My Stoner Bucket List – Smoking Weed With My Mom
Remember those times as a teenager when you’d sit around with your highschool buddies, passing a scoob and each of you would be reciting your stoner bucket list?
I sure as hell do.
Adam always wanted to go to Amsterdaam. (This is way back when the city was still the mecca destination for cannabaseurs.) Josh wanted to find an undercover grow op and run through the whole thing in his birthday suit. (To each their own, eh?)
Me? I just wanted to get high with momma.
No matter how absurd or impractical our bucket list items sounded, mine always seemed the most far fetched. See, momma was a strict southern baptist… right down to the bad haircut and frumpy dress. We had to go to church every Sunday, Wednesday and sometimes Friday. She would pre-approve my clothes; I wasn’t allowed to hang posters on my wall, could only listen to non secular music and our household was constantly filled with choruses of “the Lord’s will be done,” and “Praise the Lord y’all!”
The fun didn’t stop there either. My window was nailed shut. Once she took my bedroom door off its hinges because she couldn’t trust that I wasn’t in there doing drugs. (I mean, I was, but that’s besides the point.) Once she even called the cops on me after she found a bag of seeds and stems.
Gettin’ high with momma? Josh’s bucket list could have included smoking pot with Bob Ross while painting happy trees in front of a live PBS audience and it would have sounded more realistic than gettin’ high with momma.
I’ll never forget the first time that it actually happened though.
I’d been living down under for a few years when she came for her first visit. My daughter had recently been born and gamgam had made the trip across the big drink to see our little darling. Her visit coincided with a popular cannabis festival taking place in the famed hills of New South Wales’ Northern Tweed. We’d been planning on going as a little family of three, but now momma was visiting.
Before she came I gave her a call. I felt like a teenager again; like I was trying to pull the wool over her eyes or something. Like I was trying to sneak out the bedroom window and make it back before momma woke me up for school, or trying to turn the D- on my report card into a B-… only this time there were no tricks, no gimmicks, no sleight of hand. This time I told momma the truth.
“Momma, despite all your well-intentioned prayer meetings and conversations with the almighty over the salvation of my poor, damned soul, I love smoking pot. Not just to get high though, I believe in this stuff. Cannabis is medicine, mom. This is healing life that is being restricted from the masses and the reasons for its vilification are very far from what they’d like you all to believe. We’re all going… Alison, Willow and I and we’d really love for you to come with us.”
I waited for fire to burst through the end of the receiver.
“Sounds like fun! Greg,” (my step-father), “smokes every night before bed. I don’t like smoking…but maybe I can make an exception….” and then like an excited teen whispering something too scandalous to utter at ordinary decibels, “Think I’d be able to buy some while we’re there…?”
I thought I might die upon hearing this, but thankfully I didn’t, otherwise I would have never been able to check off the madonna of my bucket list items.
The fine details of how the rest of that night played out like are the foggy memory of dreamscape bliss- only this was real.
Momma’s first cannabis purchase was a fat, 500$ sack of Bubblegum Kush bought from two enthusiastic Poms in a shaded alley just off Nimbin’s main street. The medicine-men were so chuffed to be selling to a stereotypical, deep-south-American-mom they even let her pose with a stack of bills and a few pounds of that sweet, sweet cheeba.
The remainder of the night was one of those family moments that you hold close for the rest of your life. We put Willow Moonbeam to bed and stayed up on the balcony of our hotel munching out, laughing until we cried and geeking out like rebellious teenagers who were supposed to be having a slumber party and watching movies at Johnny’s, not doing bong hits and laughing with reefer madness into the late hours of the night.
Things are different between me and Momma these days. We call each other out of the blue, send each other stupid GIFs sometimes. Weekends I’ll just go hangout. And you know what? I know there’ll always be a plate of momma’s famous chocolate chip cookies and a little bit of reefer madness out on the back porch every time I do.
MOM CANNABIS, YOU BET, READ THESE..