I’ve always had a good relationship with drugs. ‘Good’ meaning they always did what they were supposed to do. If I took them to party, I had fun. If I took them to sleep, I slept. All very straightforward. My twenties were about the party drugs. Raised on Guernsey, I didn’t really have access to much until I went to drama school in Liverpool. Excuse my vagueness in the descriptions of what I got up to, but of course none of what I am admitting to is legal. So, for the sake of anyone official reading this, or my parents, or anyone who finds this awful, I’m totally making this up to sound cool.
Anyway, point being, I was lucky that I could always dip in and out of that kind of thing and gave it all up well before I had kids. It stopped being fun after a while. And I’m not really interested in recreational activities that aren’t fun.
Remember how weird that first week of lockdown felt? It was like the apocalypse was coming and America was a terrible place to be. Anxiety was high. When I landed in LAX after Caroline’s funeral, friends with government intel were warning me of imminent disaster. The National Guard was on its way to man the streets outside our houses, ready to wave their guns at us if we dared leave our homes. Food parcels would be thrown over our gates. Riots would erupt in the streets; violence would overcome us.
I found all of this very worrying, of course, but my most immediate source of anxiety was that the schools were starting to close. How would the kids cope with not being allowed out? No friends, no playdates? Art suddenly sitting at a computer every day instead of running around the schoolyard. It was awful, I didn’t understand how anyone would cope. I had just been through a traumatic ordeal with Caroline passing away, I could barely think straight. The idea of not having at least six hours a day Monday to Friday to try to rebuild myself was, quite honestly, terrifying to me. I didn’t want to be that sad around my kids.
Weed became legal for recreational use in California in 2016. Almost immediately, an overground industry was in action. It was slick, accessible and expensive. Weed stores popped up like coffee shops all over town. At first you needed a medical card to get in (administered by a doctor if you asked for one for emotional reasons. Easy to get. No real emotional reasons needed) but now, as long as you’re over twenty-one and have a valid ID, you can get whatever you want.
I was never one for smoking spliffs. That thick, stinking skunk that the (mostly) boys passed around at college never did it for me. It made me cough, which was embarrassing, then pass out on the spot (also embarrassing). I thought it made people smell like dog beds, and no matter how much fun someone was having when smoking it, they were no fun to be around if you hadn’t smoked it too. I hated what it did to people. The exact opposite reaction of what I wanted from drugs. When people referred to it as getting ‘high’, I never understood. When I smoked it, I felt like I was locked in a cupboard with all the lights turned off.
During my first year at uni I had a boyfriend who lived in a house with a bunch of lads. They smoked so much weed. A couple of them all day long, they just sat on the sofa and smoked and smoked. Always with a vacant, sleepy smile on their face, if they could manage one at all. They’d eat and eat then fall into hysterical fits of laughter about not much at all. They watched hours of daytime TV and occasionally picked up a guitar and played incredible music. They were smart and creative. The humour was high, but still I found it boring. As soon as someone lit a spliff, I remember feeling disappointed that that would be the direction of yet another day or night. The windows were never open; one guy barely left the house at all. Luckily for me, my boyfriend loved a smoke but wasn’t as into it as the others, and he didn’t seem to get as slobbed out by it. I like to think this was because of my fantastic rack, and how devastatingly sexy I was. (It wasn’t. But hey, why not add some pizzazz to my memories.)
So, when weed became legalised here, I wasn’t that excited about it. Living one house in from the grungy end of Melrose Avenue and alongside an alley with a certain kind of (human) wildlife inhabiting it, the smell of spliffs often made its way into our garden. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want it to be everywhere. I didn’t want stoned peopled to be everywhere either. I found them annoying.
Quickly, vapes became the vessel of choice, and this was better and something I happily got involved with. I had some fun times walking around a bit buzzed at two in the afternoon (back in the day when we were allowed out). It’s an easy way to get a little bit high. It was so much more fun than the low I remembered from skunk spliffs in the nineties (I don’t know how to write about those without sounding like your gran). But I couldn’t get past the coughing. It would always be the same. I’d casually accept the vape from whoever passed it to me (OH MY GOD, CASUALLY SHARING VAPES AT PARTIES, CAN YOU EVEN IMAGINE THAT AFTER COVID? WERE WE MAD??) then proceed to cough my guts up as we all pretended it wasn’t happening and continued to try to have a conversation. Everyone else ignoring it too. I’d keep talking, through the coughing. Not wanting anyone to think I wasn’t cool enough to handle it. I’m forty-one. This isn’t OK. Smoking is not the one for me.
