I Got This

5 10 2011

So it turns out that living with a bunch of dudes tends to make you think that you can not only sit around hitting the bong and watching Toddlers & Tiaras like one of the guys…

Ahem.

…but also that you can throw back calories like one.

I can probably count the types of vegetables I’ve eaten in the past month on one hand. The varieties of corn chips and processed cheese products, though? Oh, the many. Those size 6 jeans I was oh so happy to purchase two months ago are starting to fit like a muffin tin.

Never fear, though, The Internet has my back(fat)! I’ve narrowed it down to three effortless, completely fail-proof methods to whip myself back into shape:

1. Wash away the fat!

There is a product that actually claims to have the ability to reduce your body fat by 20% just by you slathering it on in the shower, thanks to extracts from a rare seaweed. Seems legit, right? Fuck jogging.

2. Get a phone. 2 a) Attach dumbbell to phone. 2 b) Answer phone repeatedly.

Screw pushups. Thanks Japan!

3. The future’s so fat, I gotta wear blue shades.

Apparently blue is the most unappetizing color, since it’s so rare in nature. So, all we have to do is make food look blue and we won’t want to eat it anymore! Up yours, dieting.

I’ll let you know how it works out. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go watch a three year old get a bikini wax on TLC.





Stoner History 101: 4.20

20 04 2010

I’m back!

The beasts in my sinuses are being eradicated as we speak by my good friend, Zithromax, and just in time for the biggest stoner holiday of the year.

Most people who have had any exposure to “cannabis culture” have heard 4.20 referenced, but do you really know where it comes from?

Legend has it, in 1971, a group of California teenagers were tipped off to the existence of an abandoned cannabis crop near Point Reyes. Each afternoon the group would meet after school at 4:20 at the Louis Pasteur statue to smoke marijuana and go looking for the fabled crop. The abandoned plants were never found, but the smoking ritual remained. The group called themselves the “Waldos” due to their tendency to hang out against a wall after school.

It just so happened that one of the Waldos had a brother with a connection to the Grateful Dead. The boys had regular contact (and smoke outs) with the Dead, who would spread 4.20 as a stoner term throughout the nation.

Today, activists for legalization of marijuana use 4.20 as a day to not only celebrate and consume cannabis, but also to educate about its uses and advocate its decriminalization in non-medical form in the US.

The largest annual celebration takes place on the University of Colorado’s Boulder campus. The past two years’ events in Boulder have included over 10,000 attendees.

So, have a happy 4.20 everyone! I know I will. 😉 And keep an eye out for future Stoner History 101 posts.





Not all baked goods are your friends: a cautionary tale

23 03 2010

Once upon a time, the Balls n Chain talked me into letting him go on a once in a lifetime trip to Vegas for his friend’s 30th birthday. Thus, leaving me unsupervised for an entire….I don’t remember….5ish summer days.

I did what any responsible adult would do to pass the time. I called up my friend and declared, “We are SO making pot brownies!”

Ahem.

I was ready to get scientific.

So, I hopped on Google and within minutes had a step by step tutorial of how to heat strain and make brownies with the THC infused oil. You know, instead of just throwing a bunch of weed in some brownie mix and trying to choke that shit down. (You know you’ve done it.)

I followed the directions perfectly. We each ate one or two that night but the results of the test of their effectiveness seemed inconclusive. Perhaps I should have taken more note of the fact that we both passed out still sitting before 11pm.

This particular weekend I was (not uncommonly) alarmingly low on groceries, so I hadn’t been eating much. The following day I didn’t eat breakfast in the morning, or lunch, or dinner. At about 3pm, I grabbed a brownie. Then I grabbed another at 3.30, and two more at 4.00.

Before you begin to wonder if I am a complete idiot, let me explain a bit of history. I started smoking pot when I was 14 years old, heavily at times. I have gone hit-for-hit with 200 lb dudes in morning til night smokefests, hardly batting an eye while they end up puking in the fetal position. I have never even had a problem going on with my every day tasks, let alone had a “freak out” or become physically ill. I’d never even had the textbook symptoms like cotton mouth, paranoia or mild hallucinations. It had always just been a little mood booster for me, no matter how much I smoked. That shit was for pussies.

Ahem.

