Moving on up...

Well, I am not sure if it is moving up, but it is definitely moving. We found a house and are set to begin moving. We've decided to make it a process. Today was step one--okay, the beginning of step one. Oyster and I went through all her clothes, making room for her new Christmas gifts and clearing out everything she has outgrown. Old clothes are now in a neatly marked plastic bin labeled, "Garage Sale, size 6." Next I guess comes my stuff. Garage Sale, size none of your business.

The house is advertised as four bedroom, two bath. However, that is partly because the site where it advertised doesn't allow for halves. It really only has one full and one half bath. And the fourth bedroom is a converted carport, which makes a pretty good-sized room. The closet, though, has the washer and dryer and room for a freezer, along with one hanging rod. I don't consider that a bedroom closet. We plan to use that room for storage and little girl play area.

I'm hoping the king-sized bed fits into one of the other bedrooms with plenty of room for the dressers and space to walk. We shall see. If we must, I guess we can put the dressers in the third bedroom. With two double closets in each of the bedrooms, though, we may not be in such great need of the dressers. However it ends up, the move is on.

Wish us luck.

My child is a star!

The second and third graders had their annual winter presentation for their parents about a week before school let out for winter break. I had heard a bit about the program for several weeks before the great production. Mostly I had ridden herd on the violin practicing. Actually, that consisted of telling the child that I don't believe in fighting about extracurricular activities, so if she chooses to practice she gets to keep the violin. If she chooses to not practice she is welcome to go with me to return the violin. She practiced daily prior to the program. I can't say her technique or tone has increased in relation to the amount of practice, but she did memorize all the music she was required and some she was not.

But that didn't make her a star. That just made her a little more confident than some of the other violin students.

What made her a star was her refusal to accept one of the starring roles in the production. She was the only second grader offered the part as one of the three narrators. She declined because she didn't want to do more than any of her classmates. (I think that translates to she doesn't want to be different. Chill says maybe she is trying hard to get to go to the same school two consecutive years--something she has not accomplished during her three years in school).

Anyway, those not assigned a major speaking part were put into two categories: Clouds and Stars. She really, really, really wanted to be a cloud. However, she, like a majority of the kids, became a star. Parents were given no directions regarding how to make a costume other than anything goes and it can be as simple or as elaborate as you wish. No two were supposed to be identical (guess stars are like snowflakes in that respect). I saw one kid with a very elaborate costume that included glittery face paint. Most kids wore t-shirts with stars attached--either by safety pins or painted on. A few wore shirts with pre-printed stars. Only a handful were in something that would pass for a Halloween costume (my hope for next year).

But what surprised me the most was the complete and total lack of separation of church and state in the content of the play. While the Christmas program at the catholic school last year did not mention Jesus at all, this one was about stars competing to be the star that led the wise men to the Christ child. Once God had chosen the star who displayed humility and who understood that Jesus was the true star of the show, kids wearing traditional Sunday School nativity costumes wandered onto the stage and the show ended with a Christmas carol.

I really am living in a different culture than what I have experienced most of my life. I wonder how many non-Christian children were involved in this production. Seems to me that I want my church to teach religion to my child and the school to teach her academics. I would think all parents would feel that way--but then I guess some parents want their own particular brand of religion taught to their children and their neighbor's children, and what the neighbors want for their own children is not important?

Sometimes you just don't want to know

I firmly believe parents should be aware of what their children are doing, who they hang out with, and what sites they visit on the internet. Chill agrees. That's why we keep pretty good tabs on Oyster's internet use. She was banned from a program that really wasn't a bad web site once because she had signed up without permission. Oops.

But tonight I had a twinge of regret for my vigilance. She was on the Girls Go Games web site where there are lots of inane games and the occasional marginally educational game, but nothing so far that is inappropriate for her age. I walked into the laundry room as she was exclaiming in pleasure that the Christmas games had arrived.

I returned just in time to hear, "Oh good. Santa Farty Pants is here." You wouldn't believe the joy and wonder in her voice. I really tried not to believe it. I thought the kids were supposed to actually reach the age appropriate for 5th grade humor before 5th grade humor reared its ugly head. Guess she really is advanced for her age.

And she didn't even eat any of the beans.

Red Beans and Rice--yum yum!

I made some pretty darn good red beans and rice tonight (that Chill is praising very highly). Thought I had better write this one down:

Soak 1/2 lb red beans overnight, then cook as directed on the package. I brought them to a boil, then put them in the crock pot on high for 3 hours with a chopped onion and a little salt. Worked just fine. You could use a can of red beans for this, I guess.

Make a roux using about 1/3 cup canola oil and 1/3 cup flour. Stir over medium heat until caramel colored--takes about 20 minutes. Chop small onion, small red bell pepper, and small yellow bell pepper. Slice about 1 lb smoked sausage. Add to roux and cook, stirring occasionally for about 10 minutes. Sprinkle with fresh ground pepper and Mrs. Dash Spicy. Stir. Add one 14-15 oz can chicken broth. Stir well. Bring to boil. Cook on low heat about 20-30 minutes. Add beans, draining off most of the liquid. Simmer on stove for another hour. Serve over rice with cornbread.

