Myofacial self massage

I made an impulse exercise buy this morning at the Y–a class in self-myofacial massage. When I first saw the sign, the date seemed to be in the distant future. But, turns out, it is tonight. Dorothea has her class. I will have to bring Liam with me to the class.
My boss is taking a vacation day, so I feel like I can linger this morning. This is the first time since June that I have done this. Hmm. I am waiting for them to bring me oatmeal. I realize that I am hungry. I am trying to remember the little bits that I want to jot down. Like this: the old guy from Bread and Chocolate with the little white dog in the bag is now sitting in the entryway of Nina’s. I mentioned to June, the owner, about Bread and Chocolate and the guy and the dog and the bag. Otherwise unprompted, she blurted out “and they kicked him out, right?” Well, maybe she didn’t blurt. But no, actually I think they’d ignore him on really cold days. Most otherwise they’d be outside on a bench. There is no bench outside here, just the patio furniture that they’ve taken in for the season. And I suspect that this wouldn’t be an issue in France.
My mother doesn’t call often, hardly at all; far less than I call her. But she did call the other day and left a message with Madeline, telling me to send a birthday card to my 97 year-old aunt, the nun. I have that note in my pocket now. And getting my aunt’s address was a final reason to work on resurrecting the Palm Pilot, which had languished with a dead battery for sometime.
This morning, solid freeze, the first of the season. My pager just went off, and, speaking of dead batteries,