Bad Mommy 4: A Political Assassin Walks into a Gay Bar...
I might have indulged a bit last night. Michael and I went to a bar. This peculiar, edgy guy showed an interest in my husband. He went on about Michael's energy, how they connected when their eyes met, how he had not seen a light in someone's eyes since his meeting with the Dalai Lama. Let's call him Crazy. And Crazy pulled something out of his pocket for Michael to see. My husband then smelled this something, let out an appreciative "Mmmmm" and said I should give it a go. I leaned in to see a gooey brown substance on Crazy's fingers. Having two young ones who often secrete gooey brown onto various parts of their bodies, I was immediately suspect. Did that stop me? Of course not. I inhaled and smelled chocolate. Hold on. Not just chocolate. Chocolate mixed with something. Chocolate and pot. Crazy told me to open my mouth. And evidently, this is when my common sense decided to take a road trip to Tijuana. In a convivial display of "why the hell not?" I did as he asked. I opened my mouth as his fingers made their way in. Sweet and tangy mingle on my tongue. Turned out it was chocolate laced hashish, or hashish laced chocolate, I'm not sure what today's fine drug pushers prefer. (This brings to mind that classic commercial: You got hashish in my peanut butter!) Crazy then gave me a hug goodbye and with tremendous concern told me I was blocked, to which I thought, I just licked mysterious brown goo from a stranger's fingers, how blocked can I be?
Now, I want none of you to worry about quality, Crazy informed us it was prescription hashish. (Easy to get evidently.) And he said I would probably not feel anything until this morning. Well, he was wrong. I feel nothing this morning. Every sense is dulled. I am as active as a wad of gum. The kids can eat Valentine's candy all day long, they can torment the dogs and flush Wall-E down the toilet, they can set the house on fire, I just don't care.
This reminds me of that time in Amsterdam... I ate one of their famous space cakes and the next morning I woke up in a blur. I forced myself to go out and be a tourist. I trudged through the Van Gogh Museum and the Anne Frank house, even though my head was a helium balloon and my eyes were slathered with Vaseline.
Etymology Lesson. We get the word assassin from hashish. A extremist Persian sect, called hashshashin, would get high and kill the elite for political reasons. Some things will never change. My question? Where did they get the energy? I could never take a couple hits and then ride a horse to the nearby village, wield a scimitar and marauder. Because this stuff makes me want to roll over and....zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz