For the record, I’m not totally inexperienced when it comes to marijuana. Since I first tried it,1 I’ve smoked very occasionally, I guess you could say. I might go years without having any and I might have some a few times in a month. I’ll have some if it’s around but I don’t seek it out and I’ve never bought any myself.
When I was pregnant, a former neighbor came by one day and gave us a few weed cookies. “Be careful,” he told us, but Ben was all yeah whatever beanpole teenager.
We put them in the freezer, where they stayed for maybe a year. One day, Ben ate two of them and made onion soup. He said he was pretty messed up but he was able to function.
On July 2, 2010, I ate one of these weed cookies before we went to the Rockies game. The actual cookie is pictured at right, for some reason on an issue of Westword. As you can see, the cookie isn’t particularly large or anything. It tasted like what eating marijuana in Russia might taste like (this isn’t a bad thing).
I sat around and waited for something to happen. Nothing much did until we got out of the car and were walking to Coors Field. All of a sudden I was all what and whoa and whattheeverlovingfuck. I wasn’t quite sure how I was able to walk and it was kind of like being afraid of flying, such that if you fail to believe this giant, heavy, metal thing is capable of soaring through the air it’ll come crashing to the ground. So you believe you can use your legs to get from one place to another and you do, but the whole time you’re doing it you’re increasingly paranoid that the people you pass: (1) can tell you’re totally fucked up; (2) are able to discern something deeply wrong and troubled with you; (3) can see inside your brain and know your very thoughts.2 The police officers you pass are especially problematic.
This was also the only time we’ve ever had club-level seats at Coors Field. From what I can piece together from the shards of memory lying in the back alleys of my mind, this was magnificent — long, well-lit, glowing hallways filled with the kind of people who would not result in fans of your team being included in a “Top-10 Ugliest Baseball Fans” list. Shiny floors. I think there were windows? Air conditioning? The ability to fly.
The fact that I made it to our seats was monumental. I sat in one seat and Ben and Soren sat in the other. I was completely lacking in any ability to interact with a child. This made me feel deeply guilty, which is really saying something because I’m generally not one for guilt. I had no idea weed could fuck you up this much. No idea.
While I sat in my seat at Coors Field, bathed in a cold sweat, I engaged in the type of bargaining you might do when you’re in a dire situation from which you might not escape alive. I’ll be a better person. I’ll do more volunteer work. I’ll stop making fun of people on the internet. Just let me get through this.
Eventually I became incapable of even this relatively simple thought process. I tried to watch the game but couldn’t tell where I ended and the game began and didn’t really understand what the game was. I felt like Dock Ellis and the LSD no-hitter only not nearly as awesome:
The ball was small sometimes, the ball was large sometimes, sometimes I saw the catcher, sometimes I didn’t. Sometimes I tried to stare the hitter down and throw while I was looking at him. I chewed my gum until it turned to powder. They say I had about three to four fielding chances. I remember diving out of the way of a ball I thought was a line drive. I jumped, but the ball wasn’t hit hard and never reached me.3
Then I realized I had to go back in time so I could learn how to think again. I melted into my chair. I picked at some french fries Ben insisted I eat. I said, “No, I can’t” every time he suggested we get up and walk around. Aside from that, I didn’t move. I worried about what would happen after the game ended and the fireworks were over and I’d have to get up. First I was afraid. Then I was petrified.
From our seats, you could see the right 1/3 of the fireworks. Ben took Soren to a spot where there was a better view and I stayed in my seat and watched 1/3 of the fireworks as best I could. By the time we left the game, I think I was feeling a little better and at least marginally able to function. I got home without incident.
This experience was absolutely nothing even remotely like what happens when you smoke weed. I don’t imagine that it was a typical edible experience, but I have to say I’m probably not going to try pot brownies any time soon. I don’t know if it was these particular cookies (Ben agrees that they were pretty jacked but they didn’t mess him up nearly as much), the length of time they spent in the freezer (not sure how this could have any effect on anything), or what. That said, if I had any advice to someone about to try marijuana for the first time: beware the edibles.
1. The first illegal drug I ever tried was LSD, also junior year of college. I did that maybe 5 times, all during college. I don’t know how you go about finding a reliable LSD source these days but I have to say I kind of recommend that everybody try it at least once.
2. Since medical marijuana became available in Colorado, I’ve never gotten that weird paranoid feeling you sometimes get after smoking weed, where it’s like everybody is talking and all of a sudden there’s silence and whatever you just said was the most awkward, ridiculous, and loud — very loud — thing anyone has ever said. In my non-expert opinion, the greatly increased quality of marijuana has eliminated that unpleasant side effect.
3. See www.snopes.com/sports/baseball/ellis.asp.