Thursday, May 21, 2015

The Homemaker's Guide to Weeding and Baking: Part 1: The History of Pots

I first smoked marijuana in high school, during my volatile Sophomore year of which I am amazed to have survived at all.  I smoked at school to ease the pain of being trapped in the building all day with all of the other loop-d'loo's who went there. I smoked to slow my mind down to the speed of teaching. I smoked during lunch and everyone in my afternoon classes called me Rasta girl. I stopped for 2 years when I got re-goody-two-shoes-ed, and re-self-righteous-ed at a very strict and strange Christian school in the deep South. I think of it now as a sort of Stockholm syndrome, a quirky psychological survival mechanism that probably saved my life, if not my soul.

That spider! Still watching over the cherries.
During my first attempt at college, I attended Alaska Bible College in Glennallen, Alaska, a town the size of Maine, a population less than 1000, and located near the Matanuska Glacier. Car-less, I hitchhiked everywhere. I was once picked up on the highway by a man and his giant wolf-hybrid "dog" in an orange and very old International truck. After picking up a few items at the only store for hundreds of miles, we returned to his truck to find that the dog had literally eaten the passenger seat, my seat. It was reduced to a metal frame, the interior of the car filled with a lumpy snow of foam and fabric. "I don't think your dog likes me," I said and hoofed it the few ice-covered miles back to our rusty pink trailer.

My first husband and I lived in a teeny tiny dump-intended trailer. The college was going to have it towed away but when we returned from Christmas vacation suddenly married, they let us have it. The paper of factory specs glued on the wall clearly stated that the trailer was zoned from Malibu, not the Copper River Basin. This is why our pillows froze to the walls every night. We had blow-dryers duct-taped onto various pipes. He would get up, turn on all the blow-dryers and go back to bed. In a mere half an hour, the toilet could be flushed, coffee could be made, and shower run. We had no phone, nor car, just a little TV looping every kind of Star Trek in the known universe via the only channel, RatNet. Apparently recovering from my Stockholm syndrome, we drank whiskey and smoked weed and I skipped classes called "Pentateuch" and "New Testament Personalities" to work on my pool game and play ping pong.

In our bunny boots at our trailer
We smoked so much weed. So. Much. Weed. And we ate Stagg Chili by the case. This chili was imported from the Anchorage Costco, whenever we could find a ride in to the big city. With a locally grown marijuana called Matanuska ThunderFuck, this mediocre chili became the most sacred and holy experience of my Bible College year. Every bean burst into my mouth, a celestial choir of texture and flavor. Our safety-orange table glowed like hellfires beneath our heavenly bowls of heaven beans.
Waiting to become a crab apple

No phone, people came to our door when they needed us. One morning, my old dorm-mate came knocking to fetch me for church. Church-going was an official school activity despite most churches being over an hour away and most students not having any transportation. At least one (of the ten to fifteen church members in any of the five regional churches) had to initial a document attesting that we had attended. I was falling behind the requirements. Concerned for my future, she knocked and knocked and knocked. She knew we were home; where would we have gone in Glennallen on an early Sunday morning without a car. She kept knocking. Finally, guiltily, my wake-n-baked self  squeaked out, "Nobody's Home!" Thinking about it now, I may have borrowed the line from Rabbit in Winnie-the-Pooh. And she apparently believed me, or rather respected the obvious fact I was unfit for church, and left. I did not return to school the following year, as neither the school nor I cared for the arrangement. Rather, we headed south to Petersburg, Alaska, where we also smoked a lot of weed.

Warning: the following photos are of the sex organs of an Austrian pine and may not be appropriate for all viewers
After the hotel where I worked nights burnt down, I temporarily took work at a pizza joint on the docks. We'll call it "Pot n' Pans." At 10:45 every morning my boss would leave a lighter on the counter and say, "I am going for a walk. When I get back, I want you all to be in a good mood. A REALLY good mood. Use the lighter if you need to. I'm going to go get in a good mood myself now. I'll be back by 11." And so we'd start the lunch service as a happy crew. I doubt that restaurant management classes include this method of team building in their power points.

In our attic apartment in an old house on the banks of your typical Southeast Alaska estuary, we spent most of the winter smoking weed and playing NBA jam. It's how the poor folks make it through Alaska winters. Our bosses headed to Hawaii for those months and we were left to hold down the fort, in the off-season, and do drugs. Many of our friends did cocaine, creating excitement where there was none. But I preferred weed, slowing my brain down to the level of excitement that actually existed.

Austrian Pine
The beginning of the end came with a headache, which I rarely got before my TBI. I had no idea how to deal with it, but our friends suggested weed would help. So I smoked a bowl. I spent the next few hours in our tiny attic bathroom staring in the mirror, looking for the crack where I was certain my headache, which was now 1200x more massive than our sun, was breaking open my skull from the inside, like an alien cracking open its egg. I kept calling out to whoever was in our apartment (a constant parade of people) asking if they could see where my brain was cracking open and when should I head for the doctor's office. They would shake their heads at me and occasionally yell, "SHUT UP!" Yes, my head had actually cracked, metaphorically.

I tried selling it during my second attempt at college to pay for food and rent and such. But I was the world's worst drug dealer, particularly ill suited for it. I have a habit of being caught for every slight wrong doing. If there's a group doing wrong and I'm standing near it, I'll be the one selected for punishment. I will be punished more harshly than anyone else, as an "example." I don't understand why we have to make an example of me and not just punish all doers of wrong equally, but that's the way the thugs in charge have decided to do things. If the feds are going to make an example of someone during this muddled time of legal disorganization, it will be me and I will get the death penalty. So I'm paranoid about every slight possible wrongly done anything I might do. Not a good trait when you're driving around town with a car full of contraband or blogging about it. But the statute of limitations, on what I suggest to the court is nothing more than hearsay, has long run out, I hope. 

Austrian Pine reproductive organs
From my wallet's perspective I was the world's worst dealer. But from the perspective of one of my friends/buyers, I was the best. The best you can hope for in your drug dealer is that they are an industrial-strength people-pleaser. I just wanted people to like me, more than I wanted to pay rent. So we'd agree on a price and then I'd bargain myself down from there. If someone was going through a break up, I'd throw in a couple pounds for free. I lost money. It poured out of me like the headwaters of the Columbia.

My relationship with weed dwindled from there. I found the social anxiety it began to create in me too annoying to deal with. While others giggled on the floor with the hilarity of burnt pizza, I receded into the corner, silent, worried that anything I would say would be laughed at. Worse than being laughed at, I worried I would laugh too hard at my own jokes and I would laugh alone and then be laughed at. It wasn't fun.

Aside from a party toke here or there, I haven't done much of it since. Until a few weeks ago.

(To be Continued! Cha cha cha!)


  1. Can't wait for Part Deux! Your writing still cracks me up, and open. Plus the photos are so sexy.

  2. Thanks, Angie! Glad you enjoyed the pine tree money shots! And yes, the writer of this blog can only sign in as anonymous on her own blog today. Sheesh!



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