The Prophet has spoken: he thinks I need a man (I write, as I cry a little)

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August 1, 2017 by Jenny

The Prophet has spoken to me. It was kind of a big thing.

Yes, I’m Catholic, but I’m not talking about any of those prophets. (I don’t think…) I’m talking about The Prophet of My ‘Hood. (It’s not actually a “hood” by Urban Dictionary definitions. I live in the country. In case you wondered/cared/didn’t.)

The Prophet is an elderly gentleman that takes approximately 57 walks a day around our neighborhood with his head down, back hunched over, somehow managing to not look at or talk to anyone.

Basically: he’s my hero.

Word on the street is The Prophet is a retired railroad man who’s wife had recently passed. Nobody can get him to talk, let alone look at them, either.  It’s not just me. Again: my hero.

Now, the information in the above paragraph came from the pizza man, who happens to also live in my ‘hood. (Yes, we are wondering the same thing: What the hell is his mortgage payment and how much does Domino’s freakin’ pay??)

I am concerned I may be working to hard to pay my own mortgage…

So, this pizza man brings me my pizza, but rather than giving it to me, holds it hostage and makes me talk to him. This was one of the worst things that has ever happened to me. We were doing an awkward give-me-the-pizza dance as I tried to take the pizza box and he flings it around as he tells me his stories with his hands. That held MY PIZZA.

These were some of the things up for discussion: my lawn, a grub situation that supposedly occurred 10 years ago, whether or not I was the daughter of the people who used to live here, what exactly happened to the people who used to live here, how great the guy was who used to live here (Me: “He’s dead. Can I have my pizza now?”) His musings on the Prophet. And so on.

This went on until I started feeling myself well up a little (in rage) at the thought of my pizza getting cold and I almost had to punch him in the throat to get the goddamn pizza box. But fortunately–I think shortly after the “He’s dead and you’re about to be, too,” comment–that did not have to happen.

So my first encounter with The Prophet occurred shortly after, which happened to be last week. I bought myself a pretty little tiller off Amazon and was digging up a brand new flower bed.

This tiller is my current love interest, by the way. Not only does he do exactly what I say everysingletime, but he’s trustworthy, reliable, and is perfectly content sleeping in the garage at night.

Ladies, I’m telling you we can now buy boyfriends on Amazon! It’s amazing!

That particular evening I was happily tilling away at the flower bed and I happen to notice The Prophet walk by across the street. Then this happens: he stops.

He immediately straightens up and sharply turns his head to look at me. His expression quickly changes to a, “What the fuck is happening over there?” look. Then in a blink of an eye, resumes his head-down, hunched-over, don’t-look-at-me-don’t-talk-to-me position.

I sheepishly put my boyfriend to bed in the garage and go inside and drink myself to sleep.

I later tell a neighbor about Encounter #1. He puts his beer down and turns to look at me. (Why does everyone keep doing that?) He stares at me directly in the eyes in a very uncomfortable sort of way, and says:

“You are The Chosen One!”

Except he never clarifies what I’ve been chosen for. He is too flabbergasted to do anything other than drink more beer and relish in the excitement and rarity of my Encounter. I am still not sure if I should be concerned about this.

Fast-forward to last night. My boyfriend, Mr. Tiller, was chillaxing under the shade of a tree (I guess no boyfriend is perfect) as I was shoveling mounds of rocks out of my flowerbeds. I was sweating. Covered in dirt. Which turned into weird (in a bad way) sticky mud. I smelled like the elephant enclosure at the zoo.

It was pretty much the worst time possible for a social encounter.

And then the unspeakable happens: I heard someone call, “Hello!” from across the street. I turned around. It’s. Him.

I stood there in shock and stared until we were on the brink of a very uncomfortable social situation. I couldn’t think of any jokes. Or a response. Or my name. At the risk of coming across as normal, I say, “Hello!”

And then he responds AGAIN. I can almost not take of anymore this.

“Why isn’t your hubby doing all that work for you?” he asks.

I start to respond, “Well, he……….. [insert inappropriate ex-husband jokes here]………

WARNING! THIS CONTENT HAS BEEN CENSORED DUE TO EXTREME ADULT LANGUAGE AND MILD VIOLENCE.

“……..oh, it’s just me, I have to do the muscle-work around here!”

Then….

Okay, that was it. He resumed his normal head-down, hunched-over, don’t-look-at-me-don’t-talk-to-me position. I immediately got on Amazon to shop for a new boyfriend to finish moving the rocks.

He’ll be here in 2 days.

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