Reefer Madness

I am not a pothead. In fact, I don't really even like being high all that much. Hold your gag reflex because the following will sound like a sickening cliche, but I truly am one of those annoying people who is high on life most of the time. Even when depression hits, I prefer to sit with that sadness rather than numb myself with drugs (prescription or otherwise) and/or alcohol. 

That said,  I've learned  an ocassional toke before bedtime has three beneficial effects, all of which are worth the embarassing coughing fit (I'm such a wimp) and bizarre dreams. Pot acts as a muscle relaxer, which helps when my tendonitis flares up after doing too many massages. It also serves as a sleeping aid. Added bonus: Marijuana makes it easier to climax for some reason, and we all know orgasms are good for you.

As a middle-aged woman with few hip connections, I rarely have access to weed,  so I hardly ever use it. But recently a friend (who shall remain nameless for obvious reasons) offered to gift me with a few buds during a particular painful bout of tendonitis and chronic insomnia. Trouble is, she lives a long way from me so I had no way to collect her generous offerering.

"Not to worry," she assured me. "I'll send it FedEx overnight.."

"Don't they check for illegal drugs?"

"Nah. People do it all the time.  You're thinking of the Post Office."

"Oh. Well, if you're sure it's safe."

"It'll be there tomorrow. No need for you to suffer, El. It's just a little weed."

The package arrived, as promised the next afternoon. Several minutes later, five cops--yes five--stormed my home, waving a search warrant. Turns out (probably thanks to the Patriot Act) drug-sniffing dogs routinely inspect incoming packages from all carriers, including UPS and FedEx.  Although California is notably a liberal state when it comes to marijuana, I live in a fairly small town and my package must have shown up on a slow day for the folks who make a living protecting the rest of us from Bad People.

I cannot begin to tell you how mortifying it is to be grilled by undercover cops (who it turns out had followed me all day) while others ransack your bedroom for "evidence." All they found was the package containing less than 1/8 ounce of weed, and a tiny pipe. Well, that and a stash of money I was saving  toward J's tuition payment due the end of the month.

"What's with the cash?" The burly one said.

"It's for my kid's boarding school."

He leaned across the table. "You're lying!"

I showed him the invoice. From the other side of the kitchen, a bearded undercover cop leered at me as he mentally dressed and undressed me in every undergarment they'd rummaged through while looking for a non-existent stash of heroin. Not to mention the "accessories" in my nightstand. Ew. Just ew.

"It's the truth," I said.  "I've been saving for months. As you can see, I'm still a little short."

The other three appeared in the doorway looking bored after finding  the camper in the driveway was not a meth lab, and I hardly fit the profile of a drug dealer. Burly Cop snapped a photo of me with his digital camera before they left without a word. They didn't even bother to take the pipe. I later found out the amount of pot I had is a misdemeanor in California, and they'd wasted five man-hours for however long they'd followed me around all day.

I've decided it's not worth the trouble to score a little weed. Besides, the adrenalin rush ought to last for at least another week.

Comments

[Suzanne]

Holy Guacamole, BatGirl!
What an experience! I was horrified, just reading it.
Glad they didn't haul you off to jail or leave your house upside-down.
It's crazy, what the police and government will waste time on. I wish they'd spend their resources on those who actually hurt and steal from other people, and leave the old-hippy pot-smokers alone. You know -- get some sense.

I like the "move" and to see you posting more regularly. Can't tell you how long it's been since I've found a good journal to read -- one that is personal and candid as well as well written -- enough that I want to check for a new entry every day. Written by someone who writes in such a way that I actually care about her and her life. So keep at it, it's great.

Suze

[Gus]

OMG...I'm laughing my butt off!! Sorry...hehehe. I'm a little far away to bail you out Elle. Might I suggest some potting soil and a grow light. (Pun intended)
Gus :)

[Kimberly]

Holy freakin' crap.

[nina]

Oh, that's hysterical! And scary. The cops must indeed be very bored in your town. Why-oh-why can't pot just be legal? It's so ridiculous.

[Fran]

It sounds pretty horrifying to me. I wish the cops would take more time weeding out gang violence, but--what do I know? Nice photo. Did you take it? Happy Thanksgiving to all of you and a special hug to J.

[TDK]

Just stumbled across your site. But that is an amazing story. Just be glad it didn't happen in mexico. The last time I had a run in with Mexican police it ended with us buying our freedom with the entire discography of the wu tang clan.

[Jim Brodhead]

OK, no fair...I wasn't prepared to laugh out loud here at work much less clean all this nasal-shot coke (the carbonated sort) off my keyboard

[Cathy]

Oops! Who knew they'd discover it? I would have peed my pants, for sure.

Glad they didn't haul you off. LOL!

[Victoria]

OMG! What a horrific story. As I was skimming your entry my eye caught the phrase "hip connections" which (since I write the kind of blog that I do) caught my eye. Turns out you were talking about another kind and not the kind connecting your torso to your legs. - Ha! - V

[ellie]

Victorian you are too funny. Of course now I want to change the title to Hip Connections. ~~ellie