(I actually cooked 1 lb red beans, but only used half. I stuck the rest in the fridge and will add a chopped carrot, onion, potato, bay leaves, and bacon to it and boil for another meal--served with more cornbread).

Pooch walks and bedtime--a comparison

I recently realized that walking the dogs is a lot like sending the child to bed. As we walk along in the chill my objective is to get done as quickly as possible so we can do something I like, such as be warm. The dogs, however--just like the child, have a different agenda. They find ways to dawdle. Every bush must be sniffed. Every puddle tasted. Every yard watered. Any excuse to prolong the experience must be savored and extended to the maximum time possible.

The child goes to bed the same way. I guess it makes sense that if the child was not hungry and didn't eat much at supper time that she would be hungry at bedtime. But no matter how much sense it makes, it is also annoying. And she must have a drink of water (but not out of a puddle) since once she has used her rinse she can't munch or slurp till the next morning.

Tooth brushing could take two hours if allowed. The amount of time spent just getting the toothpaste onto the brush can be counted in portions of an hour that are usually equal to that spent driving her to school--through three reduced speed zones--each morning. Flossing takes extra time, especially if you punctuate each tooth with a paragraph of no particular design. It would be fun to sing while swishing fluoride rinse, but she hasn't figured out how to accomplish that feat, yet. Give her time.

Incentives help. The dogs look forward to biscuits after a successful walk. The child looks forward to reading aloud when she finishes her evening routine in a timely manner.

Oh, and the man? He gives her a proper tickle with his beard as he kisses her good night, putting her down until the next day. After all, isn't that what "the man" is supposed to do?

The Hunt is On and on and on and on...

We have been searching for a new home for several months, now. We started out early in the summer with a half-hearted look at homes near ours. We figured it doesn't hurt to look and for several reasons we would like to move to a different abode. But we weren't in a hurry. The rent here is pretty good and our lease went through October.

Unfortunately, the landlord passed away and it seems the heir wants to live in the house. It also seems the estate may not be settled, yet. Either way, the lease ended in October with us not being able to renew, and now we are looking with more purpose.

Also unfortunately, the competition for homes is intense. Landlords, therefore, are able to make outrageous demands either in price or in lease conditions. Here are a few of my favorites:

"Where do you go to church?" I wish I'd had an answer prepared, but knowing there is a federal law that prohibits this from being considered as a criteria for choosing a renter, I never considered planning a response. I just told the truth. Turns out his church also started with the word, "Saint," so he didn't automatically blacklist me. However, we didn't pursue this house because he also told us that it is written into the lease that the renters are responsible for all plumbing repairs. He figures the only reason for a plumbing repair would be misuse by the tenants. Guess he never heard of cast iron pipes rusting, house settling causing cracks in pipes or problems with joints, or roots growing in the pipes.

Next time I encounter that question I plan to declare in as proud a voice as I can muster, "I worship at the altar of the black virgin lesbian goddess."

Here's one I've heard from about seven potential landlords: They reserve the right to come onto the property and into the home at any time with no notice. One lady even told me she must have the codes to the burglar alarm every time it is changed. They don't seem to realize that the renter is paying for the right to take possession of the property and the landlord should give prior notice and obtain permission to enter the home. As no one in this household relishes the thought of walking out of the shower to encounter a person in the house, we passed on all of these.

One guy apparently told several potential tenants the time he would be working on the property and invited them to come on by to sign the lease. He failed to tell any of us that it was a race. The first to arrive got the prize. I was flabbergasted when I showed up exactly on time for our appointment to discover another woman had just signed the lease. His response: the first person to give me the deposit gets the home.

Many landlords who own smaller houses than the one where we currently live are asking twice or more what we are currently paying in rent.

Maybe we are too picky. But I know I am weary of what appears to be a fruitless effort. I have to wonder sometimes what factors are in play. Does my accent work against me? In IL they said I sounded like a southerner. Here in LA they disagree. Maybe TN has a different drawl? Am I getting the runaround from some of the folk because I am female? Surely there are other women also involved in this endeavor. Or am I just too picky and I should accept all the strange and frightening conditions as normal and acceptable.

I think not.

Poetry for all ages...

My daughter has been learning all kinds of things in school. In addition to the academics and arts in the curriculum, she is learning the important things in life. It seems she brings home a new ditty about every week. Some are familiar:

Jingle Bells
Batman smells
Robin laid an egg
Batmobile lost a wheel
and Joker got away.

Today it was something new:

Tinkle, tinkle little bat.
Tell me where's the potty at.
Is it straight or to the right?
Caves are very dark at night.
Little bat, why such a frown?
Did you tinkle up-side-down?

I believe that came from a scholastic book, Dinner with Dracula. I don't know the author.

