I Can’t Feel My Toes!

“Okay. There are four pot cookies and there are five of us,” I told my friends as we drove Satan’s Subaru down to Rosarito Beach in Mexico. “If I split them up, we each may get a little bit of a buzz.” I took each cookie and divided it amongst the five girls, giving myself an extra bite of each cookie. Hey, they’re my cookies. I earned them.

Two nights before I was working at a 50’s restaurant in the Hillcrest area of San Diego when three hippie guys came in. They sat in the downstairs area near the host stand where I was working and we proceeded to chat about this, that, and some other stuff. After their meal was up they asked me if I wanted to come over to a party they were having at their house.
“Hell yeah, can I bring some friends?” I asked.
“The more the merrier,” Hippie #1 told me, writing down his address.
When we got off of work, my girlfriends and I made our way to the hippies’ apartment, which was very near the restaurant. Not knowing I was going to be attending a soirée I had to wear what I wore to work, which was a black poodle skirt, pink shirt, and saddle shoes. My girlfriends were smarter than I was and had extra clothes in their lockers at work. Bitches.

We entered the apartment and there were about 20 people all hanging out, talking and drinking like grown ups. The apartment had a very coffee house vibe to it, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if Jazz started playing and someone broke out into a poetic rant. Right when we walked in the door I immediately got a contact high from all the pot that was being smoked. No wonder everyone was so mellow. I got a couple of funny looks for my outfit but I was welcomed with open arms. Being as I was living on campus at San Diego State at the time I thought I had stepped into the Twilight Zone. There were no kegs, no one was puking, and no obnoxious fraternity guys. Where the hell was I? My friends made a beeline for the booze and I met up with the hippies I had met earlier. “Want to smoke a bowl?” Hippie #1 asked me.
“Uh, yeah,” I said. Free pot. What was he thinking? So we went out onto the balcony and the four of us just sat in lawn chairs and smoked for what felt like hours. It was a good thing we were out there talking for as long as we were because we solved all the mysteries of the universe. All four of us are now wanted by different branches of the government and have had to change our identities for fear they will try and steal our secrets.

My girlfriends got tossed and it was time to get the drunken twins home so I had to say goodbye to my new friends. As I was leaving, Hippie #2 called me into the kitchen. “Open up your hand,” he said. So I did. In my hand he placed a zip lock bag with four chocolate chip cookies in it. “Eat them all yourself,” he told me, “these are my special brew and your friends won’t appreciate them.” I thanked him, gave all three hippies a hug, stashed my bag o cookies in my purse, and headed for home.

I actually had no intention of sharing my little treasure, but the last thing I wanted was to try and cross the border with pot cookies in my possession. So what the hell? I passed them out and told the girls that we probably didn’t even eat enough to notice it. We waited in the line to get into Mexico. Yes, sometimes you actually have to wait to get into Mexico. After we finally got through we drove a couple of feet and the car broke down. Are you serious? The car couldn’t break down on the American side of the border? It has to break down on the Mexican side of the border. Of course. So there we were with traffic backed up behind us and we now had to push our cookie eating asses further into Mexico. We finally got over to the side of the road when some Mexican hero stopped to help us out. It probably didn’t hurt that we are all in our early 20’s and cute. If that were to happen now, we would most likely get pelted with Chiclets, while people yell at us, “get out of the street you old Hags!!”

So our hero tinkered with the engine and the next thing we knew we were up and running and on our way to Papa’s and Beer in Rosarito. “Do you feel anything? Because I think I feel something…” My friend Michelle said from the backseat.
“You’re just being paranoid,” I told her. “There is no way it could have gotten into your system that fast.”
“No. Seriously, you guys, I think I feel something,” she said. Her eyes were now the size of silver dollars. None of the rest of us felt anything. 20 minutes later, Michelle’s buzz had progressed to pure panic. “I’m not kidding you guys. This is not funny. I’m totally losing it. I can’t feel my toes!” Michelle informed us. She proceeded to climb over Shannon so that she could sit next to a window. She then rolled down the window and stuck her head outside to get some air. She looked like a stoned Labrador.

