At work, on Fridays, we have a massage therapist come in, or as I like to call her, a massage-inist.
Her name is Ronda, and when I have the spare 15 bucks plus tip, I have her work on the concrete that is my shoulders. What tense personality? Of all the things I’ve told you to put on m’stone when I die, really all you need to do is write
June: She was tense.
Anyway, I like her, my massage-inist. She has often spouted wisdom where I think, Man, that is so true and then forget the wisdom because you know how I am.
Back when I was house-shopping, and it looked liked I was buying the 1974 house in Gibsonville with a screened-in porch, she was massage-inist-ing me and said, “Why do you want to move to Gibsonville?”
You are lucky I wasn’t around during house-shopping season. June. She was tense. The thing is, I’d love to live in Gibsonville. It’s about 25 minutes outside of town and it’s the country, although I was moving to a cul-de-sac. Still, I’d have been country adjacent.
“You’re so far from things all the way out there,” she said.
“Well, where do YOU live?” I asked her, a little huffily.
“Oh, this funky little mill village,” she said. “It’s mostly one-story millhouses built in the ’20s, but mine is two stories. On Fridays, a bunch of us in the neighborhood go out to dinner.”
I had a dramatic pull of longing. The whole thing sounded magnificent. A couple days later I woke up and looked at house listings on my phone, because that’s what I did those months first thing and then 80 times a day after, and I saw the cutest, cheapest little pink house with a white awning.
Turns out, (a) it was a house in that same mill neighborhood and (b) the massage-inist and I would become friends. I can half see her back yard from my front yard. Now every Friday that I can, I join her and the other hood people for dinner. And often the massage-inist will come over for tea or whatever or I’ll sit on her porch or at her bonfire her husband made. She has about 497 cats, one that’s huge with a giant black head that I just adore. I love a giant unexcitable cat.
Anyway, on Saturday, after Marianne left (read yesterday’s post, ya boob), I got a text from The Massage-inist. “We have an extra ticket to Unknown Hinson. Want to go?”
I had no idea who Unknown Hinson was. He was literally unknown to me. I looked him up.
“Yeah, okay, I’ll go,” I said.
And that is how I ended up going to the college part of town on a Saturday, and hey, good luck finding parking.
One of the people who’s often at dinner owns a bookstore over there, though, and he said we could park behind his shop. Then we all gathered together in said bookstore, and it’s one of the really good ones with used books jumbled just everywhere and a giant gray pit bull who was sweet AF and wanted his giant head petted, and generally just give me an animal with a giant head, although I can’t get enough of kittens’ walnut heads either.
I would love to show you pictures of the bookstore or the venue, or my blue arm band I had on, or The Massage-inist and me taking a selfie out back, but my computer gave me the WORST time yesterday in that it would not drag photos to my desktop, and then I got to work and all the copies, all the attempts I’d made to drag photos over? Showed up on my desktop at WORK. Which, by the way, I took a screen shot of yesterday but I also can’t show you that.
And now I can’t even throw away the photos that did end up on my desktop, and does anyone remember I just spent $2949202 on a computer like a year and a half ago? Geez.
The point is, if there is a point, while I’m in a …phase? or maybe it will last forever? Where I don’t care if I ever date again, it might be good I have reached that conclusion because at age 53, no man is giving me play. I stood there for, what, two and a half hours that night, and not once did a man glance at me.
Hooooo care. I mean, I was kind of huffy about it at first, but then I remembered I kind of don’t like men right now, anyway. Don’t look at me then, you only-liking-17-year-olds-perv-ass motherfuckers. I’m going through a phase. I suspect even the nicest men now. I’ve even gone back in my mind and suspected Marvin. I’m in a phase, did I mention? Or I’m Miss Havisham, only cranky. Miss Havishitfit.
Anyway, it was fun to go out and be among the world, although news flash: I am too old to stand on a concrete floor for two and a half hours. I actually had aches the next day, for god’s sake.
So that’s that story, and I leave you with this more disturbing one: I’m in one of my migraine blocks right now, meaning I’ll feel one coming on, take a pill, be okay for 24 hours and then feel another one coming on. Yesterday I went to the pharmacy near my old house, and I should really move everything to the pharmacy that time forgot near my new house (read yesterday’s post, ya boob), because why I gotta drive all the way down there for m’pills when I can drive half a mile? Plus, soda fountain!
Anyway, I was at my old grocery store, and I was literally maybe 20% worried that I’d see my old lover at the grocery store, because that place is, like, Ned’s third-most-popular beer stop at night, but that is not the stunning ending I have gathered you here to tell. No.
I got my migraine meds and kept them in the bag all night, but as I was writing this just now I thought, god I feel like shit, so I hunched over to the bag and took half a pill. The bag with my meds felt heavy even after I took the box of pills out, so I reached through the 97 receipts and coupons to find?
Probiotic prunes. My pharmacist threw in a free bag of probiotic prunes. I’d eat one now to tell you how they are but part of the reason I’m getting migraines is I keep doing intermittent fasting. I even have an app on my phone that tells me how long it’s been since I’ve eaten, which I took a screen shot of to show you while I was out Saturday night, because while it read, YOU ARE FASTING! I was having a beer.
Gee, why the migraines, June?
Anyway, now that I’ve just said all that out loud, I realize how ridiculous it is to go on a diet that gives you migraines so hang on. Ima have a delicious probiotic prune…
…Hunh. It was like eating a prune. I’ll let you know if I end up on the pot.
And that’s the news from over here in Junetown in Prunetown, March 26, 2019.