“This shit is bullshit”

I just had a really shitty workday. Easily in the top-5 shittiest days of shitty days in my career. (I know I’m a melodramatic fool, but I think even the most neutral person would agree that today sucked some seriously funky balls).

And I really want to get drunk and wallow in self-pity, which, I feel, I fully earned. But I’m high—and only one glass of wine deep. And I’m thinking about Mr. D’s fortune cookie: “Tomorrow is a new day; you should begin it well and serenely.”

I don’t want to. I want to write an entire post of the injustice that was my shitty day and cry myself to sleep. But for what? I’m still going to work in the morning, and I’m not going to indulge my “fuck this, I quit” fantasies.

So I may as well smoke another bowl and watch some People vs. OJ Simpson. And begin tomorrow as well as I possibly can.


Why weed

I’ve liked weed since the first time I tried it at Senior Week, when a friend told me about how some guy in our school had had sex with some girl in our school. It was scandalous in the dumb way high-school hook-ups are, and she followed up the revelation with the usual “Don’t say anything.” But then she added: “Well, it’s not like we’re ever going back.”

That shit was deep. I was officially high.

Fourteen years later, I think those revelations are still one of my favorite things about marijuana, though the list is long. I love thinking, analyzing, getting high and gazing at the stars, feeling both the weight of my insignificance and the sense of belonging in a vast and seemingly infinite universe. I love laughing until my stomach hurts and my cheeks turn numb, the pain in my abs harder and more wonderful than any workout could ever produce. I love polishing off the last bite of a delicious meal with unbridled satisfaction. I love waking up hangover-free. But perhaps most of all, I love the clarity and introspection of the herb, being present in a way that allows me to live in the beauty of my life and the magic of my children’s youth.

I know that makes me sound like a total stoner, which I sort of am, but maybe not in the stereotypical way. I don’t smoke nightly and there’s a part of me–a big part, actually–that worries about this blog. And not just for the practical reasons, like, “Will I lose my job?”; but rather, the anxiety over the messages I want to send: About values and vices and my overarching thoughts on drugs, life, parenting, work, marriage and love. Am I getting it right? Am I fucking up completely? I want to preface every post with: “This is what I believed at 32!” Who knows how that will change. Isn’t that the beauty of it all? That we get to keep going and hopefully get to a place where we get it right?

But I guess those are all thoughts for another post, on another day. For now, I just want my girls (and Mr. D) to know that my love for them is as vast and infinite as the universe itself. And maybe that’s what I love about marijuana. In a life that moves astonishingly fast, I get to slow down time when I’m with you.


Bless you, NameBright

I paid $2,000 for the highmom.com domain name. I’m not sure how stupid that was; I tend to vacillate between “What that fuck were you thinking” and “That’s not really that much money.”

Anyway, I purchased the site from NameBright.com, and dropping that kind of cash on a site I’d never heard of made me uneasy. I kept wishing I had bought it from GoDaddy, finding comfort in its creepy name and sleazy commercials. (Hashtag brand recognition.)

But almost immediately after I purchase highmom, I realize I have no clue what I’m doing. (If this post were a Family Guy clip, we’d segue to the scene from “Don’t make me over,” which sadly doesn’t exist on YouTube. But it’s the one where Peter, Joe, Cleveland and Quagmire are on stage, in costume, before a crowd of prisoners, ready to play their first song just as Peter realizes they don’t know any.) Anyway, that’s me: lost, intimidated and completely overwhelmed. I don’t know what a name server is. I don’t know what my next steps are. This whole process scares the shit out of me, and so I do the only thing I know how. Nothing.

I’d still be making payments on a nonexistent site were it not for Mr. D. He suggests I call the company, have them walk me through the steps. And oh how they do. The lucky customer service rep who answers my call spends close to an hour answering all of my stupid questions. And they are stupid. (But whatever. I’ve learned your ability to grasp a concept is inversely proportional to the simplicity of the questions you ask about it.) Anyway, he explains things in such digestible detail that I finally understand I need to find a web hosting site.

So I call my friend WJD, who has recently moved to Denver (and who I really need to visit for some of that Rocky Mountain high). He’s launching a new mobile company, has built websites for some big clients in the past and all-around just knows his shit. When he recommends DreamHost, I listen. And I eventually launch this blog.

DreamHost and NameBright are probably totally different services (or maybe they’re identical. Who knows. I certainly don’t.). Anyway, the only discernible difference I’ve noticed is in the customer service.

DremHost offers 24/7 live chat, which is amazing. Until you start asking questions. Talking to them makes me feel like I’m getting my eyebrows waxed at a Korean nail salon. (“Oh, you a very hairy girl. Very hairy.”). They’re just so condescending; some of the actual conversations I’ve had include lines like, “I don’t even know what you’re talking about” and “I don’t know how to help you beyond the answers I’ve given.” I always exit the pop-up box feeling like a complete dummy (which, when it comes to web development, I admittedly am).