By the time we pulled into the Papa’s and Beer parking lot, Michelle’s panic had progressed to hysterical laughter. Julie was trying to talk her down.
“Okay Michelle, they are not going to let us in here if you keep laughing like that.”
“Maybe we should get her some food,” Amy piped up.
“No- Bwah-hha-ha-ha-ha! I’m fine,” she snorted, doubled over with tears running down her face. “Seriously you guys I’m to-o-o-o-o-o-otally fine.”
I didn’t understand how this could happen. I ate more than any of them and I didn’t feel a thing. Michelle finally pulled her shit together long enough for us to get in Papa’s and once inside we were fine.

For those of you who have never been to a Papa’s and Beer, it’s a huge outdoor bar in Rosarito, with a giant sand dance floor. As usual, it was so packed full of drunken idiots that nobody even noticed Michelle’s laughing. We all got lucky and got there early enough to get a table and ordered our first round of Coronas and tequila shots. About that time, I felt the biggest smile spread across my face and my eyes turned into tiny little slits. “Hey you guys,” I whispered, “I’m so stoned.” I looked around the table and by the glazed looks in my friends’ faces I knew I wasn’t the only one. Damn these cookies were good!

It didn’t take us long before we had a table of older guys buying us drinks. The drinks just kept coming and coming. That’s when things started to get a little bit fuzzy. All I remember is that the girls were dancing and everyone was having a great time. I got up and went out to the dance floor and broke into my best rendition of the robot. I vaguely remember some really large guy trying to dance with me. But he was also dancing with a chair at the same time. Not wanting to get between him and the chair (I’m a lot of things but a home-wrecker is not one of them), I moved away from him and came face to face with a beautiful blonde surfer. He was my height (bonus!) tan, had blue eyes and long white-blonde hair. We danced a little and made out a lot.

As the night was coming to a close my friend Shannon hosed us both off and we had to part ways. “I’m going to miss him so much,” I slurred, as I was ushered out of the bar by my friends. “He’s The One.” Luckily our driver hardly drank anything and got all us girls home safely and I poured myself into bed.

The next morning I got a knock on my dorm room door. I opened it to reveal The Sexy Mr. X, my on-again, off-again boyfriend. “Did you have a good time in Mexico last night?” he asked with a smirk.
“Uh, yeah,” I said. Like I was going to give up any more information than absolutely necessary.
“That’s good,” he said. “Do you know a Jason by any chance?”
“Jason? Jason… Nope. No Jasons. Why?”
“Because there’s a blonde surfer-looking dude who’s been in the lobby all night. He slept here on one of the couches and he’s out there right now asking everyone about you.”
“YOU’RE SHITTING ME!” I exclaimed. “Please, please don’t tell him I’m here! Please!”

Mr. X and I weren’t exclusive, so he couldn’t really be too pissed, but I could tell he wasn’t too happy, either.
“I don’t know why I do these things for you,” he told me, shaking his head in disapproval. Now Jason could have easily found my room but we had security doors on the end of each hall that separated the residential wings from the lobby. So unless someone let him in, he couldn’t get to me. Problem was, the only way out was through the lobby and he had me trapped. Also the bathroom was down the hall and I needed to use it. He could easily see me through the glass window in the door.

“Oh my God, I’m so screwed,” I told my roommate.
“You did this shit to yourself,’ she said. That was just like Satan. You share your pot cookies with her and she gives you no sympathy when you need it.
“I have to pee so bad,” I said while holding my legs together and rocking back and forth. Funny how a full bladder can inspire brilliance. I grabbed a towel, wrapped it around my hair, and threw on a bathrobe. Then I looked down the hall and out the tiny glass window into the lobby. No Jason. I made a break for it. Bladder empty and teeth brushed, my mission was complete.

After about three hours, one hangover, and two cups of Top Ramen (because Satan refused to go get me a burrito), Mr. X came back in to inform me that the coast was clear. I felt bad for ditching Jason. Sure I’m flattered that I affected him in such a way that he was willing to stalk me. But I think he could have just asked for my number. I never saw the three hippies again and I’m starting to wonder if they were just a wonderful, beautiful figment of my imagination. They came in and out of my life so quickly and then they just “poof” disappeared into a cloud of very expensive, very chronic smoke. To this day, those were the best damn cookies I’ve ever eaten.

Love it? Hate it? Let me know! Send questions, comments, brownie recipes or random brainfarts to: mrsdiagnosed@yahoo.com

One Response to “I Can’t Feel My Toes!”

  1. Ahh, thanks for clarifying the whole Papas & Beer thing. Again, having been deprived of SoCal until my early 30’s, I missed out on a lot of this stuff. But I see the bumper stickers all the time!

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