And here is another--the first verse I remember from my childhood. I'm a bit appalled at the second verse:

Jackie and Jimmy sitting in a tree.
K-i-s-s-i-n-g
First comes love
Then comes marriage
then comes baby in a baby carriage.

But that's not all
Then comes the baby drinking alcohol.

To make mommy feel better, she changed it to baby drinking milk and all.

I doubt she finds it as easy to remember her math and spelling as she does this. But then, I wasn't much older than her when I wrote the following:

Little Miss Muffett
Crouched by her tuffet
Scared half out of her wits.

There dropped from a glider
an A-bomb beside her
and frightened Miss Muffett to bits.

Home, Sweet Home

It's incredible how much I miss the Chapel. I've heard so many people over the years say they couldn't find a church after leaving because nothing matched their experience at the Chapel. Well, I've discovered there is a difference between cognitive understanding of that statement and living it.

It is much more than missing traditions. It's even more than missing the service. I've found a place where the service music chosen for most Sundays uses all my favorites. The choir, however, is nowhere near the professionalism of the one at the Chapel. There are sometimes only 3-4 members at a service, but they sing an anthem, anyway. They get high marks for enthusiasm, if not for talent.

But that's not it, either. The Chapel was home for 23 years and I honestly expected it to be a constant in my life until I passed away of old age in many more decades. (Okay--or until one of my clients did me in when I enforced his probation conditions). While I am absolutely certain I made a fantastic decision in marrying and moving, I still miss the Chapel.

I miss all the wonderful people--those with whom I shared close friendships, godchildren, good times, and bad. So, while I am not consciously making comparisons, I recognize that I left behind something very special. And I'll keep trying to find something comparable down here.

And that's not all...

There are other things I noticed are different. The cost of dairy products is incredibly higher down here. Milk in central IL was around $2 a year ago. I'm lucky anytime I can find it on sale for less than $4. Cheese and butter are similarly priced. One of Chill's friends told me it is because there is an extra tax on dairy products, but I haven't done the research to find out if that is true.

The traffic lights are set differently. It took me a while to get used to the idea that if I wanted to turn left I should not inch into the intersection. Although there appear to be many vehicles that fly on through after the light turns red (that's not particularly different), I am not brave enough to join their ranks. I don't think the insurance would pay off much on my car once it gets smushed up in an accident where I am ticketed for being stupid. And I have little desire to test my theory.

People use titles when speaking with each other more frequently than I am used to. When I grew up children were expected to address teachers as Mr, Mrs, or Miss--and later Ms. Adults addressed other adults by first name, unless in special circumstances--like being ticketed. In that case you address the police officer as officer. And adults who were students were expected to address their professors with titles. In the South the more formal address is much more common. Politeness reigns, but whereas I would have addressed my friend's parents as Mr and Mrs Lastname, my daughter is expected to learn some first names and use them with the titles. And it seems that she is to address the mothers by Miss Firstname, but the fathers by Mr Lastname.

I'm hoping that we moved down here while she was young enough that she can make the adjustment before insulting too many of her friends' parents. She does seem a bit resistant to the change, though. Mommy is attempting to make the change along with her. My problem is that I haven't quite gotten the rules regarding adults down pat, yet. For kids it is easy. Anyone who is an adult is on the list. For adults it's not so easy. All older adults can be successfully addressed in this way, but some who are not older and even some who are younger should also be afforded this courtesy. And others (posibly displaced northerners?) get insulted by the courtesy, so you don't win by using this as your default. But I'll keep trying.

It's Different in the South

I realized there would be some differences when I moved from the Midwest to the South. I expected longer growing seasons and less frigid air, languid summers and temperate winters. I discovered the summers really aren't that different. Temperature is about the same. Humidity is about the same. They are just longer, now, and the flowers bloom earlier and stay later.

However, the atmosphere is definitely different. In Illinois I took my car in to the shop, was told the problem, was told the cost, and was told the time it would take to fix it. Now, these pieces of information were not always accurate, but they were offered. When the car broke down in Louisiana, my husband's friend volunteered to have the mechanic in his shop fix it.

I took the car in as scheduled. They refused to discuss the details or the cost with me. They would take that up with my husband. I figured as long as I was there, why not take a look at the cars on the lot--we had been talking about the possibility of replacing the car before sinking too much money into it. Both of our vehicles are approaching 200,000 miles on the odometers. We know they won't last forever, so why not look into replacing one now?

Well, why not? Because the manager of the car lot refused to show me a car without my husband's permission! He needed to know exactly what Chill wanted to spend, what he was looking for in a new vehicle, and how soon he wanted to get one. It really didn't matter that this car is only in my name, that I paid for it in full before we were married, or that I would be driving the new car.

Apparently because I am female I don't have the ability to make any decisions. And apparently the condition the store manager suffers from is endemic to the business. When the mechanic came to report the car was ready, he greeted me with, "Baby Doll, your car is done."

I might have smacked him, but he looked twelve years old. I don't believe in hitting children.