But then I call NameBright and feel like they’re holding my hand and patiently navigating me through these uncharted, digital waters. Or maybe they’re just better at understanding their consumer. “Oh, she’s high? And she’s a mom? She’s clearly tired and confused. Let’s take it easy on this one.”

Whatever the reason, I thank you, NameBright. I was wrong for ever doubting you.


Nothing says I love you like a vomit hug

Love can be candy and roses, and it’s wonderful when it is. But it’s also picking regurgitated carrots from your daughter’s curls. It’s watching your husband scrape projectile vomit from the cup holders of your car on a 12-degree day. It’s ugly and gross, in sickness or in health, for better or worse.

That’s how we spent our Valentine’s Day 2016. Not ideal, but real. And I think it was the most accurate metaphor for love.

I could probably write more, but I’m still queasy, and someone else has already articulated this far more eloquently:

Grit Is Often The Best Description Of Love. It was easy to love [my wife] when we were newlyweds. Easy for her to love me during seasons of comfort. But it’s much more difficult to fight for love when you lose a baby. Or have a huge financial setback. Or confess a really ugly secret about yourself. Fairy tales are great for movies, but real life is more often confusing, chaotic and messy. Dig in when it gets hard.


Kung Fu Panda is garbage

I got high and watched Kung Fu Panda for the first time last night. What a disappointment (the movie, not the weed). Apparently the moral of the story is “there is no secret ingredient” to success. It just boils down to fate.

Really, Dreamworks? That is SO not the ninja message.

If you haven’t seen the movie, here’s my quick synopsis:

This entitled panda named Po is destined to be the dragon master and defeat some evil snow leopard who was prophesied to be dark and dangerous (mind you, he’s only depicted as being ruthlessly ambitious in search of some scroll, which ultimately ends up being worthless because there’s “no secret ingredient.” But he’s a fierce warrior who gets imprisoned even though you don’t get a sense of just how evil he really is. (And maybe he’s just a product of his environment?) What I’m trying to say is, he’s no Voldemort.) Ugh, anyway… Po is “destined” for greatness and so he studies among all these bad-ass animals who have devoted their entire lives to the martial arts. But they’re not The Chosen One, so they’re basically worthless. Even as a team, they can’t stop the evil leopard, completely dispelling the “strength in numbers” trope. Meanwhile, Po is a shiftless bastard whose only redeeming quality is the prowess he displays when fighting for a dumpling (which I fully support. Dumplings are delicious). But despite the fact that he never learns the value of grit and moral fortitude, he nevertheless ends up saving the day.

Why would we send that message to kids? It negates everything I hope to teach my daughters, which is really this: if you want to be a ninja at anything, you have to work really fucking hard. That’s, like, the message of all kung fu movies, from The Karate Kid to Sidekicks (RIP, Jonathan Brandis).

Of course, then I start going down my own stoner rabbit hole of things I want to teach them:

  • Hard work is the secret ingredient to anything worth having in this life, from a good job to a good marriage, to everything in between and beyond.
  • You’re not entitled to anything.
  • But you sweet, privileged young ladies are destined for greatness. And that’s partly because you’ve been blessed with advantages in this life that not everyone has.
  • That may make you may feel like you can get complacent in life.
  • You can’t. In fact, I hope you’ll strive farther and be compelled by the “secret ingredients” of ambition and compassion, working to make a meaningful mark on whatever you do in this world.
  • And I hope you’ll be as driven by your own moral fiber as you are by the values your father and I have instilled. Values of kindness, resilience, humor, empathy–the things we hope to teach by example, but sometimes fail in exhibiting ourselves. Because none of us are Chosen. We’re just trying our best–and hopefully, trying a little more each day.
  • Kaizen. Continuous improvement. Work hard, get better.

That’s what this dumb movie should have been about. And with way more kung fu.

I’ll end this with my Lil Wayne stale face.


Diary of a stoner mom

There are nights when I hold her close, her heartbeat against mine, the intimacy of our bond so deep, the tenderness so palpable that all I can think of is this. This moment. This soul. This love.

This, I whisper to myself, is the meaning of life. Also—and this part I don’t whisper, I just know—this mommy is really high.

I’m not sure when I became a pothead. In fact, I’m not quite sure what the definition is. For me, it’s a few hits of the bowl, a few nights a week. It’s my release from daily drudgery, my descent to Zen. It’s my time. Except it isn’t.

There’s something about marijuana that makes me want to lie in the grass and find dragons in the clouds. Or linger in the kitchen, admiring my husband refill the dog bowl. Or curl in bed, reading every story of my daughter’s princess adventure book, nuzzling my nose deep in her mop of curls until she falls asleep.   Continue reading