Posts Tagged ‘cigarettes’

Scheduling

October 27, 2017

And moving forward.

I spent a great deal of time talking with the mom today at work regarding the rest of the school year.

What the family needs.

What I need.

It’s been a little over ten months with them.

We are going to sit down and renegotiate the contract in December, make sure my health insurance needs are being met, talk about vacation times, and schedules moving forward past spring when I graduate in May.

I asked off for a little travel time in February.

And I asked off for May 18th.

Which is the day before I graduate, the day before the commencement ceremony.

I suspect that my mom is going to want to spend some time with me.

She has told me that she and her partner will come to San Francisco to see me walk, to see my graduate with my Master’s Degree.

I have some feelings around that and no little nervousness, I haven’t seen my mom in a while and there’s a sense of wanting to show her a different San Francisco than the last time she was here.

Oh.

I didn’t entirely disappoint, I think.

I took her to Hawthorne Lane for dinner.

I took her out to the bars.

I took her to Coit Tower.

I can’t remember if we did Twin Peaks.

I took her to Chow on Church Street.

Philz Coffee before it was hip and Phil flirted his ass off with her.

I got her quesadilla’s from El Farolito, super quesadilla suiza with carne asada.

I took her to Tartine.

I did pretty good

I also ditched her at some point to get absolutely shit faced obliterated.

I was just going to go out for a few drinks with a friend at Blondie’s in the Mission.

I had already been with my mom for a week, I had taken her to London, on my credit card which I was soon to max out, but it still had a few dollars on it, hung out with her, fed her, bought her smokes, and drinks, and tuk tuk rides around Buckingham palace, to the Wheel, to the National Gallery, to see a show, we saw Stomp, I took her to a fancy tea place where we got stinking tossed on fancy ass over the top expensive cocktails.

So.

I was ready for a little mom break.

I ran down to El Farolito and got her the quesadilla.

I called my friend and said, “I need a margarita, I need a break from my mom,” and she said, “I’ll see you at Blondie’s in a half hour.”

I got my mom situated in my apartment on the couch in the living room, my room-mate was out-of-town, thank God.

And I got dressed and fled into the night.

I had two double margarita’s on the rocks with extra salted rim and when my friend said “let’s have another!”  I got a little scared.

I could feel it coming on.

It was probably coming on before I even got off the plane at SFO.

I think I knew.

I could feel it in my body, I knew it in my conscious even if I wasn’t saying it out loud.

I was going to score.

I had all the reasons in the world to get fucked up.

I had been with my mom for a week in a hotel room in London, flown there and back with her, I deserved a fucking drink.

But I knew if I kept drinking, well, something else was going to get up in the mix.

I looked at my friend and said a bit under my breath, “if I drink more I’m going to want to do blow.”

I said this because this was the friend who had used to be sober who had done that AA thing and had said to me once while we were on a run that maybe I might have a problem because of how I didn’t like myself when I used.

I had no idea what the fuck she was talking about and was aghast.

I didn’t like myself?

Truth was I fucking hated myself, but I couldn’t let myself see it.

She had told me that all I had to do is let her know if I wanted to use and she would help me to not pick up.

What ever that meant.

So in that moment, two double margarita’s in, with the urge to call my dealer on my phone and arrange a little something, something for delivery, I said, to the best of my ability what I thought was a plea for help.

Her response?

“I could definitely do some blow!”

Fuck me.

I sighed.

I know I sighed.

I got my phone out of my purse and I dialed my dealer and arranged for him to meet us at Blondie’s.

I went across the street.

“Hey, where are you going,” the cute guy sitting next to me said.

I flippantly replied, “my friend wants to do some blow so I’m going to the ATM across the street to get some cash before my dealer shows up.”

“Holy shit!” He jumped up, “me too, can I get some too?”

And like that, I had a new friend.

I was so popular.

Ugh.

I will spare you the dirty details of the night.

It was so close to my bottom that it was a pretty intense scene.

And I remember all of it, oh yes I do.

Right down to getting back to the house, while my mom was still asleep in the living room, with a couple of grams of blow in my bra, what I hadn’t yet used, to chop and snort and cram as much in as I could before she woke up.

I was that kind of addict.

I did not fucking matter that my mom was in the front room, probably heard me come in, probably knew what I was doing, nope, didn’t matter.

Because once I started, the party was not over until every fucking last bit was gone.

Suffice to say my mom’s last day in town was a bit of a rough one.

I muggled through.

