VEGAS CANNABIS // #702VCM //
A POTHEAD HOUSEWIFE
he was living the dream. A beautiful home located in one of California’s beach cities. After ten years, she’s almost jaded to her exposure of the broad and expansive views from high atop her 3,500 square foot home. A place where sky-blue waves roll and playfully slap the sandy shore, while seagulls, surfers and sailboats weave patterns of movement, like dancers across the foamy peaks of the Pacific Ocean. Starr’s eyes take in these sights each and every time she walks out her front door, her son’s preschool, even her local grocery store, as was the case on this particular day. With baby-bag over one shoulder, handbag over the other and arms full of grocery bags, she was barely aware of this visual feast for the eyes, care of God’s handiwork on one of His best days. It was winter with only a strip of sunlight breaking through the clouds. Still, Starr did not take notice of the ocean below or the spectacular formation of geese flying overhead as that ray of sunlight ricocheted off the water to the billowy clouds to the tips of the birds’ extended wings. Instead, she focused on preparing for her visit with a dear friend. One that would end quite unexpectedly. January 10: My husband’s business is growing. As a successful financial consultant his travel and time away from home has also grown. It’s up to me to oversee the running of our household. It’s me who creates budgets, pays bills, and sees to it we are prepared for those rainy days. I’m the one who sets plans and goals for our future as well as making all arrangements for family trips and vacations. I attend most back-to-school nights solo. I transport our three children to and from school, practices, games, and recitals with seeming ease and grace. All my friends and family say; Starr is organized. Starr is strong. Starr is capable. Starr says she’s sick and tired. January 20: I’ve been making an effort to surround myself with other adults, to avoid becoming one of those women who speak baby-talk to pretty much everyone, all the time. But even my adult conversations are beginning to border on the mundane. The discussions at play group are always the same. How many times can we talk about kids, money, husbands, home repairs, babysitters, housekeepers and of course; sex? Though I love my friends, I’ve grown weary of them all. Except Bridgette, “the wild one,” as my husband refers to her. Currently on her third marriage with four children, two from the first husband, two from the second, she recently lamented husband number three is now vying for an offspring of his own. Now that’s something interesting. Wonder what Bridge is going to do. January 27: Went to Bridgette’s yesterday, where I’ve been hanging out most Mondays. Our recent conversations have focused on her struggle with whether or not to get pregnant again at forty-two.
By Deborah Costella
While she’s satisfied with her four girls, her husband hasn’t eased up pressuring her for a boy. During our visit I wrote the pluses and minuses while Bridgette ruminated about her life as it was, is and could be. The length and depth of our conversations have been enhanced by the several glasses of Almond champagne we’ve taken to drinking. Think I overdid it. Had to come home and lay on the couch (without actually napping) so I could clear my head in order to prepare dinner for Brent and the kids. I have to admit, the afternoons of drinking and talking seem to help smooth some of the edges off my own increasing restlessness. I can’t say I’m unhappy, more, out of sorts. I’m yelling at the kids more often, frequently losing my temper over the smallest things. I’m just so overwhelmed by the day to day living that has become my life. And memory loss! I’m forgetting everything, from keys to debit cards to shoes. Last month I left Kyle sleeping in his car-seat in the garage for several hours before realizing it had been sometime since he’s tugged on my leg requesting a cup of juice or water. And the fatigue; I’m so tired all the time. Every night I fall into bed but toss and turn then, wake up tired again. January 28: This morning I went to the kitchen to brew coffee. Suddenly the smell of those wonderfully dark, roasted beans in the grinder made me so sick I nearly threw up on my slippers. I decided to brew myself a cup of green tea instead. I didn’t say anything to Brent, but as soon as I got the girls off to school, I grabbed Kyle and hustled over to Bridgette’s with one of those home pregnancy tests I had sitting in the medicine cabinet. When I told Bridge my concern, she stood up, walked out of the room and came back holding the same box. She purchased hers yesterday. Together, we went into the bathroom and took turns peeing. Both strips were positive. Unbeknownst to either of us, while we were enjoying those Almond champagne afternoons, contemplating whether or not Bridge should have another baby, we were both pregnant! March 2: Today, I watched my two eldest children run and skip their way to the minivan. The eldest pushing the stroller carrying my twenty-two month old son, while the younger of them struggled to balance and heave forward the overflowing grocery cart. A comical sight. I lagged behind like a burdened pack mule, resigning myself to waddle my way from point A to point B, since I’m pregnant again. In spite of my condition, I continue to work hard to keep a fine house, and maintain a well-cared for home and family. Why just last week one of my friends from down the street, stopped by for a cup of my famous French press, brewed coffee and homemade orange-cinnamon rolls. She had commented on how clean and well kept my house was. “In fact, Starr, your house is so clean it doesn’t even look like any children live here!” I beamed with pride at this and thanked her for saying so.
February 2018 Issue 41