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.