Posts Tagged ‘7-11’

Welcome To The

January 12, 2017

Sick in the head blog.

Anything and everything goes.

Yes.

I have a head cold.

Yes.

It sucks ass.

Hard.

The sneezing is not as bad as it was last night though and the clear, super runny, unexpected out of nowhere nasal drip has passed, at least for the moment.

I got caught with my pants down once today in regards to that, but a run to the store helped out a bit.

Not with my pants so much so.

I realized at some point today that my pajama pants were inside out.

Have I fixed that?

No.

Do I give a fuck.

No.

Have I been in pajamas all day.

Yes.

Did it take me a great deal of mental effort to put on socks?

Yes.

Fuck it took a great deal, or so it seemed, effort to do anything today and I tell you, I didn’t do much.

I did some.

I won’t lie.

I wasn’t flat on my back the whole day.

But after calling in to the advice nurse at Kaiser and then double checking that my new employers got my text and e-mails last night, I went back to bed.

I was on the phone for about twenty minutes until 8:30 a.m. or so and then I closed my eyes and when I work up it was 12:30 p.m.

Holy fuck.

Granted.

I had a horrible time falling asleep last night.

Not being able to breathe through my nose was horrendous.

Open mouth breathing is not my gig.

I did sleep and pretty solid, but to then sleep another four hours, unmoving, like I don’t think I rolled over, was quite indicative of how the cold had laid hold of me.

Getting up.

Making my bed.

Eating breakfast.

Took a lot of energy.

I probably spent two hours sitting at my little table in my kitchen nook of the in-law studio I live in sipping coffee, I know, not the best idea when you’re sick, but I actually think it was helpful in getting me out of the house, chatting on Facebook and slowly eating my oatmeal.

I was contemplating placing an order on SafeWay’s site to have food delivered but couldn’t figure it out.

So I decided I would just go to the market, the little co-op I’m a member of, Other Avenues, and pick up some tissues and some zinc.

The advice nurse for my doctor had also suggested Sudafed.

But.

Um.

No.

It’s got too much crap in, there’s a reason why you aren’t allowed to legally buy a bunch of Sudafed, pseudoephedrine is used to make methamphetamine.

I didn’t much speed, but I did some, and sneaking up on my anniversary and having a head cold I didn’t see that wanted to even take that risk.

I don’t take anything for colds or flu.

Think I’m a little too cautious?

Google Sudafed addiction and see how many hits pop up.

Oh.

Something like 343,000.

So no thanks advice nurse, I’ll skip it.

However, in my haze at the co-op looking for zinc, I came across a homeopathic cold relief from France called Cold Calm, which in nice big bold print at the bottom of the box said, “no drug interactions.”

Sweet.

A little browsing the ingredients, and yes, it looks like something I can take.

Relief from sneezing, runny nose, nasal congestion, and minor sore throat.

And.

It seems to be doing the trick.

Not cured.

I still have it, whatever it is, but it seems not so severe with having the cold relief, I am still sick, I’m probably going to call out tomorrow as well, although it makes it me super nervous, I’ve got to take care of this, and just let it go.

My expectations around my health and work have changed a lot since I’ve been sober and I still have an excruciating time calling in sick, but when I’m sick, I really am.

I can acknowledge it better.

Like.

Oh.

I don’t know.

How hard it was to put on socks to go out to the grocery store.

I mean.

Seriously.

In fact, I said it out loud, “why is this so hard?”

I was standing there, no make up on, in pajamas, in pajama pants I later realized were inside out, haven’t given two fucks about that all day, they’re still on inside out, contemplating what socks to put on, which ones matched my pajamas and were cute.

Really brain?

And I couldn’t figure it out.

I mean.

I did eventually.

And yes, my socks may indeed match my pajama top, but only I will know this, no one else could see my socks, no one.

I made it to the store.

I got some zinc lozenges and the Cold Calm.

But the store was out of tissue.

I had to go to the 7-11 on the corner.

I never go to the 7-11, it’s like a petri dish for some bizarro outlier world.

They had Sudafed in spades.

I just bought a box of over priced tissue paper and went home.

I got back to see one of my text books from school had arrived.

I curled up in bed and did some reading.

I read a lot.

