stymied

In case you were wondering how things are going...

Making plans for change is difficult when the plans require someone else to cooperate, and you don't even know who the someone is. My apartment has been for sale for a month now, and though there have been nibbles, no one has yet pulled out their chequebook and made an offer. Today I dropped the price (sigh) hoping that someone will get the hint. This is not a grocery store; the posted price is a suggestion.

Another plan I'd made required the library to hire me as an on-call book shelver. I'm stymied there too, because apparently, while my qualifications are interesting to them, they weren't quite interesting enough, because they didn't even bother to phone my references. I am puzzled as to what I said wrong at my interview. I know that in one sense I'm overqualified, but I haven't had a regular job in ten years or so, and really, at 58 I'm not looking to start a career. I just wanted a part-time job and I don't want one that sits me at a computer (do that enough as is). Maybe it's because I told them I'm a writer and they don't like writers to touch their books.

Or perhaps I looked too feeble for lifting books onto shelves, though honestly, I've been lifting books my whole life, it's my most consistent activity. Or they thought I'm not hungry enough (yet) though I don't think that the function of a human resources department is to emulate social services.

Grumble, grumble.

Anyway, I'm more bothered about the apartment not selling (it will, it will). I thought we had a taker yesterday, a young couple about to start a family. I liked the idea of this place having a baby in it. It could use that kind of life. (Maybe they'll respond to the dropped price, and come back with an offer. One can always hope.)

It's not that I really need to move, either. I just badly want to. I like the place I live, it's very nice, but I need somewhere looser, sprawlier. I feel constricted here. I'm not cut out for apartment living; it feels like being warehoused. I'm in storage, like my books, that are stashed away in a locker, waiting for me to get this sorted. I want a front porch again, and dirt outside my door, not concrete.  I'm ready for change. And I don't like being so tidy.

Grumble, grumble.