Right after we were married and before Dave and I were deemed infertile by The Wives, we lived with two of our friends in a three bedroom house on Passyunk Avenue between 18th and 19th. Justin hung wallpaper for the union, Frank upheld justice, Dave was a first year law student moonlighting at a bar, and I was going for my Masters in Criminal Justice and Urban Studies and working at a store in the Liberty Place mall.
The neighbors were old and weird and swore that Dave must be Sicilian because "no self-respecting Italian would marry a Medigan" like me and they let me know that every chance they got and I was too polite and respectful of my elders to say much of anything back. They figured I was Irish because in South Philly there are only Irish and Italian people and there is no such thing as any other kind of white person. And I was a floozy for living with so many men but they were glad to have a police officer on the block. And no one really noticed Justin. No one ever really notices Justin.
We all lived there from July of 1999 until Dave and I moved out in June of 2000. It was all really strange and some really bad things happened between the few good times we had and Dave and I were so broke we cashed in savings bonds and rolled pennies to pay the bills and the house was built on an angle and I swear that place was haunted and I think that is all I'll say about that house.
If you were ever there and you have a good story to tell about that nuthouse leave it in the comments. The stories are out there, that's for sure.
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Here's me wishing I had known you then and had a few good stories to share in the comments. Also quickly realizing that posting similar stories about my *sordid* past is unlikely to hold anyone's attention for long. Especially if they've read any of your recent musings. Guess some are born with the gift to recreate situations in story form and some, well, some aren't. Glad you're the former!!!
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