So, Wiggles has discovered the joys of marijuana. Finally.
Although she came of age during the late `60s and early `70s, Wiggles adamantly stayed away from smoking pot all through high school, instead preferring to walk an invisible circular maze in her bedroom while listening to the quintessential J-umverate of Joni (Mitchell), Joan (Baez) and Judy (Collins). On the other hand, I spent my high school career assiduously firing up one-person bowls every day after school. Once sufficiently sozzled, I’d make a chocolate ice cream soda and watch reruns of “One Day at a Time.”
When Wiggs would come home from college, she’d gasp in amazement that my brother and I were actually allowed to get high in the house. “At least it’s better than them smoking somewhere outside, where it’s dangerous!” Bob and Jeanne rationalized. But they also thought they were cool. Very Cool. As in, when I was in 10th grade, my friend Liz and I got ripped out of our minds one Saturday night before B&J were taking us out for Chinese food. As we staggered down the stairs to the foyer, giggling and trying desperately to appear not high (“Imagine your desk is a mess and you’re cleaning it up,” my friend Marina had advised in 9th grade), Bob took one look at us and said, “Rocky Mountain High!” Then he winked like a maniac and wiggled his eyebrows as if to say, “You are super-groovy with me, girls!”
Liz and I dissolved into nearly-uncontrollable laughter (so much for the clean desk, Marina) and then, once at the restaurant, proceeded to order every sparerib, dumpling and pu-pu platter on the menu, while Jeanne looked on, beaming with pride at our “appetites.”
It’s been a LONG time since I waggled the weed, but I am delighted that my sister has discovered its benefits.