I blew my nose a lot.

I contemplated calling in sick.

I haven’t yet.

I’m going to.

I’m too fuzzy headed and muddled to go into work, it sucks, I feel bad, maybe I fuck up my job, but I am not going to worry about that, I don’t think they’re going to fire me for being unexpectedly sick my first two weeks at work, and despite the horror show my brain would like to play me I just don’t have it in me to watch.

So shut up brain, go back to figuring out matching socks and let me have some more tea.

I think things will work out a little better that way.

Thanks.

And pass the tissues before you go stand in front of the sock drawer.

Maybe turn your pants right side in.

Maybe.

Ha.

 

 

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Is It A Little

September 14, 2016

Dusty in here?

Just a mite.

But not too bad.

I got all my Burning Man gear sorted, finally.

I still find it rather amusing that I was back almost a week before my stuff landed back in San Francisco and then it took another week for me to source a vehicle.

It happened last night though.

I got done with work and my friend picked me up from work and we headed over a few blocks to 19th and Valencia.

My friend gave me heaps of shit about the dust and my badge of pride.

I don’t know about that, but it’s amusing.

I always know my friends by the amount of shit I’m willing to take from them.

Some people.

I have absolutely no tolerance for, you want to give me shit, I might beat you.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

My friend gave me a lot of shit over the last day about my gear and that allowed me to gauge our burgeoning friendship pretty well.

He’s a good egg.

Nice to have more friends.

I wasn’t expecting to have this coalesce and it’s been a little bit of whirlwind here at Casa Carmen.

Hmmm.

That looks right, but you know, not quite.

Maison Carmen.

AH.

Yes.

Better that.

Anyway.

I ended hanging out a lot with this person the last few days.

Totally unexpected.

I had a date Sunday who cancelled in the weirdest way yet.

He, the guy who cancelled on me, texted that he’d had a date the night before and they hit it off so well that he wasn’t interested in going on a date with me.

The message I got was that he was super happy (don’t recall asking, but great) and that things had radically changed (I should have known when our date was rescheduled–he’d originally made it for Saturday) and the new set of circumstances being that he wasn’t available to date.

But.

Hey, if you want to hang out as friends we can still meet up.

Um.

No.

Not even going to waste my time doing that.

I don’t need to cultivate more male friends, I need to cultivate the female friends I already have.

Of course, I already mentioned my other male friend, who is a new friend.

Um.

Ha.

Friend with benefits.

Ahem.

Heh.

But.

I, ah, get a head of myself.

The other title to this blog, fyi, was going to be “Hickies at the 7-11 in Sausalito,” but well, it didn’t quite have the same ring to it.

Anyway.

When Sunday’s date cancelled I decided that I would take my own damn self on a date.

I eye-balled the Mike Doughty poster my friends had gotten for me for getting the tickets to the show, the poster Mike signed for me, yes, and decided I would hie over to Cheap Pete’s and get it framed and then in the spirit of more art, go to the MOMA.

I did my Morning Pages, cleaned around the house a little and hopped on my scooter.

Oh.

Small scooter update.

Total wash on the cost of getting the repairs.

Yes.

It does turn out I have a deductible for collision, but it’s $500 and the cost to repair my scooter was $246, so no go.

All out-of-pocket.

Thanks hit and run, hope that karma bites you in the ass.

My insurance agent suggested though that I could probably right it off when I do my taxes this year.

I had no clue.

He told me the deal and I said thanks and got on with my day.

End of aside.

So I hit Cheap Pete’s dropped off the poster–I’m framing it in white with a black mat, it’s going to look hot.

Then I headed down town to the MOMA.

As I approached the museum, I realized that I was going to go right by the Nordie’s Rack on Market street and I had a twenty-dollar gift certificate that was going to expire if I didn’t use it.

I turned right on Mission street and hit the motorcycle parking by the old Mint.

Then a little shopping.

I got a call from a number I didn’t recognize.

I’m still not sure why I answered.

But I did.

New friend on the phone, and we’ve had some social media contact prior, so it wasn’t weird that he had my number, also we have a lot of friends in common, a lot.

He needed a favor and was calling for some help.

