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A Baked Chicken

Right. Well. That wasn’t a very good idea now, was it?

After weeks of anticipation, yesterday made its appearance. We had dozens of pumpkins to paint, a pinata, – we even filled it with candy! We had a scarecrow walking around telling the worse Halloween and scarecrow jokes you have ever heard. Photos were being taken and we had a pirate who had a lobster dog – it was all great fun.

Thursday, everything was on track. The Atrium was being decorated, the pumpkins had been washed and moved inside, we had a crew venturing out to pick up the pinata and some black paint on Friday morning. It was all going to be fine and ready to start at 4.

Oh wait, except for the part where there was no advertising. $30 for posters and hand bills out the window since none of them were put up. Then there was the arrival at 2 of our scarecrow who said that they were unable to find a scare-crow costume, so there would be no scare crow to take photos with, and they didn’t have time to stop and get candy for the pinata, and there were no bean-bags for the bean bag toss.

Ok, the posters might be a slight exaggeration, but they weren’t as sufficiently scattered throughout the county as I had anticipated and hoped.

Did I mention we have three things for small children to do??? Bean bag toss through a pumpkin, pinata, paint a pumpkin, and get a picture with a scarecrow???

Here’s a couple of things you might want to know about this place:

It’s freaking beautiful. It’s a coffee shop with a Japanese style Garden in the back. It’s not even a mile from the beach, and it’s at the base of one of the most beautiful drives you have ever taken. We are about two miles from a town called Edison, which is an artsy biker town – village really, if America had villages – five miles from Bow, which is actually just a casino and a gas station, 17 miles from Bellingham, an actual town, and 10 miles from Burlington, another actual town. These last two towns are the kind of towns with several post offices, and have at least one college, if not three and a University, contain all the big stores and so on.

So, being the problem solver I am, I abandon my post and dash off to get candy and bean-bags from Burlington, and a heater because that Atrium is not insulated and we live in the Pacific North West and we have been locked in fog for days. We are at sea level – might even be below it, I am not sure, but fog – lots of it and thick.

I returned with 45 minutes to spare before the event started, still no scarecrow, I see the pots of paint that were donated for pumpkin painting and they are tiny – I don’t even know what else was bugging me – but I was some how very angry. So I took my lunch, grabbed my boyfriend (who also works here), and we went to hide in the groundskeeper’s house (open door policy) while we ate. Except there was no peace and quiet. I endured. I began to tell my boyfriend what was getting me all riled up, and all I was hearing was “you didn’t put any one on as project manager, I was telling you these things were going to go wrong days ago and you didn’t do anything about it; You should have anticipated this; why didn’t you prepare for this -” and so on. He got a phone call then. I put my sandwich next to his and sat outside on the back porch and just breathed for a little while.

Ten minutes might have gone by, or 30 seconds – I don’t know. But I emerged to make sure things were handling. They figured out a way to dress the scarecrow, (He made a pretty great one, and played his part quite well) though some other things were going wrong – I don’t even remember what it was. I asked Toby, my boyfriend, what he did with the sandwiches. Nothing.

It was the straw that broke the scarecrow’s back – or camel, I suppose, since I wasn’t stuffed with straw. The sandwiches that were nothing more than our lunch, were still sitting in the house, un-put away.

It was more than just food being left out. It was that I felt like I have to be every one’s mother. I have to look after every one, remind Toby of everything before he leaves the house, remind him to call back so and so, remind him to get food and eat, and it was the same thing for the event – I had a list of things to be accomplished, I assigned tasks to people, and it wasn’t done – because, as Toby so graciously pointed out, I wasn’t hovering over everyone and checking up and being their mother (ok, so he didn’t say it that way, I did). Why am I task force at home, and at work? Can’t I just worry about looking after myself for a moment and know that other people have the sense to get their own things done without me mothering them? I have not committed to breeding at 26 for a reason!

So I hid. I went and sat in the office and vowed I would eat whoever’s head popped through those doors next like I would a gummy bear.

During this time, Toby’s dad had arrived, Barb, his mom was working, and his sister and nieces had arrived as well. I knew this. And I continued to hide. I didn’t have it in me to be friendly. I couldn’t make myself be the pleasant person that truly, wholely enjoys each of their company.

