Let’s just say that while I do it often, I hate to fly. I always sit next to people who don’t respect the Arm Rest Demilitarized Zone and I spend the whole flight defending my personal space from germy arm invasion. Between that and the air filters that blast freezing cold cooties at my face the whole time, after long flights I almost always end up sick.
I was blowing my nose outside of the United terminal when my friends pulled up. I was barely inside the car before my friend Bongzo announced, “Guess what?! I finally got my medical marijuana prescription!”
Now, for those of you who are not familiar with SF, getting a marijuana license is as big of milestone as a quinceañera, and it’s celebrated the same way: a big party with lots of food where guests give money to the honoree in return for party favors.
“Congratulations!” I said. “What did they write it for?”
“Glaucoma,” she said, beaming.
As soon as we got home I went back out to the Walgreens for something to help my imploding sinuses. In the decongestant aisle, I picked up a card for Wal-phed (I’d buy Sudafed, but I’m not made of money, people) and followed the instructions to take it to the pharmacy window.
“You don’t keep this on the shelves?” I asked.
“Not in California—just trying to regulate it. Can I see your license?”
“Woah, there must be something way more fun I can be doing with this,” I said, handing over my Illinois ID.
Note to reader: Never make jokes about methamphetamine in a Walgreens on Haight Street. If you do, you may wind up answering a lot of questions from Luis, the pharmacy manager, who will try to count your teeth while you respond. Turns out that while San Francisco gives out weed like beads at Mardi Gras, it takes colds very, very seriously.
After the background check was complete, I paid from my nose spray, Vitamin C drops and Wal-phed and headed home where Bongzo managed to hot box the entire two-floor apartment and I began intense round of nasal flushing.
Oh San Francisco, I’ve missed you.
