, another neighbor and I were dragging them inside our brick homes. No one was hurt, physically.

Today, I can relive it and not cry. Today I write it out for the first time. I've let go of the shame of living somewhere "less than perfect". I am grateful. I have gratitude.

Since that Sunday afternoon, I've spent a LOT of time thinking, reflecting, researching, interviewing and talking. Talking to people, parents, police, community people, neighbors. I have started educating myself on the what and why of gangs, gang life and culture. I have come to understand that I cannot protect my children from everything. I need to educate them. Teach them to have compassion for what leads people to that kind of life BUT teach them how to avoid being a victim.

I mourned. Am mourning. I am mourning because I realize how different the world is than when my sister's and I were children. I mourn my innocence. My naivete. I mourn the constructed, safe, sanitized world I've built my career as a mother on, because it cannot be sustained. I mourn my capacity to see only the good in my surroundings and the people in my sight.

My mourning brings a new vision, a new era in my mothering career. A vision that helps me see why I have to keep talking to my kids, and keep them talking to me. Why they need their dad's in their lives, both their birth and their step dad. Why I have to be more neighborly and cautious--at the same time. I understand that I need to tell my neighbors with kids that if the kids beat their parent's home from school and no one is home, that they are welcome to play in my house or yard until someone can come get them. I understand that my children's childhood experience will be constructed differently than mine, they will have a new normal. I have to figure out how to construct it, as it is nothing like mine. We will all adapt and be as safe as possible. And on the way there, I will mourn the end of innocence.

Before & After: Part II--By the Numbers

2010-01-26T08:30:00.000-08:00

4849 = the address of the Bungalow we bought last summer
1922 = the year our house was built
3 = the # of years we were told we had to save money for a new roof because the one on the house we made an offer was good for that long
250 = the amount of $ we paid said appraiser for his "expertise"
5 = the number of beers I required when I learned that our home owners insurance policy would be CANCELED if we didn't replace our entire roof in less than 6 months
11 = the number of contractors we went through to find the one who would commit to the project and make it so
3 = the number of shingle layers found on top of our house (red, blue and green--lovely)
27 = the number of times I want to KICK the appraiser who told us we had 3 years on our old roof

It's finally finished! Our new roof. The downside is that our "emergency savings" was almost completely used up. The upside was that we HAD emergency savings. The other upside is that, supposedly, we have about 30 years until we need go thru this again. Here are some before and after pics! Enjoy!

Front of our Bungalow "Before"

The Front of our house, in the winter gray "After"

Anthropomorphism of a Bungalow

2010-01-10T08:54:00.000-08:00

I am "un-decorating" the Bungalow today. Taking down and packing away the holiday decor that has graced it's walls, floors, mantel and window sills for the past 6 weeks. As I do this, and sip my coffee, I reflect on why we decorate and adorn our homes, especially my new Bungalow.

My new home, my bungalow, has been a stranger in my life since we closed on it, late last summer. I didn't trust it, didn't feel at ease in it, had a hard time seeing how it was going to relate to me or serve my family.

I had "buyers" remorse for a while after moving into it. It could have been part of the moving process. Moving a family of 4 during the dog days of a humid Chicago summer is no picnic. Perhaps it was trying to assimilate into this new space while navigating a new/old job that was increasingly sucking the life out of me. And then there is was the challenge getting my children at ease in their new home and neighborhood while still learning to live in their "mom's house"/"dad's house" world. It all stung a little.

We painted, repaired, carpeted and hung curtains. We adjusted furniture, set up new living patterns and created livable space. We turned a frightening, tore up yard into a little urban oasis with a cedar swing set, flowers, grass and a tall, safe fence. But I was still floating, still suspicious. Nothing was easing my anxiety. Not the lovely neighbors who invited us over for dinner, not the welcome visit from the Alderman's office, not even the sound of children playing at the playground across the street.

So I wrapped the ornaments, deconstructed the train tracks under the tree and then popped out to the front stoop to retrieve the silly, snowman wreath when I turned to go back inside the house and for the first time, I saw it. I saw my homes' face. I saw my house looking at me. In the process of learning how to live in it, fixing it...my house became my home.

