Nothing Says Happy Birthday like Mushroom Cookies

For my 'big' 21st birthday, my university roommates threw me one of their legendary parties. I say 'big' with a hint of sarcasm because even though turning 21 in Canada doesn't mean shit, we celebrate the U.S. tradition and for some reason, 21 is therefore a big deal to us as well. I never really got it - it's not even an even number - jeez! (Read about My O.C.D. to get that joke) Regardless, I was getting a big 21st send off.

Their parties were awesome because they were usually themed parties and surprisingly, I would say 95% of guests complied with the alloted theme. I was amazed at the effort that had gone in to some of the costumes, even from the "too cool for school" type of guys. The question was what theme to have for MY party? Meh. What does Stephanie like... that we haven't already done... it was tough, and then we got it - Mushrooms! It was true, I was a massive mushroom fan. So instead of a costume party where everyone got drunk, they could wear what they wanted and hallucinate their asses off instead. We thought that adding a funky costume element with props and bright colours might pose as a serious "bad trip" risk, so no costumes.

Since I lived with a drug dealer, even offering to pitch in financially for 'the goodies' was fruitless. Having one roommate that dealt and the other that loved to bake yielded the result of some super bad ass mushroom cookies. In true form, we whipped up a few batches of weed cookies too. Eat your fucking heart out Martha! They were fantastic. The problem was NOT to eat too many. One. Two. Three TOPS. And then you would be flying happy and free.

I had invited Mark to the party, to which our very successful 'friends with benefits' arrangement was going strong. He had been up to visit me a few times for a roll in the sack, so most people knew him already.

Mark - never - did - drugs - for - a - reason.

The party was in full swing and it was packed. Living in a dealer's house sure made one popular, but I wasn't complaining. It was a great night and the buzz from the mushroom cookies was less intense that having them straight, which was a good thing considering I had to be somewhat sociable at this party. It was like a slightly stronger body buzz than one would get from say, hash brownies; I was lovin' it.

My eye caught Mark scarfing down some cookies. I pushed my way over to him and he was laughing. Through a mouthful of cookie, he mumbled, "I think I'll be fine since they're in food... totally, ya, I'll be fine!" I quickly replied, "How many have you had?" "I dunno. A couple of these and 5 or 6 of those other ones. They're awesome!" He pointed over towards the weed cookies; I told him he was screwed. I shook my head and walked away - but I needed to keep slight tabs on him since I would be requiring his washboard stomach and penis later on that night.

About an hour later, a girl came up to me and with an awkward smile, she said, "I think your boyfriend is dead." So I knew it wasn't serious, but I followed her to the bottom of the stairs and there was Mark - lying belly up on the middle landing with his head handing over the top stair. He actually did look dead, apart from the incessant snoring that his mouth was producing. He was 100% KO'ed and it took 2 other guys to peel him off the floor and into my bedroom. Years after that night, people would still ask me how the "Man of Death" was doing, and I knew exactly who they were talking about.

Considering the fact that we were just friends, I couldn't really get mad at him; he was just an idiot that night. Needless to say, I didn't get my Mushroom Birthday Sex that I was so looking forward to, but he did make it up to me... eventually ;)

Illegal? Kinda. Sorta. Maybe.

My best friend decided to switch to the Senior Public in our town, while I remained at the 1-thru-8 Catholic school. It seems as though she picked up a lot of “skills” shortly after she transferred, and then would enlighten me with her new knowledge, notably shoplifting. Turns out, I was GREAT at it. I was a natural-born, sticky-fingered, over-privileged cliché. I was completely addicted to the adrenaline rush, which never seemed to deplete the more I stole. I just took bigger and more risky things. This was also before CCTV was everywhere, and only really Music Stores had the electronic security systems (which were no match for me [insert evil laugh here]). I would usually go with a friend and we would buy a 25¢ bag from the department store and then completely fill it. My mom never questioned anything, mainly because I had a job and was making about $50 a week (which was a lot for a 14 year old).

There was an entire year where I was out of control. I would even steal when I was shopping with my grandparents. When I started high school, I was taking orders from other kids for perfumes, clothes, hats, jewellery, makeup, you name it. The perfume was my forte, particularly anything Calvin Klein. Then, my life as a career petty thief came smashing to a halt.

The girlfriend I was with that day took pride in thinking that older men found her sexy... so when we were in the parking lot of the department store and a man approached us, she distinctively assumed he was trying to pick her up. “What’s in the bags, ladies?” I started to feel a bit sick to my stomach, like it was on fire and getting hotter and heavier by the second. I knew what was going on. My friend was still in some kind of pathetic denial and was performing a disturbing flirt routine on this man who was at least 3 times our age. He then grabbed the bags and said, “I’m pretty sure there are items in here that you young ladies did not pay for, and you are both under arrest!” JESUS FUCKING MURPHY.

I became slightly light-headed and all I could think about was how D-E-A-D I was going to be when my parents found out. I was totally petrified. We were brought into a room in the back of the store and he got our phone numbers to call our parents. My mother showed up first. Her eyes were on fire. I think it was a combination of angry tears and pure hell fire. We got into the car and after a few rounds of yelling the “What were you thinking?” speech, she swore. I had never heard her swear before. “Just you fucking wait until your father gets home!” Oh Shit. I’m actually going to die. He freaks out on me if I chew with my mouth open... what the hell is he going to do with this information? One thing I was certain...that weird vein in the middle of his forehead was totally going to rupture.