It used to be though – cigarettes, I mean, not weed. I used to love smoking. It all began when I was around ten and I stole some really important cigars from my uncle. No no, that wasn’t a typo.
In the house I grew up in, behind the sofa on the window shelf was a small wooden box. Inside it were ten cigars. I used to open the box and look at them lovingly, I thought they looked delicious. My uncle was a pipe smoker. Every day after lunch and dinner, he’d sit and smoke a pipe. This is back in the day when smoking inside was perfectly normal. I loved the smell; he used nice tobacco in a yellow tin that he got from the tobacco shop in town. I used to buy it for him with a new pipe most Christmases, which can’t have been legal, but hey ho, it was Guernsey in the early nineties and people didn’t seem to worry about all that back then. I loved the smell of his pipe, so when I saw those cigars my hungry ten-year-old brain assumed it would be similar. Watching EastEnders also made me think that smoking was really cool. So, I took a cigar and, when my friend Diana came over, I made her come up the garden with me to smoke it. That’s right, two ten-year-old girls hiding in a bush smoking a cigar, nothing to see here.
Then, over the course of a few weeks, I went on to smoke all of the cigars. I remember looking at the last one in the box and thinking, ‘Oh God, what did I do?’ but feeling what was the point in leaving just one? No one smoked cigars in our house, so maybe no one would ever know? And besides, I really liked them. So I smoked them alone along the cliff path when I was pretending to walk the dog.
I missed smoking after that but was far too young to buy any so needed to work out how to get my next fix. This is when I went into my uncle’s closet and found a box of extremely fancy cigarettes. These were his travel smokes, as you weren’t allowed to travel with pipes, apparently. So when he went away, he’d take these fancy fags, and have one of those instead. Until I smoked them all, that is. I smoked them out of my window, in the garden, at the beach and no one had any idea. It was brilliant, I was like a smoking ninja. Only one night, I messed up. I messed up real, real bad and, looking back, I still have no idea what I was thinking. One night, while my aunt and uncle were out and my cousin Loren was babysitting, I went into my uncle’s closet, took the last cigarette and smoked it IN HIS BATHROOM.
Why, why did I do that? This was not a house with smokers in it. The occasional pipe, sure, but nothing more. And never upstairs. WHY did I do it? I have no idea. The smell must have drifted down the stairs to Loren’s nose, because suddenly he was knocking on the bathroom door. I remember the feeling of fear. I’d been caught – why else would he be at the door? I think I said something like ‘Out in a minute’ in a very high-pitched voice and he just stood there and waited. I had to come out. So I emerged, and he said, ‘So you smoke, do you?’
I went to bed petrified and full of shame, and when my aunty and uncle got home they came into my room and told me off. I was in so much trouble. I remember while my uncle was telling me he’d have to start taking the bottles because I couldn’t be trusted – he was right, I got into those a few years later – my aunty came up with the empty cigar box. That was when I discovered that a great friend of theirs who had recently DIED had left them the cigars. Their sentimental value was immeasurable. I’d smoked away their inheritance. At ten years of age. I am yet to live this down.
I went on to start buying my own cigarettes and smoking properly when I was about fifteen. A habit that I eventually gave up in my early twenties when my aunty became very ill and was in hospital. I sat with her for hours and days on end, occasionally going outside for a smoke. It struck me, one day, how ridiculous that was. There she was in ICU, the fact that she’d never been a smoker perhaps helping to keep her alive, and there I was, going for a fag. Suddenly smoking felt like the most stupid thing you could do. So I stopped, and that was that. I now hate smoking and give anyone I love a really hard time when I see them do it. I am a real asshole about it. So smoke next to me at your peril, you have been warned. After I quit, I hated smoking weed even more, so you can imagine my relief when I discovered edibles.