I guess what I’m getting around to is that maybe I’ll want to show her a nicer time than I did before.

We are both in different places, and I also hope to have some time to celebrate my graduating from graduate school.

A nice meal somewhere with friends, good coffee, laughter, connection, company.

A party.

I should throw myself a little party.

Ah, May, you’re a bit away.

But when my employer and I walked through the months and worked on getting my schedule lined up with theirs, well, there you were, a tiny bit bashful but a little smile on your face, a daisy tucked up behind your ear, saying here I am, let’s have some fun.

Yes.

Of course, my dear.

Let’s.

Girl Date

May 30, 2017

I totally took myself out today.

I did it all.

First.

I let myself sleep the fuck in.

I mean, I didn’t get up until 9:15 a.m.

So sleeping in, especially considering that I am up three hours earlier tomorrow so that I can meet with my supervisor–whom I would have met with today but it was a holiday.

I totally treated it like a holiday as well.

I went to a yoga class that I used to be able to go before I started my current nanny gig.

I had lunch with my favorite, most loved person in the entire world.

Pause.

Let me just let that sink in.

I got to have lunch with the person I hold in the highest esteem, who loves me unconditionally, who sees me, who supports me without question, who witnesses everything I do, who helps me see when I am self-sabotaging, and how to change that and be better and stronger and sweeter and softer and live my life to the fullest full definition of happy, joyous and free.

I mean.

That is an extraordinary gift.

We met at Souvla on Divisadero and had great big salads and talked and got totally caught up and I revealed myself and there was no shying away from me or judging, only complete sunshine and love.

I am beyond grateful for this man in my life, I wouldn’t have the life I have without him.

He is a human, don’t get me wrong, I am not putting him on a pedestal, he shows me how to be more human myself, more vulnerable, more willing to show up and more present in the moment when I do.

He is the greatest gift and I do not know what I would do without him.

We are even talking about making travel plans together.

We have talked about it before.

We travel in a similar way, carry on only, get situated, go get connected with fellows and then walk and see and witness and art and churches and more art and museums and cafes and sitting still next to each other and also knowing that we both are self-sufficient travelers, that neither of us is afraid to say, give me space, I want to do a wander on my own or nap or whatever.

We have mutual friends in Barcelona as well as Paris.

We are talking about going to Barcelona together and maybe taking the TGV to Paris or Marseille, probably Paris as we have friends there too and I will need very much to see my Parisian girlfriend and her new family.

Next May.

When I graduate from my Masters of Psychology program, a grand European tour with my mentor, I couldn’t really think of a better gift, his company means so much to me.

So.

Yeah.

Lunch was fucking fabulous and we also dished and laughed and I talked about needing to set firm boundaries around any extra nanny work that may try to weasel its way in when my employers are away in July.

And then he went his way and I went mine.

Off to the MOMA.

I wanted to catch the last day of the Matisse/Diebenkorn show.

Of course.

It was sold out, even as a member of the MOMA I couldn’t get in to see it.

And truth be told, I don’t really care a fig for Matisse, and I’ve seen so much of his work in Paris that I didn’t feel that I was missing out.

I could have my girl date with myself just fine wandering around all the other galleries without having to stand in the huge, and I do mean HUGE, line that was queued up for the show.

I strolled through the second floor galleries and got acquainted again with one of my favorite artists in the museum–Clyfford Still–1906-1980.  I adore his work, there is one painting especially that always gets me and I did my stare in awe and wonder at it for a good fair amount of time before taking myself for a cafe au lait at the Sight Glass cafe on the 3rd floor of the museum.

I sat and dreamily dreamed and people watched while sipping my coffee–days off always included cafe breaks and nursing a coffee while people watching.

Then I hit the Larry Sultan photography exhibit, which was extraordinary.

And.

Since everyone was in line for the Matisse/Diebenkorn show, the gallery was practically empty.

Heaven.

I got my art girl dose in heavy-duty.

Then having some time and seeing that the sun had decided to cut through the fog and make an appearance, I strolled through Yerba Buena Gardens, and yes, got another coffee, this time iced, and planted myself on the sheltered terrace of the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts, sipped ice coffee and watched the clouds scut through the sky.

I am always so overwhelmed and grateful for the gardens and the art and the fountains and though the skyline has changed dramatically in the fifteen years I have been in San Francisco, there is still all this familiarity for the place I was sitting in.

How many times had I gone through that park high or drunk?