I come from a family who celebrate holidays and life markers to fullest extent. I've even referred to my family as "militant" holidays supporters. So we decorate, cook special meals and take time to mark occasions, big and small. The past 6 weeks our home reflected our family photos, our memories in the form of handmade ornaments, our familiar patterns in the forms of meals cooking and candles lit. We hosted a party and repeated long traditions. And now I understand why.

These things are all part of a formula, a subtle yet powerful formula that transforms ordinary space into a very personal component of our lives. Our house, our 1922 Bungalow, came to life for me--finally. I see it now, and am not afraid anymore. My husband and I will make plans in it and for it. My children will seek safety and comfort within it. Our memories will grow and enrich it. I will forever know that during a very cold winter of 2010, our Bungalow became another member of our family. Our home.

Before & After Bitches: The Living & Dining Rooms

2010-01-04T18:03:00.000-08:00

I know, I know. I am not supposed to hate anyone...but I hate the former owners of our bungalow. That's right--HATE.

What kind of person paints original crown molding with a paint that closely resembles baby diaper (filler) green?? What kind of person grinds chewing gum into a hard wood floor? What kind of person lets stain glass windows get so filthy that they end up looking forest green instead of lime???

Hate people. I mean, really?

When you rehab a home, or give it a "hug" as my husband Adam refers to what we are going to our bungalow, you have to address the years of neglect that your home suffered at the hands of it's previous owners. And, it becomes PERSONAL.

I suppose the argument could be made about privilege and resources and time and money but do you know what I say to that? POO POO! They sell bleach at the dollar store! Clean up and take care of your shit people!

So here we were, dismantling holiday decor in our living room and we thought this may be a good time to show you some "before" and "after" photos from our city bungalow! While you are reading this, we are deep into a new, major project which we will reveal next month! Enjoy and feedback is welcome!

(Next up: the basement and back sun room!)

The Secret Evil Anti-Feminist Plot

2009-08-27T06:37:00.000-07:00

DEAR PEOPLE WHO DESIGN HOMES FOR A LIVING:

I WANT OUT OF THE KITCHEN!

Our bungalow has a smallish kitchen. Smallish meaning the kitchen, for the purpose of actually preparing, cooking and storing food and related utensils, is a fine size. Why one might call it small compared to today's suburban "super kitchen" standards because when you're in my kitchen are only in my kitchen and there is nowhere to lounge while in the kitchen. That's because it's a kitchen. Not a den or a family room or a game room. It's just a kitchen.

Every time someone new comes to see the bungalow, they have ideas on what we can do to "improve it". That is fine. I welcome new ideas. But the one I tire of goes something like this:

Me: And here is the kitchen (make Vanna White-like arm motion)

Guest: Oh. This needs updating.

Me: Yes, it's on the list. The red counter top needs to go. I know.

Guest: No, I mean, if you blow this wall out and expand the kitchen into your back porch, you'd have a huge kitchen and it would be easier to serve people.

Me: But I don't want a huge kitchen.

Guest: But, wouldn't it be nice if you could open this up?

Here is where I cannot seem to make people understand that I don't want a huge kitchen where half of the room is sitting space and half of it is food preparation space. Why? Because it seems that everyone I know has that kitchen. They call it "open concept" kitchen. And why don't I want this? Because I AM SICK OF BEING IN A KITCHEN!

I think it's a secret evil plot to keep women in the kitchen without them noticing! I do. Here is how design conversations among home building and remodeling professionals goes (in my head):

Evil house designers: "Let's see, hmmmmm, let's make a kitchen BUT let's make it BIGGER so that everyone is in the kitchen all the time then, the woman never has a reason to leave the kitchen! We will call it something hip and progressive and cool. I know, "open concept"! Doesn't that sound inviting?"

So now, we have tons of houses with huge kitchens that I never seem to get out of. I go to my sister's house and where are we for the entire visit? The kitchen. I go to my mom's house, the same thing.

Personally, I want OUT OF THE KITCHEN. I want to prepare the food, clean up and leave the kitchen. Perhaps that comes from serving children who seem to be eating constantly. Or maybe it's a rebellion against my long Martha Stewart wanna-be phase. I don't know.