Of course, the idea of eating weed has been around forever and is nothing new. Weed cookies, brownies, pancakes, or whatever else anyone could be bothered to cook and sprinkle with the magic green herb. But California has come on a long way since that. Now we’re talking about delicious gummy bears in pretty packets, decadent chocolates in fancy boxes, mints in elegant tins. The first time I ever had anything like this was after I was given a packet of some in a big Hollywood gifting suite. If you don’t know what a gifting suite is, it is both amazing and hideous all at the same time. Around award season, brands want to get their stuff on celebrities, throwing free stuff at them. A gifting suite is either a back room at the event itself, or a place set up that exists for a few days before the event. People (mostly famous people) are invited to go and pick what they want. It’s like shopping, but everything is free. Sounds amazing, doesn’t it? And it can be. You can come out with some excellent swag. But it can also make you feel like a total dick.
When Chris and I were in our early days as a couple, we were at an event. Actually, it was my first ever red carpet and I was terrified and looked like shit. I think it was the GQ Awards. Someone came to get us from our table, and took us to the gifting suite. I was so excited. I went around trying things on and picking products. There were even those fish that gave you pedicures (GROSS), so I stuck my feet in and let them take a photo. Anyway, there was a top I liked. Everyone told me it looked nice, apart from the woman who was hoping Angelina Jolie had walked in, not me. Chris said, ‘Can she have it?’ AND THE WOMAN SAID NO. I had been invited into the gifting suite but I wasn’t famous enough to have anything. It was SO awkward. My Pretty Woman moment. Chris, being amazing just said, ‘Let’s get the fuck out of here.’ So we did. I felt gross all night. AND THEN, the picture of me with my feet getting munched by fish kept popping up everywhere, and I was like, I am not famous enough for your stupid top but you are happy to have me promote your manky toe-chewing fish?
URGH, I swore I’d never go to another one. But then we got invited to a big one in Hollywood and I told myself life was too short not to go. This was very different. It was so busy and had vibes of a commercial trade fair. A huge room with loads of different stalls where brands were displaying their best stuff. It was heaving with influencers that I’d never heard of but the cameras were going crazy for. We felt silly being there, but also, I wanted everything.
And now for the point of this story … one of the stalls was a marijuana brand. They had edibles and buds and ready-rolled spliffs, and I couldn’t quite believe what I was seeing. They gave it to us for free. This was before weed was legal in California, so I had no idea how it was allowed and got my ‘candies’ home safely but with a certain trepidation. That afternoon, I ate one. There was very little information on the packet; in fact, there was none. No indication on how much to take. Nothing at all. An hour later, I was lying on my bed watching koala bears jump out of the hedge and into the pool. Also, Chris shaved his beard off and I didn’t notice. I didn’t move for six hours. Koala after koala. Luckily, this was before I was the mother of a child, because if the kids had been around, they would probably have turned into koalas too.
It was hard to know if I had enjoyed the experience or not. Being that off my head is only fun if it was the plan, which it was not. But I got through it and then threw the rest away. When weed became legal here, and gummies a popular way of consuming it, I tried again. Just a little nibble the next time, as there was still so little information on the packet. I enjoyed it a whole lot more. Being a bit high is really fun, being wasted to the point of seeing koalas is not what I am aiming for. ANY MORE.
Of course now vapes and edibles are commonplace in LA. It’s as normal as seeing someone have a glass of wine, and when taken in the right amount, it’s a much more pleasant drug than alcohol. It doesn’t make you say mean things or feel like shit the next day. It helps with PMS and anxiety. It really is a mystery why it is illegal almost everywhere else. I think the world would be a much nicer place if everyone dropped alcohol and just had a mild marijuana mint instead. With the occasional margarita for those of us who can handle it.
My merchant of choice is a chain called ‘Med Men’. Although I may have to go to a different location now because I had a meltdown last time I went. IT WASN’T MY FAULT. I drove all the way there to get these specific gummies that are quite mild. If I was to describe their strength, I’d say they are a bit like having a big glass of wine. I love them, everything is perfectly manageable having consumed one. ANYWAY, my driving licence was expired, but I didn’t think that would matter because it still had my photo and date of birth on it. It did matter, guys, it mattered a lot. I told you about all their technology. Well, they don’t just check your ID at the door, they scan it. When they scanned mine, it flashed red on the man’s stupid machine.
‘You can’t come in,’ he told me, LOVING IT. He was young and very cool, and he knew how cool he was because he was on the door of a fancy weed shop in Beverley Hills. To him, I imagine, it doesn’t get cooler than that. (I annoyingly need to admit that he was quite cool.) ANYWAY, I said but look, I am married (flash my ring), I’m forty, and that is my ID – I’m just waiting for my new one to arrive.
