I Got Into Columbia, But I Can’t Get Into Roblox

I graduated from Columbia, but I can’t get into Roblox, because I’ve failed the verification test too many times. In case you are not sure what that entails, it is simply clicking arrows to put a a goat or a buffalo cartoon image right-side-up. You have to do this eight times, and you have 7 seconds to do so for each image. I failed for the last hour. I can’t set my daughter up with an account. Question: Why is Roblox Fort Knox? Bigger Question: What is wrong with me (don’t answer that) that I can’t determine how to set a goat or buffalo upright? 

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I got this message about 20 times

Perhaps this is because I am not upright.

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I may be upside down, but look at my patent leather shoes!

In other words, I’m kinda struggling here– with the pandemic, the decision to send the kids back to school, and looking for a job. The job sitch is almost as grim as the fact that I can’t prove I’m not a robot on Roblox. Yesterday, I applied for three jobs. Two were promising. The other? It was an Amazon remote job, in which I’d be available to talk to people about their FMLA and Disability. I mean, does this really suit me? Probs not! My career pivot looks less like a pivot and more like a circle–or just a cliff dive.

No, honestly, I’m excited about some of the opportunities. But it’s hard to find something remote. And, if I do, when I search on Linked In, it will say there are 122 applicants ahead of me. I mean, I know I’m a solid pick, but 122? That’s kinda rotten chances. I‘d be better off just going to buy a scratch ticket and heading to the beach with an Italian sub.

Speaking of Italian subs, I am not going to eat those anymore, or at least for today, because I decided I’m going to get really skinny. Like, I want to be a coat hanger. I know a lot of people don’t think of that as an attractive image, but I think all clothes look good on hangers, and some of the ones in my closet are really pissed at me that they’ve been benched.

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My ideal body #goals

With that, I’m going to go for a long walk, since apparently I won’t be able to play Roblox!

 

 

 

 

The Storm Before the Calm

 

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Jim Carrey as Fire Marshall Bill

Have you ever had a Fire Marshall Bill moment when you suddenly just want to exit left abruptly and there’s no stopping you? I had one of those moments yesterday when I was out with several friends. In fact, my insistence that I jettison myself from the scene ASAP was noted by one, who even called me Fireman Bill! Here is what I looked like:

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So here was the scene. I’m sitting there trying to drink this heinous, fluorescent yellow Chardonnay that tasted like I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter, and I suddenly came to the conclusion that I must go home. I wasn’t sure why I felt this way, until I actually got home and had a full meltdown while walking my dogs that I didn’t want to live here on Cape Cod anymore. I am not sure what came over me.

It reminded me of those times in New York City when I’d ride the subway and just start crying. To me, that was sort of a regular thing. And, really, it didn’t seem problematic,(LOLing) because there were so many other people around and no one seemed to notice! One minute, I’d be subway surfing and balancing while holding onto the dirty pole with two fingers, and the next I’d be sitting down and crying, staring at the floor.

Well, one time, someone did notice. It was this guy sitting across from me. He gave me an empathetic side smile and handed me a book, his book, and got off the train. By the time I registered what had happened, he was gone. It was a yellow business book, called Time is Money, and on the inside of the cover, he wrote: “Nice Things Happen.” I’ll never forget that.

It’s true.

So, back to me gripping and walking my dogs last night, I ran into a neighbor. I don’t know her well, but we have kids who are similar ages. She told me she was struggling, (maybe I was looking haggard and obvious?), and I was so appreciative! In fact, so much so, that I think I was legit like yelling positive affirmations about parenting to a mother from across the street at Volume 50. Me: No, totally, I get it! I do! We must get together! I am here for you!

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Anyway, I walked on and started to legit bawl that I wanted to move! I didn’t know how I could stay here anymore. I was carrying two doggie bags of poop, holding one dog leash in one hand and one in the other, and hunched over. I  was like, “How did this happen? I am not from Cape Cod. How have I been here so long! I need to go!” The poop bags were a metaphor.

BUT!

I woke up, and things are a lot nicer today.

I did some writing, went for a run, and I turned off the music on my iPhone. I walked past the beach and stopped to take these photos, thinking how insane I was to be crying that I was forced to live here. Where I live is beautiful, and I’m so lucky to be here!