So my little kitchen is fine. Well, once we replace the red counter tops and grease stained cabinets (don't ask because I don't know how or why there is grease inside the cabinets), I will be content with the space. I don't want to blow a wall out. I don't want to turn my notty-pine back porch into a diner. A want to cook within, and then leave, my kitchen.

Top Ten WTF Moments

2009-08-15T15:19:00.000-07:00

This is probably the last post before I begin to put up some "after/positive progress" photos of our baby bungalow. So, to go out with a bang, I present the "Top Ten WTF Moments" of taking ownership of our home!

#10. The moment we discovered there were 9 layers of paint, 1 layer on wood stain and at least 1 layer of wall paper over our plastered walls;

#9. The moment we realized there was only one layer of cheap paint coated over about 5 miles of beautifully stained hard wood crown molding, trim and floor boards. (well, they used to be beautiful);

#8. Discovering a dildo in the back yard (nothing more to say there);

#7. Realizing we had 3 kitchens in one house...and had to remove 2!

#6. Discovering that one side of our brick exterior is covered in ashes from people putting their cigarettes out;

#5. Discovering that the fence posts were stuck into the ground w/o cement or anything else holding them down;

#4. Our plaster guy pointing out that the previous owners used thick card board instead of dry well to "re-do" the bathroom walls;

#3. Me trying to figure out what is coating the inside of the kitchen cabinets (I am going to wrip those things down...yuck!)

#2. My husband and the plaster dude discovering that the lock on the door to Gramma attic was on the OUTSIDE of the door, there for locking Gramma IN (WTF?);

#1. Discovering the previous owners covered a freakin window when they had the addition on the back of the house re-sided!

Rehab pictures coming soon! Thank god!

What To Expect While Househunting: Smokers, Bikers, a 400 Pound Man and Stink Eye

2009-08-13T09:20:00.000-07:00

Our house hunt was short and intense. Ten houses a day over a number of weekends this past Spring. It was exhausting. And, at times, quite surprising.

I've watched a lot of HGTV and this is not my first time as a home buyer so I thought I knew what to expect when shopping for a home. Well, what I did not take into account was shopping for a home in an economy where most people were not about to invest any spare cash, or shame, into their home for sale. Boy did it show!

We walked or, I should say, climbed through a few houses that really should have started their Spring cleaning by renting a dumpster. Seriously. Often, there was nothing left to walk on but a path through the stuff. Books. Clothing. Garbage. Life size statues of the Virgin Mary. Obese dogs. Cheeto bags. And lots and lots of people. Humans. Humans who were selling their home but who were not interested in making it easy or at least comfortable for potential buyers to look at the home.

I cannot tell you how many times I walked into a dark bedroom, during an official "go see" only to flick on the light and discover people...asleep...in the bed...in the room I'm standing in. Or to find dogs locked in closets. I am easily startled, so I'd like to apologize to those people for waking them with my startled screams.

The home we bought, our bungalow baby, no exception.

The first time I saw my new house, it was scary. The house itself was a little scary and the people in and around it...and on it...and behind it were a little intimidating too. People don't normally intimidate me. Even tattooed, smoking people giving me the stink eye don't scare me. But a crowd of them? That is a little intimidating.

The first time we pulled up to see it, there were a large group of teenagers on the front lawn (glaring at us), 2 large motorcycle guys pulling up and parking, a hand full of adults sitting on the front steps, smoking...and all that was before we got to the front door! Once inside we discovered a 400 pound man in a tiny bedroom, barely dressed and NOT moving for us to see the space. We discovered that Gramma lived in the attic. Which was cool since the attic was finished and seemed comfortable. They even gave her a private toilet up there. Not a bathroom, mind you, A TOILET. In the middle of her living space. Some say that is gross, some say that is convenient. I just found it odd.

We wandered through the house, trying to step over and around what seemed like a dozen people, trying not to knock over the life size card board cut outs of Chicago Bears players or step on the band equipment in the front room to get to the basement. The basement had potential, all you had to do was ignore the black carpeting, the blaring cartoons on one of the 2 dozen televisions sets around the home and the "to-do" list that one of the teen age residents had written on his bed room wall, which read:

Life Goals:
#1--Move out of grams house.
#2--Smoke less pot.

Well, I guess it's good to have goals.

The Hells Angels House

2009-08-11T12:52:00.000-07:00

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.