Aunt Becky is making the trip over here from her blog to be the guest writer today. I have spent a fair amount of time speaking with this woman, and she is pretty kickass. See for yourself...
When both of your parents are hippies, there isn't a whole hell of a lot of things that you can do to rebel. I mean, any parents who protested the Vietnam War and marched at the Democratic National Convention (the rioting one), and admitted to smoking the ganja often and with gusto aren't exactly the sort that might ground you for being 3 minutes past curfew.
Hell, I didn't even HAVE a curfew.
Nor did I have any real ground rules to follow other than to be kind to all living things. And not vote Republican.
Between the admitted lack of boundaries and my incredible sense of Not Wanting To Get Busted, it was with many hooting and hollering friends that I called my mother to get permission to smoke The Weed for the first time.
I was 14, I'd just gotten my tonsils taken out (no small surgery for someone past the age of 6) and I wanted to make sure that nothing weird was going to happen. Like I specifically didn't want to suddenly think that jumping off the roof was a great way to finally fllllyyyyyy, like always happened in the DARE movies.
She was taken aback, my poor mother, when I called her and asked her if I could toke up with my friends. To her credit, she didn't laugh hysterically or anything, but she did sound pretty surprised even as she agreed to it. Providing, of course, that I drink a lot of water.
Drinking lots of water and going out in the sunshine are two of my mother's favorite pieces of advice. I could probably be bleeding to death in the woods from a gunshot wound, and if I were to see her she would likely tell me to drink some water and lay out in the sunshine.
My first choice of Smoking Implement was a 3 foot purple glass bong I'd named Stinky, and as my friend Josh lit the herb at the bottom of the tube, I sucked in as hard as I could, my finger covering the rush hole. The smoke in the chamber reached a thick consistency we called "mayonnaise," and after I held in my first toke and blew it out, I put my mouth back at the rim, unplugged the rush hole and sucked in.
In that moment, I suddenly earned the respect of each and every seasoned pot smoker I knew as I cleared the chamber. Apparently this was no small feat.
After I was done with my hit, I popped off the bed and bopped into the other room, squeaking out a "Thanks, guys!" as the room burst into rounds of applause for Wonder Girl, Pot Smoker Extraordinaire.
I didn't get high that first time, despite the massive influx of Mary Jay into my system, I felt nothing. Perhaps I was a smidgen gigglier (no huge feat for an admittedly giggly 14 year old girl), perhaps it was just the atmosphere in that house that night.
Perhaps it was all just one toke over the line (Sweet Jesus).