I used to smoke pot… a LOT of pot. In college, in fact, I was a complete burner. I loved getting high. I and my closest girlfriends/fellow weed-heads used to joke about how we all shared a brain and it only functioned properly when we were all stoned together. Perhaps it wasn’t a joke. Anyway, smoking pot was a well orchestrated event for us. It was quite ritualistic, right down to the snacks! Three liter bottles of generic Cola, peach rings (ewww), bagel chips with hummus, cheese sandwiches (not grilled cheese, just cheese on white bread with mayo), and if we were feeling really festive, a bag of fried chicken. We would spread an Indian blanket out on the floor, load up the changer with CDs, light all the candles, and pack the shit out of a three foot bong, complete with ice cubes in the chamber, and get ripped. The nights always ended the same way; Sheila would pass out in Katherine’s bed, Wendy would be reading a magazine, Kate and Rach would be drawing, coloring, etc, and I would be playing computer games, usually the one where the little snake eats the apples and gets longer and longer as he gorges himself.
Some of the best inside jokes came from those nights (and days, for that matter.)
“
But does it smell like biscuits?!?”
One night we had a long discussion about some kind of hunting comfort that could be microwaved before heading out to the woods. The hunter could sit on it and it would keep his or her buns warm for hours. “But does it (
referring to said microwavable device) smell like biscuits?” At the time it was the funniest question we’d ever heard.
We had some weird adventures in our plight to find dope on several occasions. I remember going to a professor’s house to score. He was on sabbatical in Israel and his kid had covered every piece of furniture in the house with white sheets so he could relax while he partied. I remember selecting a bag from the cotton covered grand piano in the great room. That was the night I discovered Portishead. I thought it was the most ingenious sound I’d ever heard. I loved sexy, moody music in those days.
One of the girls in our little circle dated a guy that worked at a pizza place. When he was working we would order a pizza and he would come pick us up, get us high, and give us slice after slice of steamy pizza right out of one of those thermal delivery boxes; a pothead’s dream dinner!
It’s been years since I smoked pot. Now I think about what I’ll tell Maeve about these sorts of things; sex, drugs, religion. I don’t have any of the answers, of course. If I tell her the truth about everything I did, everything I believed will she think she can be just as reckless as me and everything will turn out fine?
I’m fine and
I did it. Why wouldn’t she?? But if I tell her I can’t remember half of high school and at least a third of college because of all the grass will she believe me? It’s true! My memory of those years is shot! Do I want her to be afraid of drugs and boys? No. I want her to be cool and smart and brave and wise and moody and broody and creative and witty and aloof and deep and vague and adored. Zack would probably rather her be a dork and a square… and safe.
For now, I’m just going to focus on making the best homemade baby food I can make. Oh, and Maeve, I don’t believe in God. I believe in you and your dad and me.