Me hiding was the best option for everyone, really.

Luckily, it was Danny that popped through, the pirate with the lobster dog. She let me rant at her for a moment, then handed me her pen. It made the world better. Then good. Then too good. Then – oh damn, I had toppled over the edge! Too gone! Too gone!

Her pen was actually an O. Pen Vape pen. This is a device that is very much like E-Ciggs, but instead of some disgusting tobacco juice in the cartridge (I’m looking at that word, and not seeing is spelled correctly. Is that really how it’s spelled?), it is a concentrated cannabis oil. Toby had offered me some earlier, but I turned it down. They usually have no effect on me.

But while I was ranting at poor Danny, distracted by my own rage and hand gesturing, she handed me the thing – and I have this terrible trait which allows me to turn down cannabis until I am distracted, and if I am distracted then my high-school me reaches out of my body and consumes it in some manner. It is not uncommon for most of my highs to be accidental. And this is what happened yesterday.

My high-school self reached out of my chest and shoved the pen into my mouth and forced me to inhale deeply – very deeply – three or four times. I became aware of this, and stepped outside to exhale, and watched the massive plume of smoke escape my lungs and realized just what I was in for.

And then I was baked. Very very stoned. I had been in an oven at 350 degrees for 20 minutes and basted – I was baked.

So I hid.

Just for a little longer.

I finally got up my gumption to go into the world. It didn’t take long before my boyfriend’s mom was in my face telling me I bought the wrong pain brushes and I should have known that they wouldn’t work, and how are the kids supposed to do detailed pumpkin painting with those giant things we bought and –

I looked at her. I gave her a penetrating look which I don’t know translated as I hoped it would, turned and walked away, back to the office.

My head was reeling as to why we chose the paint brushes we did – that they were easy to clean, we didn’t have the funds for nice brushes – we didn’t even have the funds for good paints! We were at the dollar store getting what we could.

It all really just boiled down to how I didn’t organize this event right.

I sat in the office and cooled off for a moment, then came walking back out, ready to face every one.

“Really?” she asked as I meandered over.

“What?” I asked.

“You’re walking like a stork,” she told me.

I thought I had been walking the way I walk when I am cold and have my hands in my pockets. So I turned back to the office, and hid, conscious of each step that I took and whether or not it made my head bobble.

I’ll make this story go a bit quicker – every time I came back outside, I was criticized or made fun of, and not in the ways which I can usually laugh at myself about, so I turned and went inside to hide. I was one raw and exposed nerve in a tooth that kept getting poked. I am not generally so sensitive, but today was just different.

This carried on for about 4 hours.

It was a day when internally I was ragging on myself for not making it perfect, for not being 4 different people, for not putting the posters and the hand bills out, and then further scolding myself for getting so high.

Our work is extremely 420 friendly – it’s almost an requirement, really. But generally I refrain. Where as I used to be that kid in high school that “could always be higher”, today I like to be functional, which is an ability I quickly lose when I have a toke. So I wait until I’m at home, and even then I don’t like to smoke too much, or consume in any way. But I always make sure that I keep it separate from work, because I am such a dysfunctional stoner. And yesterday, I broke that rule, and showed everyone why it is my rule.

But even my boss told me it was fine, that I, of all people yesterday, needed it.

I wanted to come home and have several glasses of wine and go to bed.

Instead I ate a horrific amount of food (so much for the weight loss plan, but gad-damn the munchies devour my self-control before everything else in the house!), had one glass of wine and a couple bites of some severely dark chocolate, became upset at my boyfriend when he tried to put on Raising Hope (I refuse to watch that show – aside from a select few, babies and children scare me, and I don’t enjoy watching things revolving around them. It kind of freaks me out!), and went to bed.

The good news is, the fog burned off this morning, and the sun rising painted my kitchen that burnt orange color I love so much. I might be productive this morning and clean the kitchen, fold some towels, put things away. Or I might just simply make some tea and find a book to read.

If I didn’t have to be to work in an hour, I might just sit back and smoke a bowl.

PS if you’re wondering why there was no mention of chicken in this entry even though it was called “baked chicken” – I Am the Baked Chicken

 
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Posted by on October 26, 2013 in Pot, wine

 

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