Then... days past... and nothing. It was torture. He never confronted me. NEVER. I almost wanted him to just get it over with. Maybe he was just TOO angry or disappointed. It was weird. I was grounded for a month. My official punishment was that I was banned from that particular store (rhymes with Smears) for 1 year and I had to write an essay on shoplifting. The one thing I learned while writing that was that they purposely put items of “interest” in inconspicuous locations to actually encourage shoplifters to take them... and then bust them. That’s twisted! Why not just keep the perfume under glass and everyone goes home happy. I guess the security guard needs to earn his salary somehow.

That day pretty much cured my kleptomania, although I did have isolated lapses during the next couple years. It was hard to stop, and I believe it was an addiction. I think the scare of that day helped, and the reality that the next time I would likely experience the back of a squad car. No thanks!

French Fry High

I remember that lunch hour like it was yesterday; it was grade 9. We were standing in the "smoking area", a bunch of us gathered around chatting, smoking cigarettes... the usual stuff and someone pulled out a joint. I had smoked pot before, but it never did anything to me– until this time.

When the joint was being passed around, I of course took a few tokes. After the joint was smoked, a buddy of mine and I went to the cafeteria to get some food. I was at the end of the line and was waiting for the others in front of me to get their food. By the time I got to put my order into one of the "Beaver Ladies" (that's what we called them in high school, I think it was because they worked for a company called Beaver Foods)... Anyway, I was finally at the front of the line; time seemed to go by very slowly. "French fries, please." The Beaver Lady scooped up the fries and handed them to me, almost in perfect slow motion, yet slightly out of focus. I paid for them and made my way over to the condiment table.

My friend was waiting for me and when I brought the fries over my mouth had turned quite dry. “Uh oh,” I thought to myself. I think I'm high! We decided to sit down in the cafeteria to munch on the fries while suddenly my vision and hearing became fantastically distorted. I was getting tunnel vision and all the voices in the cafeteria started to intensify and blend into each other- like I was inside a giant, fucked up human beehive. I was starting to get a little freaked out, so my buddy and I decided to take a walk around the school and try and walk off some of the weed.

After a lengthy walk, the bell rang and it was time to head to classes. I had an exam on Romeo & Juliet that afternoon. I thought about skipping it, but decided that it was too risky and might get caught having smoked marijuana, so I reluctantly went to the exam. (Like attending the class stinking of pot was the better way NOT to get caught? Yeah, ok, so logic does not exist when you’re stoned.) At the time, I thought I actually did alright...turned out I ended up getting 8% on that exam. I did manage to pass the course at the end of the year, but I'll never forget that day.

Scarred for Life

Here is a reminder that sometimes your friends are incorrect and you shouldn’t listen to them. I have the scar to prove it.

I’m in high school at a bush party. We came from a small town and that’s what we did every weekend in “the valley”. We drank, we listened to guitars, and we smoked pot, along with everything else illegal. Every once in a while the local police had to show their faces in the valley and when that happened you would hear the dreaded screech “5-0”. The place would scatter; kids running here and there and all over the place. Since we were regulars and knew the forest like the back of our hand, we were always able to outsmart “the pigs”. We knew the back trails and the best hiding spots. We would wait them out and continue the party once they had left.

One night I may have had a just a little too much to drink. When the “5-0” showed up and we all ran; I ran the wrong direction. It was dark, I was drunk and then suddenly I fell... then I was wet. Shit… I found the creek. I fell in the water and my leg sort of stung. I didn’t dare move– I could see the scanning flashlights above my head. I figured I was safe in the crevasse of the creek; except being wet and getting cold. I wondered how long it would take for the cops to bust a few kids and be gone. How long could I sit in the creek? Did I mention my leg hurt a bit? I decided to feel it out; I felt something slimly. From past experiences I realized that the slime was blood mixing with water. I could then feel that there was a huge rip in my jeans. Damn it! My favourite jeans; I looked hot in those jeans.

Eventually all was quiet and it was time for everyone to come out of the forest. Some people were wondering around and trying to find their friends. I knew our crew usually met at the top of the hill, so off I went. I had a beer here and there with people I passed. Did I mention my leg hurt? I figured it couldn’t be that bad, I was walking after all. So I finally get to the top of the hill. My friends were loyally waiting and we decided to walk into town for a slice of pizza. I thought: Great! There were lights in town so I could check out my leg.

We got to the plaza and there were other “valley kids” there as well. I located the cut that was on the back of my leg, but I couldn’t see it so I asked my friends, “Hey guys, check out my leg!” They didn’t seem shocked; they said there was blood but it was “just a scratch”. I was happy with that. The second group of “valley kids” thought otherwise. I heard someone say, “Oh my God! You should go the hospital!” Someone else piped in, “That’s pretty deep – put some pressure on it.” My response to that was, “Na, it’s just a scratch – it’ll be fine!” I probably had enough booze in me to successfully mask the pain, so to me, it was “just a scratch”. I eventually went home to bed.

When I woke up the next morning, my leg was stuck to my PJ’s and my PJ’s were stuck to my bed. Feeling the effects of a hangover and not really remembering too much from the night before, I ignored this odd situation and got up – ripping the cut open again. Blood everywhere... again. Oh well! I got some peroxide and some bandages from the cupboard and dressed my wound. It took forever to heal and I should have gotten at least 10 stitches.

Moving ahead quite a few years later, I now have a disgustingly large purple scar 3 inches in length and about 2cm wide on the back of my leg, which, according to my drunken ass friends, was “just a scratch”. Cheers!