Southern Lady Code: Essays(11)

I bought what looked like two Jolly Ranchers for under five dollars. I had one of them while Patti’s husband took their son trick-or-treating. Patti laid out a charcuterie for parents who brought their kids by her house. While she socialized, I manned the front door and gave out chocolate bars.

Here’s what I remember about being high: every kid’s costume was freaking fantastic and I made love to a box of super seed crackers. I was relaxed and happy and very much in the moment. It was one of the best nights of my life.

I didn’t have the nerve to smuggle home the other Jolly Rancher (which as far as I know is still in Patti’s panty drawer), but apparently it’s pretty easy for Peggy Sues. What you do is: put the pot candy in a bag of regular look-alike candy and put that bag in your carry-on luggage. If you have a kid, slip it in your kid’s carry-on luggage. No TSA agent will give a lady who looks like Patti or me a second look. Which makes me wonder why drug cartels don’t recruit bridge players, mall walkers, and that society of women who wear red hats and purple clothes. They should troll college drop-offs for moms. Empty nesters are up for adventure. And nobody pats down Peggy Sue.

Which is why I have no fear of writing about my flirtation with pot. Nobody’s going to arrest me for flirting. And that’s all it was: flirting.

My friends know I’m a flirt. And God bless them, after years of giving me jam jars and forty-five-dollar candles, two of them came up with an original hostess gift. At one party, I carried my first marijuana cigarette, tied with a ribbon, around all night in my apron pocket. I flashed it at guests like a nipple pastie but never smoked it because I can’t smoke. I sealed it in a sandwich bag, put it in my panty drawer, and tossed it a year later because, despite my best efforts, it had gone stale. I don’t know how to test marijuana cigarettes for freshness, but it was as brittle as a vanilla bean and I don’t think that’s good. I got a second joint as a gift and tried to smoke it in front of lawyer friends who’ve committed a good portion of their lives to sending drug dealers to prison. They were not pleased with me, but I thought of it as if I’d put a lampshade over my head. It’s all in good fun in the privacy of my own home. I’m not hurting anyone. Look everyone, Peggy Sue’s gone wild! And by wild, I mean she’s looking at you kinda funny.

This year, my husband gave me a vape pen for Valentine’s Day. He ordered it through a friend like I order Girl Scout cookies. The pen came in three parts like a dollhouse pool cue. You screw them together and charge the pen in your laptop USB port. It’s supposed to be easier to inhale from than a rolled cigarette. It’s supposed to give you a better high because it’s juice, not leaves, and whatever makes you paranoid is strained out like pulp. Again, I have no idea what I am talking about. I might as well be explaining how my hair curlers get hot.

My husband’s friend told him, “It’s not your college marijuana. Take one hit. Just take one hit. If you start to freak out, wait twenty minutes and you’ll mellow.”

My husband has no interest in pot but gets a kick out of the fact that I’m trying to introduce it into my life like vegetables and tennis. He pressed a little blue button on the vape pen until it lit up and then handed it to me. I took a drag, dove into a heart-shaped box of Russell Stover cream centers, and laughed for two minutes when he shouted an answer at Family Feud. No, I don’t remember what one hundred married men were surveyed about, but my husband answered: “The scrotum, Steve!”

A friend, whom I’ll call Pseudonym Lily, said, “You didn’t do it right.”

I said, “How do you know?”

She said, “Bring it to my place. I’ve got the apartment to myself this weekend. I’ll invite Pseudonym Judy and we’ll show you how.”

Pseudonym Lily and Pseudonym Judy were potheads in college. Pseudonym Lily smoked every day for four years. Pseudonym Judy’s boyfriend gave her a bong with a gas mask. Now they play mah-jongg and needlepoint. They look like Peggy Sues. But they are not Peggy Sues.

Pseudonym Judy said, “You’re doing it wrong. You’re supposed to hold the blue circle down and inhale until the blue circle goes off.”

I do this and the pen crackles. The mouthpiece warms up. The smoke is hot in my mouth and my lungs burn.

“Hold it,” said Pseudonym Lily.

“Hold it,” said Pseudonym Judy.

“Now, blow it out slowly. It should come out in a straight line. If it comes out in a puff, you’re doing it wrong.”

I blew out a straight line.

“Nice!”

“Good job!”

And then I felt what it was supposed to feel like. My body melted. I felt faint, but I didn’t faint. I ate cheese. I ate cheese. I ate a baby carrot. We laughed. They talked and I tried to keep up. I didn’t speak. We laughed. Did I mention the cheese? It was a very 9 to 5 old-fashioned ladies’ pot party. And then four hours passed and it was time to go home.





WHAT EVERY GIRL


            SHOULD LEARN FROM


            ABC’S THE BACHELOR





No fairy tale begins: “Once upon a time, he blindfolded me in the back of a car.” No fantasy suite has another woman’s hair clogging the drains. A suitcase full of gowns doesn’t make you a princess. Be careful what you wish for, Cinderella’s house was infested with mice.