Smoking cigarettes and slamming extra caffeine to keep up with the high-end dining restaurant that I worked at, Hawthorne Lane, how many times had I caught cabs in front of the Metreon to go to my dealers or to have myself carried to the End Up or 1015 or some underground party.

So many times.

And the dread and the terror that was just below the surface of my skin, beating my heart with fear as I walked the paths through the garden to work, short cutting on my way to the restaurant to work a double to make up for all the money I blew on blow.

And.

Instead.

Twelve and a half years later.

Coiffed, sweetly dressed, yellow silk flower in my hair, expensive shoes on my feet, Hobo purse in my lap, having just left an exquisite show at the MOMA, I sit happy and serene, joyous and free, in that same space, quietly and consistently showing up to make amends to the area and to assuage that damage I did to myself.

So grateful I don’t have the words.

Although.

I have to say I will always keep striving to find them.

Grateful for sunshine, clarity, serenity, communicating my needs, being emotionally transparent.

For all the good things in my life.

For my life.

God damn.

Life is more than fair, you know, if it were fair, I’d be dead.

And I am so not.

I am exquisitely alive.

So.

Fucking.

Alive.

Luckiest girl in the world.

Seriously.

Twelve Hour Headache

March 14, 2017

Seriously.

Go away.

I’m on my second dose of 600 milligrams of ibuprofen.

I’m not a happy lady.

I’m also not horrified, it’s not a migraine.

It’s annoying, it hurts, but it’s not a migraine.

And for that I am hella grateful.

It’s been a few years since I have had a migraine and I certainly don’t need to start now.

I used to get them as a kid, but didn’t know that’s what was happening.

I just thought I had really bad head aches.

I was finally diagnosed with them in my early to mid-twenties.

“I don’t think you have migraines,” the doctor told me looking over some paperwork as I sat on the table in the examining room at the clinic.

“I do think that you have some issues that need to be addressed, however,” he said, looking up from the clip board.

Then he told me a story about people who smoke.

Now.

At that time I was definitely smoking.

Not my all time high, that would have been in Iowa when I was living in Newton and bartending at Boots and Spurs, Iowa’s Largest Country Western nightclub (I shit you not, they even had a mechanical bull), I could smoke behind the bar and would find myself going through a pack and a half to two packs a day.

Of course I left many a cigarette smoldering in an ashtray as I was slinging drinks, oh so many margaritas and pitchers of Bud Lite, but still, I was smoking a lot.

At the time I was seeing this doctor I must have been slightly younger than I was first thinking, as I was still with the boyfriend of five years and I was working at the Essen Haus as their General Manager.

I couldn’t have been more than 23 years old, 24 years old, tops.

I don’t recall a lot of the conversation, but I remember how he told me a story, the doctor did, about himself and when he had been a cigarette smoker and how he smoked to cope with emotional issues.

I think he was hinting at I needed psychological help rather than medical help.

And he was right.

And.

I still wanted him to go through with the exam.

I still had headaches, which I was pretty sure might be migraines, despite the doctor telling me that the pain I was experiencing did not corroborate a migraine diagnosis.

We did talk for a while and he got a lot of my family history and then he said, “well, you’re here, we might as well do a quick exam and check you out.”

He listened to my heart.

Checked my throat.

Shined a light into my eyes.

“Well, look at that,” he whistled softly, “you do get migraines.”

It turns out that there were broken blood vessels on the backs of my eyes that indicated migraines.

“You have stress migraines,” was the doctor’s diagnosis.

I was given a prescription.

I don’t recall what it was for.

But.

I do know that I filled it and I followed the directions and it worked.

I had to take it at the first sign of a migraine for it to be effective and I wasn’t able to figure out what my body was telling me the first couple of times after I had the medication to dose myself in time.

I had what I learned to call “pre-migraine” symptoms, but I didn’t recognize them right away.

Until.

One day I did.

And it was a revelation.

I was able to take the medication before the migraine landed.

It was miraculous.

I had migraines on and off over the years, but they eventually tapered off.

I stopped taking medication for them over 12 years ago.

My stress levels have decidedly changed over the years, and I have learned how to manage it better, so I know this is not a stress migraine, but it is a bad headache.

What I am hoping is that it is just that, not whatever cold was going around at school.

One of my professors showed up sick the first two days of class and got progressively worse over the weekend and had to call in by Sunday.

I am, however, not feeling anything but pain in my right temple.

I think I just have a nasty headache and hopefully, my dinner will kick in, the ibuprofen will kick in and some nice hot tea will help.

Plus a full night’s sleep.

These things will turn the trick I am certain.

