I never did get around to making the “something with canned pumpkin” from yesterday’s post.  I’d planned on pumpkin bread — and I found what I’m pretty sure is going to be a kickass recipe — but the man has requested pie.  I suppose I could do pie.  It won’t be the fancy-pants Wolfgang Puck recipe that involves cranberry filling with fresh berries and Grand Marnier, but as they say, beggars can’t be choosers.

The task I’m currently obsessing on is finding a place to live, which seems to me to be a worthwhile use of time and energy.  Tomorrow morning I am supposed to go look at an apartment that we could potentially sublet, and in the afternoon I’m going to look at an apartment complex that’s running a really good “look and lease” special.  I’m skeptical because I read some bad reviews online, but then again, very nearly all the reviews for all complexes are bad.  People come online to give bad reviews, not good ones, and that’s especially true of apartments.  Over a year ago when I was looking at a very nice, upscale one-bedroom (for myself), I looked at reviews of the complex and… guess what? All negative.  Whether your price point is $500 or $1000, no one on the internet has anything nice to say about apartments.

I’m not picky anymore.  I don’t care about complimentary coffee, built-in wine racks, or garden tubs.  If I can afford it, if it has somewhere (I’m thinking a dining nook, at this point) to put the child’s bed, and if they will actually rent to our bad-credit-having, unemployed asses… Sign me up.

The time has come to purge my house of extraneous shit.  It’s an odd feeling.  I never though I’d see the day when I’d be happy about leaving here, but the sheer RELIEF I feel at not having to struggle to save a sinking ship has made a world of difference to my mental health.  Yes, I’ll miss my house. I’ll miss my bath tub and my garage and most especially my kitchen.  I’ll miss a lot of the stuff I am going to have to sell.  That stings a little, because even though we don’t have the world’s greatest stuff, it’s our stuff.  It isn’t some random collection of belongings given to us by This Relative and That Friend.  Nonetheless, a lot of it won’t fit in an apartment and we need to extra money.

If everything works out according to plan, I may have found a job.  It’s only part-time and the pay isn’t great, and of course it’s clerical in nature, but I think it actually won’t suck my soul dry because it’s in support of a certain charity’s Christmas drive — ie, something I actually give a shit about.  It could still fall through, but I am hopeful.