I explained that I wasn’t in the position to lend a hand, I was downtown shopping, and I’m not sure how it fell out my mouth, but that I had basically gotten stood up on a date so I was heading to the MOMA.

He thanked me, asked if I might change my mind and I said I might check back in later, depending on how my afternoon went.

I hung up and got to the shopping.

I was in the changing room when I got a series of texts.

Hmm.

Yes.

Actually.

Ok.

The gist being this gentleman wanted to know if he could be my stand in date since I had gotten stood up.

I was flattered and thought for a minute, then a light bulb went off in my head.

He’s pursuing!

Aha.

This has been a thing I have been writing about, being pursued rather than being the person that chases–I tend to chase guys who aren’t interested.

So.

I said yes.

We made plans to meet up at my house.

He picked me up looking dapper as fuck.

He’s a handsome guy.

In a suit, thank you very much.

And we headed out over the bridge to Sausalito.

Dinner at a little Italian restaurant.

Then.

Parking his vehicle over by Fort Baker, we changed up into riding gear and went for a motorcycle ride.

To the 7-11.

It was with some chagrin that he realized that I don’t eat sugar.

He was taking me to get a Slurpee.

Ok.

Now I don’t know about you, but it struck me as so adorable I almost couldn’t stand it.

Fast forward two days and being back at that same 7-11 at 11:30 p.m. at night getting snacks and water and giggling like I’m a sixteen year old.

Because.

Fuck me.

I have had a fucking blast over the last 48 hours and there’s something so 80’s movie perfect about being in a 7-11 with a paramour getting silly shit from the aisles and making out at the cash register.

I am not kidding.

I’m 43 but I was definitely channeling some teenager glee.

And today.

Well.

Back to reality.

I won’t say that I won’t be hanging out in the 7-11 again I probably will but the adult world is calling to both of us and we agreed at the beginning that whatever happened it was going to be light and fun.

It may have gone a bit deeper than that, I’m pretty sure it did, but it circumstances being what they are, he’s not really available.

So.

I get to be super grateful that I let myself be pursued and for 48 hours I had a goofy, sweet, silly, sexy, fun, amazing time with a new person who surprised me in more ways than one.

Here’s to new experiences.

And being hella grateful that my date on Sunday cancelled.

I hear “rejection is God’s protection.”

It wasn’t meant to be, that date, but it was the impetus for the two dates that followed with this new paramour.

Thanks God.

Let me be sure to remember this experience the next time a date cancels.

Seriously.

Now, That’s Good TImes

April 3, 2014

I thought to myself as I watched the guy ahead of me in line at the 7-11 swipe his card for three packages of HoHo’s and a bottle of white wine.

Dude.

That’s a party.

Not a party I will be RSVP’ing for anytime, but I have to admit I was amused.

7-11 in general amuses me.

I don’t often shop in them, never really have, but there’s one of the corner and my friend down the block with the foot in cast for two months peeped me for some Coca Cola two liters and so I just went over to procure said carbonation.

I can’t remember the last time I bought soda pop for myself.

Yeah, I just wrote soda pop.

Pop.

I used to drink a lot of Coke, I did, before I snorted a lot of coke.

Very rarely did the two mix.

I was not a fan of sweets, much, when I was drinking and using, I got all my sugar from alcohol.

Although there were occasions when I would indulge in something sugary, but it was usually something I was making, not something I was buying.

Until I stopped drinking and using, then the wheels fell the fuck off with the sugar thing.

Glad to not be doing that any longer either.

There really is not much for me to buy in a 7-11 for myself, but I did manage to snag a little something.

A scratcher lotto ticket.

I didn’t win, but it was fun for a moment to fantasize about a little extra cash.

I am going to need a little extra cash this month.

I did my spending plan and the scooter costs bit more out of my budget last month than I was thinking it would.  There was also the additional add-on of the bicycle ticket that I paid out and also my Healthy San Francisco was due.

I got the courtesy e-mail from my bank telling me I had dropped below $25 in my checking account yesterday.

That’s good times too.

But I am not too worried.

Why?

Why be worried.

I paid my rent, I paid my student loan, I have groceries, I have plenty of toiletries, I have all the things that I need to get through.

Granted I don’t like having $23.56 in my checking account, it’s cutting it a little too close.