So, 5.00 rolled around the realization hit me that I was totally high. Awesome, the brownies did work!

But then 6:00 passed and 7:00 struck. And I realized that I was fucked.

This is where the memories get fuzzy.

I remember laying on my couch feeling like invisible waves kept crashing over me and I couldn’t possibly move to escape their wrath. My mouth suddenly became so extremely dry that it reminded me of Jim Carrey in Me, Myself and Irene.

I became convinced that my throat was so dry that it was going to stick to itself and obstruct my breathing and I would surely die. At some point either I actually discovered a bottle of apple juice on the floor next to me or I just imagined it. I’m still not sure.

I remember sending Andy several Twitter DMs from my iPod Touch apologizing for every time I had ever fucked with him while he was high and freaking out. But, I could only type three or four letters at a time before things would go all wavy and I would almost puke, so I would have to close my eyes for a few minutes and then continue. I didn’t give up though, because at that moment it felt extremely urgent and important. I felt truly repentant for these stoner sins and felt that I was somehow being punished.

Minutes after I sent these messages, he showed up at my door. This seemed like fucking magic to me at the time. I vaguely remember stumbling to the door in my blanket and then hurling myself back onto the couch.

Eventually I realized that I had not gotten dressed that day or even so much as brushed my hair. Not only was I braless in a rather see-through shirt, but my cankles were exposed, and this realization was quite alarming. So, I somehow dragged myself to my bedroom and did manage to get dressed.

But every minute that passed I was feeling worse. At this point it had been 5 hours since I ate the first brownie with no end in sight. I wanted to cry like a baby.

At some point I ended up laying on the floor nearby as Andy used my computer. Every time I opened my eyes it was like everything was sort of rocking back and forth in that wave-like motion, and it got worse if I tried to sit up.

Every 20 minutes or so I would stumble to the bathroom, though I really wanted to crawl there, dry heave for a while, lay my face on the cold tile, and then return to my place on the shag carpet.

I kept wanting to talk, but it was as if it was physically impossible for me to make words come out of my mouth. I could feel them pressing on the inside of my mouth but could not force them out. Every time Andy would say something, I could feel and almost see the words mixing up and floating around and bumping the outside of my head so that I couldn’t understand what they were saying. Every little thing that would happen or was said, I would immediately ask myself did that really just happen or did I imagine it? I absolutely could  not discern reality from delusion. It was a nightmare.

The whole time I knew that if I could just eat something I would feel better, but it felt like a huge insurmountable task. I remember asking for a glass of water and then just staring at it, feeling like it wasn’t possible to pick it up and drink it. I managed to go into the kitchen and scrounge up a Pepcid, thinking it would stop the intense nausea. But then I lay down again, sat it next to the glass of water and just stared at it longingly. I can’t quite describe the sensation I had that these small tasks were absolutely overwhelming and impossible.

I dragged myself to bed that night absolutely sure that I would not wake up. When I indeed did wake up the next morning, the glass of water and pill were still sitting on the carpet, untouched. I couldn’t remember if Andy had really been there or if I had imagined the whole thing. My memory had gaping holes and I was still high. I remained that way for the next three days. By the second day most of my memory had filled in but some of it is still quite fuzzy now.

And this little story is why I will never, ever again in my life touch a pot brownie, cookie, lollipop or any other orally ingested creation.

It may be the first time I ever turn down a baked good.





First Dance with Mary Jane

5 03 2010

It was one of those summer days when there isn’t a cloud to be found in the sky,  like someone hand-colored the sky with ‘Sky Blue’ from a Crayola box.

A fourteen year old me (read: skinny bitch with all the parts still in the right places) sat alone in the tiny double-wide sized house I had called home since toddler-hood.

What is a small-town teen to do, home alone on a gorgeous summer day? Raid their parent’s stash of ganja, that’s what.

I had watched all the adults in my life toke up since I was old enough to see across the room, but for some reason I had never thought to try it myself until this day.

I rolled the world’s worst joint, and lit it on the stove burner because I couldn’t find a lighter, and smoked it.

I sat back down in the living room and thought I don’t see what the big deal is…

Then the storm door started to make a popping noise.

Hah, I laughed out loud, snap, krackle, pop! OMG…..rice. krispies.

And we just happened to have some in the kitchen.

Fate?

I think so.