I hope so anyway.

I meet with my internship supervisor tomorrow to fill out paper work after I get done with work and I am also going to be interviewing him for a class project I am doing for Community Mental Health.

I would like to be on point.

So.

With that.

I am going to wrap this up.

Do some self-care.

Get some rest.

Night y’all.

Sweetest dreams.

 

Can’t Figure It Out

October 25, 2016

Because there is nothing to figure out.

I know I have written about this before.

I just struck me hard today when I was doing some reading for school.

Yeah.

I know.

Take a break.

However.

I really wanted to get caught up on the reading that I didn’t have fully done from this past weekend; I have a couple of whopper big papers due the next round of classes and I want to have the reading done and organized in my head.

I got up early today.

Earlier than the last three days, four days, I’m a little lost as far as what day it is, they are all bleeding together.

All I know is that Friday will be an amazing thing to get to.

Next Saturday will be my first day off in two weeks.

Two weeks.

My employers asked me if I had a good weekend.

Sure.

I went to school for 29 hours after working a full week of work and then turned around to do a nine-hour shift today.

And it was a short shift.

It usually goes 9.5 hours on Mondays.

I had a great weekend!

Bwahahahaha.

No.

Really.

It was actually a lot of work, but it was so good to see some of the people in my cohort, I just have made some extraordinary friends there.

I have, I have.

And though I didn’t want to be at work, Mondays are my longest day, they are also, in some ways my most relaxed.

I only have one charge.

Her parents are gone the entire day.

And.

She naps.

Heavenly baby naps.

So I actually did do homework.

I wasn’t going to bring my Psychopathology books with me.

I really wasn’t.

I was going to give myself some down time.

But then I thought, you’ll be pissed when you get a fat baby nap and you don’t have some homework to kick through, it’ll feel like wasted time.

You know me.

I hate wasting time.

I need to learn how to though, I do know that.

Anyway.

I had a sweet, lovely morning with her, we danced, we read books, we went for a walk around the block on her little push tricycle.

It was adorable.

Then I put her down for naps, had lunch, made some tea and got into the reading.

I kicked through two chapters of Psychoanalytic Case Formulation.

Don’t be jealous.

Hella sexy read.

Then.

I started reading my Psychodynamic Psychiatry in Clinical Practice book.

I know.

I know you want to read them.

It’s ok.

You can borrow them when I’m done.

Heh.

I was struck as I sat on the couch fiddling around with my hair how I have changed so much and grown so much and then I was thinking about a condition that we were studying in class over the weekend.

Trichotillomania.

Huh.

Obsessive hair pulling.

Some people can’t stop pulling out their eyebrows or eyelashes.

Some can’t stop pulling out their hair.

I used to be a hair twirler.

I did not know that until my mom told me, years ago, that when I was little I would obsessively twist my hair until I gave myself bald spots.

I just about burst into tears.

I still do it on occasion.

And it’s a self-soothing response to stress.

It’s also extraordinarily indicative of trauma in the client’s history.

All the things I used to do to deal with the pain of being me.

Pulling out my hair.

Stopped that.

I don’t actually remember when I stopped, but I did.

I also know that during a very stressful point in my sobriety and recovery I was working with someone who pointed out to me that I was twirling my hair and he hadn’t seen me do that before and wondered out loud what that was about.

I didn’t know at the time, but I found it comforting and I will do it once in a while now.

I have noticed that I do it when I am reading for class.

I also notice a few other habits that I didn’t use to correlate to anything at all.

Like.

Oh.

Fuck, this is embarrassing, but whatever.

In the interest of science, er, I mean, my blog.

I used to exhibit pretty bad excoriation.

Excoriation (skin-picking) disorder.

I know.

REALLY SEXY.

I’ll stop soon.

I promise.

Maybe.

It has faded, but it was a slow fade.

I started with my mom doing it to me, she’d pick at my acne when I started going through adolescence, then I picked it up, I am surprised I don’t have acne scars.

I used to have pretty bad acne too.

Still get it on the odd day, but it’s pretty much gone, worked its way out of my system by the time I had two years of sobriety.

I had a horrible habit around it.

I would pick at my fingers too, bite my nails, peel off the cuticle around my nails, oh so many hang nails.

Also.

Yes.

A trauma survivor response.

So much fucking trauma.

And that’s when the reading hit home.

And made my chest tight and also, shit, fuck, motherfucker, holy mother of god, I finally figured it out.

Well.

Hahaha.

I figured out why I am always trying to figure it out.

