Friday, March 8, 2013

raisin bread and dope


I am in California sitting on Susan's patio surrounded by Mexican pots and her long-suffering plants. It's 85 fahrenheit and my plan is to get seriously sweaty raise my body temperature to the max and then jump into the unheated pool. I ignore the fact that nights in this latitude drop to 40 degrees and then wham! I am in the water and then desperately trying to get out, my frozen limbs refusing to work. "F-f-f- . . ." I stammer and Susan was on her feet ready to do what I don't know, she looked bemused, she looked worried and I had purposely jumped in the shallow end in case I needed saving and resuscitation.

She has a small bag of medicinal marijuana squirreled away in the cupboard left over from her 60th birthday party. On that night the girls got stoned and giggly watching their upper arm fat jiggle and two of the guests laughed so hard they wet their pants. They didn't have rolling papers so Susan wrapped the stuff in raisin bread and swallowed it whole. In our earlier racier days she and I were quite fond of the weed and we talk about finishing off that bag. I know Big Dave would disapprove although I never met a white man more in need of a joint than that husband of mine.

I remember the last time I got stoned.  It was New Year's 1995 and I was at a lame party eating dried veggie chips. I was at the end of a very sad relationship and then the guy shows up unannounced wearing a shirt I had given him the year before and what did all this mean, I pondered. I was suspicious the dude was seeing other women and later I would discover this was correct. So I threw all his stuff out on the front lawn to get rained on except his grandmother's crocheted afghan and the Victorian light covers, I wanted those. But back to the party. I got so stoned I had to cancel a dinner engagement as I was too paranoid to leave the house. I spent the evening talking to my jade plant.

great dental work



Dan said...

Jade plant, Dawn? Drain bramage.

Then there was the time I, too, was overtoked and got paranoid, thinking someone was breaking in. I called 911. But before I hung up the phone I remembered I was still on parole! Visine. Toilet flushing. Six window fans. Cops came. Met them downstairs and said, "No. It was the cat."

Arizaphale said...

Paranoia is one of the reasons I never much liked the weed. The taste of food was one of the reasons I did. Eventually the first one outweighed the second. Which is just as well considering the hysterical giggling thing (which I had forgotten about) and the current state of my pelvic floor.