He said no.
I asked him again. ‘Oh come on, I’m in the system, I’ve been before.’
‘No.’
‘Please, I just drove here, the traffic was awful. I don’t have time to come back.’
‘No.’
And then I acted like an actual crazy person and really pissed him off.
‘PLEASE,’ I screeched a little too loudly. ‘I HAVE TWO CHILDREN.’
He did not sympathise with my plight.
I haven’t been back since.
Luckily, there is a delivery service. It’s best I just stay home when I’ve run out of gummies.
My one complaint about the whole industry is the lack of information on what each piece of candy contains. The weed is measured in mgs, but who the hell knows what that means. If I eat this, will I be able to look after my kids, or will I lie on my bed for three hours watching koala bears jump out of the wall?
For me, the weed has been the perfect lockdown solution. I’m not sure if I would have needed it if I hadn’t begun lockdown in the emotional turmoil that I was in, but I was, and I did. So that is that. It got me through it.
Beyond lockdown, however, this really isn’t my party drug (these days that’s tequila). It’s just for me at home, possibly with a small group of good friends. I had a bad experience last year where I made a monumental tit of myself and since then have realised that if I want to be good in a crowd, marijuana is not the one. We were at a party and it was late. I’d eaten quite a strong gummy (5mg – too much for me) and I’d knocked back a few troughs of Whispering Angel (LETHAL). Chris and I popped outside for some air and got chatting with a friend. Moments later, two beautiful women approached us, one of whom, I got the impression, was quite well known. It turned out the two women were married and had two children together. We all shared stories of their cuteness and it was going very well, but then I decided to make a joke.
Art, my eldest, had red hair until he was three. It was amazing and I loved it and hoped it would stick around forever, but now it’s more of a strawberry blonde. Anyway, sometimes I make jokes about it and on this night, I really FUCKING went for it.
‘Yeah, I used to pretend he wasn’t mine,’ I lol’d. ‘I rolled in that childcare until his hair sorted itself out,’ I guffawed. I was unstoppable. I was being so funny, hilarious. Which meant it was weird that no one else was laughing. I could feel my friend’s hard stare penetrating me, Chris’s nails digging firmly into my arm. In the dim lights of the night air, a ginger hue started to glow on the gorgeous lady’s head. She was the reddest of the red. Apparently a very famous redhead, actually. With very red-headed kids. When I realised, I panicked for a split second. But that didn’t stop me. No no, not after those 5mgs of THC. I carried on, and on. I was, in no uncertain terms, being a total asshole, but I wasn’t in control of it. It was like my mouth was one of those machines that spits out tennis balls, but instead of balls, all that flew out were insults. It didn’t take long for them to make their excuses and say they needed to get home to relieve the babysitter, to which I yelled after them, ‘I bet you do, you saucy minx!’
I know.
No, really, I know.
I woke up the next morning riven with shame. I couldn’t understand how I’d managed to make such a mess of what could have been a perfectly pleasant encounter. I was so embarrassed. Horrified, in fact. Chris tried to make me feel better about it, but the words he couldn’t bring himself to say were ‘Oh it was fine.’ It wasn’t fine. I am an animal.
I felt I really needed to make things better, so I acquired her email address and wrote a heartfelt apology. I explained that I’m a mum of two who was tired and took a strong gummy, drank too much and that I am not usually so horrendous. I took full responsibility for being awful and told her not to be afraid to come to work. I would not throw more insulting vernacular at her. I expected an immediate response.
Days went by. Nothing.
Weeks. Not a peep.
At the time of writing this, NO RESPONSE.
So that was that. It was as bad as I had imagined. I did my best to make it right, but I guess sometimes you just push someone a little too far. There wasn’t much more I could do. And then, a few weeks later I was dropping my kid off at school and there she was dropping hers. AT THE SAME SCHOOL. I mean, what the hell are the chances? On top of that, I noticed another child with her. The same age as Valentine. So they will almost certainly be in the same class when they start next year. Can someone please explain to me why the universe does this to good people? I SAID I WAS SORRY.
Anyway, the lesson here is; don’t take anything that turns you into a lunatic and never make jokes about redheads even if your son is one and you think you have a ticket to do so. You don’t.
I’m wondering if maybe home-schooling Valentine isn’t such a bad idea after all?