I have had an inkling of it.

But it all just fell into my lap.

I was reading about trauma, shocker, I am going to be reading a lot about trauma and I need to remind myself that I also get to do a lot of sweet self-care for myself and although I recognize my resilience and it is extraordinary, there are still ways for me to be gentle.

I mean I have had some big time information come into my life regarding my family and family of origin in the last few weeks.

I have seen it ripple out into the world in odd and interesting ways.

Some sweet, some strange, some uncomfortable.

All sorts of information and wilding things falling out of the wood work.

Amazing.

Then.

As I sat reading, twirling my hair, scratching at the back of my neck, why is it so itchy?

I had a huge aha moment.

Oh my god.

The reading is re-traumatizing me.

Great.

Which is to be expected.

It’s just stirring stuff up from the bottom of the pot.

It’s all good though, I realized what was happening because I had read about the ways in which trauma can manifest itself psychodynamically.

Oh.

And all the other ways I have coped in the past popped into my head and that I have stopped doing them.

I stopped!

Do you have any clue how amazing that is?

I do.

I put down cocaine, alcohol, cigarettes, sugar, all forms of processed flour.

I no longer have stage four cystic acne, I don’t pull my hair out, and I don’t pick at my cuticles, I stopped biting my nails years ago and I have to say it is a small and beautiful gift to myself that I go and get them done.

I am proud of my nails.

My hair.

And of course, I have moments, trembling with the need to change and soothe and self-sabotage when I want to cut it all the fuck off.

I know that I won’t.

But it pops up.

All the things that pop up.

The last one, the one that I have been saving, since I figure I lost most of my readership a while back as this is not a sexy, sexy blog, is that “figuring it out” is a psychodynamic symptom of a child that has suffered severe trauma or sexual abuse.

Check.

Not to be tongue in cheek, but to move this along, I realized that I kept having this recurring pattern, all my life I have been trying to figure it out.

Breaking my own heart trying to figure it out, even when I was told again and again, “figure it out is not a slogan,” or good luck with that, or that there was no “figuring it out” to drop that.

That I have been standing banging my head on a wall for years and years trying to figure it out.

Because if I can figure out what is wrong with me, I can fix me.

I can fix what ever it is in me that didn’t know how to stop what was happening to me, that if I figure it out the same thing won’t happen to me again, I won’t get hurt, I have figured out what is wrong with me, why I destroyed so much and then I can get on with the getting on of life and be ok and like.

I don’t know, have a boyfriend or something.

Except.

That I didn’t do anything wrong.

I don’t have to fix something that I didn’t break.

It wasn’t broken because of me.

How can a four-year old be accountable to that?

Childlike, I blamed myself for my grandmother’s divorce, my mothers separation and subsequent divorce from my father, that I was the reason I was being abused.

I was the whistleblower.

But.

It was still my fault.

I brought the house of cards tumbling down.

Like all abused children I believed that there was something wrong with me, and in this believing I persevered with a hope, that if I could figure it out I could change it and the abuse would stop.

A four-year old cannot be held to that.

A four-year old doesn’t know how to cross the street without holding an adults hand.

“Come on baby, we’re running away from home, momma’s mean,” I said to my two-year old sister, taking her by the hand and walking out the door.

We walked around the block.

I had been told to never cross the street without holding an adults hand.

That’s how my mom found me, walking around in circles.

That is how I found me.

In this circular pattern of thinking for so fucking long.

I can’t fix me.

I was never broken.

I didn’t cause it, I can’t cure it, I can’t change it.

I can just accept it.

Which is not approval, by the way.

It was just what happened.

I can, however, be of service and take it in stride and let it go.

I can let my heart fill up with love.

I can say it stops here.

And something new grows forward.

Something amazing.

Me.

More and more fully myself.

I am so excited.

Seriously.

I know this seems implausible.

But I am relieved.

It finally landed.

I finally got it.

I can stop trying to figure it out.

The relief.

Well.

The relief is huge.

And I am blessed.

Graced.

Grateful.

And loved.

So very.

Very.

Loved.

 

Bottle of Whiskey

March 15, 2016

And a pack of cigarettes.

I laughed.

Softly.

No.

Fool.

I did not drink or smoke last night.

However, I sound like it.

I’m sick, but not sick.

I was tired last night and could feel a little tickle in the throat.

It suggested that there could be a cold brewing and I made the decision to stay in bed and get an extra hour of sleep rather than push myself to do a yoga class this morning before work.

I am glad for it.