But, hey, I didn’t bounce any checks and I got paid for three days of working, plus tomorrow I will get paid for my solo gig in NOPA and then again on Friday up in the Castro.

It’s not the optimum set up for me, but I know things are working out.

Plus, I am not bat shit crazy yelling at the guy behind the counter at the 7-11 because I am convinced I won on my lottery ticket.

That was happening too, while Mister Hostess Treats and White Wine was paying, there was an elderly, intoxicated, Asian man arguing with the clerk, who finally ended up screaming at him.

I mean screaming.

Then, he pushed the old man out-of-the-way, and said, “next,” and waved me over to check out with my two liters of Coca Cola.

“Uh, I’ll take a lottery ticket too,” I said and pointed to the one that said “Rockstar.”

He rang me up and I headed my way.

Convenience stores are good times.

Just flashing back to all the ones I have been too.

A highlight reel if you will:

Circle K in Homestead, Florida.

It was just off the Lake where I camped, otherwise known as, I was homeless living in a tent, when I was in my 19th year of life on this planet.

I would go there for cigarettes–Doral’s when the money was tight, which it often was, I mean, read previous sentence about camping I was not really rolling in dough.

Although a splurge would happen now and again and then it was Pall Mall Gold Light 100s in a box or Camel Light 100s.

Jesus, there’s something else to be grateful for too, I don’t smoke anymore.  It’s been just shy of 9 years since I have had a cigarette.

Wow.

I was also introduced to roller hotdogs at this particular convenience store.

Hot, juicy, sweaty, logs of pork, one can hope, tucked into a white steamed bun covered in ketchup and dill pickle relish and mayonnaise and cheese.

Do not put chili on my dog.

Do not put mustard.

Do not, I repeat, ever, use sweet pickle relish.

Gag.

And last, but certainly not least, Bartles and James wine coolers, pink lemonade please.

Tasty goodness.

Oh dear Lord, the things I put into my system.

And these were all legally obtained items.

Yick.

The other convenience store that comes to mind for me, like I said, never been around a 7-11 before, was the PDQ in Madison.

Which, I believe, stands for “Pretty Damn Quick”.

Not sure if those bad boys are still around.

My mom would write me a note and send me off to the PDQ for her smokes.

Merit Menthol 100s in a box.

Classy.

I mean, she wrote me a fucking note.

“To whom it may concern, please sell my daughter one pack of Merit Menthol 100s (in the green box), Trish M______”. Her signature scrawled out at the bottom of the page along with a home phone number in case the clerk had any misgivings about selling a pack of cigarettes to a little girl in third grade.

I don’t believe any clerk ever did.

I also remember an ex of mine who swore by getting a Hot Pocket from the PDQ after playing a round of frisbee golf out at Heistand Park, followed by an icy cool blue raspberry slushy.

Double gag.

I can still smell that Hot Pocket and taste the damn slushy.

It was usually too sweet for me to choke down and I usually turned down the Hot Pocket on principle.

But I must have eaten one at some point because I have a taste memory of the weird things.

“That is so white trash,” my friend said in response to a story I was telling him about living in a trailer park in Stoughton with my pregnant teenage sister, her boyfriend, and her best friend.

I hadn’t really thought I was white trash, but I may have some roots down in that muck, I may.

The only other PDQ story I have would have been from living at that trailer for a few weeks while my sister’s best friends parents were out-of-town on vacation in Mexico–it wasn’t even our trailer, we were squatting–and we ran out of money and went to the convenience store in the middle of the night.

I remember it was cold and the heater in the Monte Carlo was slow to produce any warmth.

I remember the weight of the sandwich baggie of pennies, with a dime or two mixed in to add up to the prerequisite $1.80 a pack of cigarettes cost, in my thin coat pocket.

And how the cigarette tasted when I lit it up and blew the smoke toward the cracked window of the car in the back seat, the maroon leather the color reminiscent of dark, dried blood, the frost on the window, the scuttle of clouds over the moon, the dark trees rushing past.

I don’t know how I got from there to here.

But I am damned grateful that I have.

Now, excuse me while I wrap this up and head over to bring my friend some pop.

Soda, that is.

Rolling out this bitch 7-11 style.

 

 


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