June. The weekend ended. Get over it.

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.

23 thoughts on “June. The weekend ended. Get over it.

  1. Lovely post!
    Yes, I am already past the expiration date with men. They never see me.
    I am glad you are getting some massage in. It’s good for you. Next thing you know you will be cooking healthy foods!

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  2. Jeeze, I’ve been invisible to men for so long that I don’t remember what it’s like to be noticed. If someone looked at me and smiled, I’d probably think they were going to rob me.

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  3. What do you suppose it is – about men – that they stop looking at us as we age – and often look fab – Have they stopped looking in their own mirrors? Most of them are so disgustingly out of shape… eek. I guess they think the sweet young things will improve them. I say – they can go to hell… really!

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  4. I love that folks hang out together in your neighborhood by choice.

    I think when men gawk, they are considering whether they can get laid by morning. When they see women with self respect, oozing character and intelligence, they realize that’s not an easy toss. At that point they either have to introduce themselves and be decent humans starting to get to know you, or they pass.

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  5. That sounds like such a nice group to hang out with. I wish I had something similar, but all of my friends ran off and, selfishly in my opinion, had babies and stopped going out entirely. It sounds like you’ve got a really great group there.

    I remember feeling distinctly upset when I was in my 30s and walked past a group of college boys and none of them looked twice at me. Then I looked down and realized that I had stopped dressing like the girl from the Cherry Pie video, and I was mostly okay with it. Now, at 42, I’ve found a happy medium, where I dress like an old slut and old men still leer at me. I assume any younger men who look twice just think I remind them of their moms. Their slutty, slutty moms.

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  6. Oh my gosh, standing on concrete for two+ hours. I wouldn’t have been able to walk. I can walk on concrete, if I have good running shoes. It’s nice you have a friend right in your neighborhood. Hope you feel better and the headache not manifest.

    Paula.

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  7. Fun Fact! (Sorry Beverly) Speaking of prunes and on the pot, I was prescribed prednisone (because either my left arm is acting up or I’m having the slowest heart attack on record). As we know, the list of side effects for prednisone is as long as my acting-up arm, including, but not limited to: weight gain. (Look out New Jersey.) Face puffiness. (Dear God, anything but that.) Etc. So of course I fought the doctor because the two last things I need are weight gain and face puffiness. Or so I thought. Apparently the third last thing I needed, but was an undisclosed side effect, was a visit from Lucy Bowels. So that’s been fun. And yes, I am taking the pills with food, or WITH FOOD as the label screams.

    And now I’ve told the internet I have the runs. Nice.

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  8. I love your pharmacist because I so love sweet as candy prunes. My best friend visited overnight last week and she brought me prunes too. Polish people love prunes. Say prunes one more time.
    Miss Havishitfit made me snort. My late friend who married at 45 and died of cancer at 54 insisted on being butied in her wedding gown. I had told her she would look like Miss Havesham because I thought she would be much older. She looked stunning and I had to apologize to her in her casket. She was at the best funeral home in town and pale skin brunettes look stunning in white, and I was so wrong.

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    • I know that is a story about the death of your friend, but that it is a lovely story and it sounds like you had a great friendship.

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  9. I remember when I noticed men not noticing me any longer and I’d agree that it was in my early 50s. I felt sad at first, but then, I felt liberated. I’m Miss Whogivesashit over here.

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