Whatever little bit of cold I may have seems to already be fading.

But it was hilarious to have this raspy, sexy, throaty, low, husky voice all day.

“You sound really sexy,” my boss said.

I laughed, but softly.

It did make for a day of being really hands on with the boys, but it was a great day to be with them.

We got out to the park and thank God.

The rain seems to be ceasing for this week.

I could use the break and it was really nice to ride my scooter to work.

I topped off the gas–$1.10–and chortled.

So much cheaper than taking a car to work or MUNI for that matter.

Faster, efficient, and so good to be back on the road and autonomous.

Not that I wasn’t extremely grateful to be using Lyft all this past week and weekend, but it adds up and I don’t want to be putting that much money into something when I could be saving it for a trip or an experience.

I’m thinking time for a show, a movie, a massage, a steam and a soak at Osento.

I got a sweet message this morning about taking it easy and maybe taking a day for myself in the very near future.

I love this idea.

This week may not be the time, but I’ll see what I can shake out of the trees.

Time is a commodity that I can tell myself that I have little of.

The truth is.

I have time.

I have God’s time.

When I am in my time, man’s time, I am blocked and dated and timed and not at all flexible.  I wish to be flexible.  Not just in the yoga studio, but in my life in general.

Tomorrow I’m only working a half day, for which I am extremely happy about.

I’ll be going in from 1p.m.-5p.m. and then off for the rest of the day.

I have an optometrist appointment.

New glasses and prescription sunglasses for the scootering about town and that thing in the desert.

I may do yoga tomorrow night after that.

Try a different time of day.

I may not.

I think the cold, or maybe the just a tiny bit run down with the big school weekend, is definitely passing.

I can sing.

I wasn’t able to sing earlier.

I’ve got some Mike Doughty on the stereo and I’m jamming the hell out.

Well.

I’m not singing at full force, but I can sing and that’s pretty cool.

I like some music when I am writing.

It’s nice to have a sound track to my life.

There is some music I will always associate with certain times of my life.

There are songs that tap a wellspring of memory and make my heart hurt and also make my heart leap about with joy.

This particular album, Stellar Motel, tends to make me jump about in joy.

I always dance to the first song on the album and generally find myself belting out the songs following with much gusto.

Ooh.

I actually like my voice at this octave, it is super sexy.

I like being sexy.

Ahem.

I mean.

Who doesn’t?

No dates lined up for the near future, but I think there will be movement.

I have been asked out for tomorrow night but I wasn’t feeling the date.

He wanted to take me to Banya SF.

Which sounds like a place I need to go to, for fucking sure, it looks amazing.

But.

Um.

No.

Not for a first date.

That’s a bit too much.

At least for me.

That being said, I am interested in going.

Although, I don’t think tomorrow is on the menu for me.

An evening yoga class has a stronger appeal for me.

I would like to do a soak soon and some steaming and dry sauna action, Osento could be in the near future.

I did my spending plan this morning before heading into work and there’s a little scratch extra that could go towards a spa day.

Or I was thinking when my dear friend came over to the city and we went to the Balboa Theater and got House of Shanghai and had lattes in the Richmond.

That was fun.

I could definitely do a movie date for myself.

Dating.

So interesting.

Or not dating.

Life.

I could just say, life, is so interesting.

I’m pretty fucking grateful for it right now.

It was a big weekend and it’s nice to be at the beginning of a “regular” week for myself.

Recovery.

Writing.

Homework.

Reading.

Yoga.

Work.

Life.

If a date gets tossed into the mix, then cool.

But it’s got to be fun and easy.

I’m flexible, but fun and easy has got to be a goal.

I will say, now that I am not so heart broken it’s been easier to think about as just dating and having fun and having new experiences.

When I was talking to my friend last night at dinner and we were comparing notes about dating and our past relationships I could feel the emotions there as I describe what June to January of this past year was like, and I could also feel that though the feelings were there, they weren’t going to topple me.

I did mist up a little.

I may always when I recall what happened.

But.

I am also so grateful for the experience and to have come out the other side of the tunnel.

I’m not in that dark hallway anymore confused as to which way to turn or how to move forward.

I made it out into the light.

Which was blinding when I lifted my face.

I am still a little flash blinded with the normality of my life after the ups and downs of my roller coaster emotions.

There’s an after image of love and desire, expectation, fantasy, and hope.

My hopes may have been dashed.

But I seem to be moving forward, out into that bright sunshine.

Happy.

Joyous.

Free.

Single and available for dating.

Hit me up.

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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