Okay, now I’m not trying to be that person who tags all of her social media photos with #Blessed #whywelivehere, ’cause that’s just annoying. It’s almost as annoying as #goodtimes #goodfriends.

But sometimes you have a Fire Marshall Bill moment! And then you cry and put out the fire.

And what’s left is calm.

 

 

 

 

Retirement Ain’t Just for the Birds!

Since I retired a few weeks ago, life as an unmarried housewife has been, well, delightful! For starters, I have a savage tan. It brings me back to the days I used to pump gas as a dock master (er, “master” might be a stretch) and wear my royal blue Body Glove bathing suit on the beach without one drop of sunscreen in the 80s all day. My freckles speak to that, and I think I might even be growing some more. Punky Brewster is back! The wan and sallow glow I had in summers’ past from my overhead cubicle light is now gone. I’m more Baywatch than Dilbert–well, minus the you knows on Pam Anderson.

Okay, so what else has changed? Oh, I realized I have no clothes. I used to get dressed for work in the morning and put on my Mary Tyler Moore knee length Talbot’s skirt (super hot), a blouse, pearls, and some flats. Now, that look doesn’t quite jam when flagging down the ice cream truck on the beach or buying beach chairs and umbrellas at Christmas Tree Shop.

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Before Retirement
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After Retirement

Speaking of jam…I really might try to bring back Jams. Remember those? Those like flowered longer shorts from 1986 that look more like a man’s Panama Jack bathing suit than something any eighth grade girl would EVER wear now (well, yes, because they actually COVERED me, unlike the midriffs and short-shorts girls wear now). Jams? Might not be so hot on Tic Tock. And it’s all about the likes. Am I right? I could try to bust into a midriff now, but probs not the best idea when picking up the kids from camp. Wait, did I say pick up the kids from camp? Bwahah! What camp? No such thing! It’s back to Up my Grill camp here at Al’s, just like the good old days when the kids were toddlers, and they stayed in their pajamas till noon (okay, more like four), and I was the entertainment.

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Jams

 

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Dinner outfit=Same as breakfast outfit.

 

Okay, so what else has happened in retirement, besides the obvious attrition of my bank account, and not just from Roblox purchases? Well, I’ve enjoyed the crap out of my days. And the days go a heck of a lot faster when I’m not sniffing white out. Wait, what? I never did that. But, it’s been so nice spending time with my family and friends. I’ve also taken up gardening and am sewing a lot. Ha! Kidding. Come on now. Have we met? I still enjoy a cocktail at 3 and pretending I’m in St. Barth’s drinking rose while sitting on my backyard swing set. It’s almost the same thing, especially when I call the dogs in French.

So! So far, so good! I think I might ride this out a bit longer. Retirement is not for the birds. It might just be for me!

 

 

The Oxymoron We are Living

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I have so many thoughts, I don’t even know where to put them. Okay, so this pandemic feels like it’s over, but it not actually over. So we are living in this oxymoronic state that makes me, too, feel like I’m regularly irregular. On the one hand, I’m Easy like Sunday Morning (yes, I’m listening to the Commodores on Acoustic Sunday #Spotify). On the other hand, I feel sort of amped and maniacal. Now, before you go diagnosing me as bipolar or borderline personality disorder, I don’t gamble, go shopping, or indulge in crazy town risk-taking behaviors followed by a full meltdown (just slight ones).

So, like, today, it’s GORGEOUS out, and I thought, “Kids, let’s go to the beach!” But, that was soon thwarted by the thought, “Well, won’t that be kind of crazy to keep them six feet from other kids playing?” So, instead, I’ve chosen to continue to clean, organize and stay at home, a self-imposed shutdown, a living death (#oxymoron) But this has gotten super tired. Zzzzzzzz. I am boring myself. Talk about acute dullness.

So how can we stay apart, but together, together apart? I guess six feet. Anyone else having trouble determining how far six feet is actually? Like, do you do that field sobriety test, one foot in front of the other, like I do to measure? I’m not good at estimating. An exact estimate? It doesn’t seem possible.

And how about the openings of restaurants that are basically like still closed? So we can wear a mask in, and then take it off to eat and drink? That doesn’t seem to make much sense. I think we can agree to disagree on that one.

In the end, it’s all a giant oxymoron. I may as well just go to the beach.