#/charging stuff using a neighbor's generator but there's a good chance the electricity will be coming back to my buildinng soon :')

[meadowlarksabove]

🌺 send this to ten muns you think are wonderful!! 🌺 :)c

!!!!

aaaa!!!! Thank you for making this last year so special and full of creativity! I'm so very glad we met and I hope this new year brings you good fortune!

[vividentropy]

Entry #1

The Entries Catalog | Monday, July 8, 2024

12:36 PM

I finally got my ass out of bed. Today, Hurricane Beryl decided to make its way here. We have no electricity, so I have no idea when this will be posted.

At least I charged my laptop so I can at least write what’s been going on. The back door suddenly opened from the wind. I ran over there to close and lock it. Figured my dad could just knock the shit out of the door when he needed to go in, but mom said to leave it unlocked and just make sure it was closed well. So, I did that. Then I told my cat he was a good boy for not running outside when the door was wide open. See, he’s a retired veteran from the outdoors. Usually, he would sprint the moment he sees his chance to relive his younger years but not this time. I take it the wind was too intimidating for him. I still called him a good boy for not running out.

My family got lucky. All we’re getting is high winds and no electricity. Some areas north and west of ours got flooding and worse damage. Don’t even want to think of the areas south of us. My far neighbor’s tree got split in half with some of the branches on top of the car. Three small parts of the fence in our backyard got toppled down. Those won’t be repaired until my parents come back from their trip. I can hear the rumble of a generator from a neighbor in another street. I wonder how they got their generator set up. It always powers on immediately when there’s no power and off when there is. I’ll ask my dad one day.

Currently, my mom is making homemade chili. We have a gas stove, so we can still cook food. We also have plenty of water. My family uses this water service this for our water dispenser thingy upstairs. They send several three-gallon things of water. I have some right now. My dad is working on our generator, wondering when my brother will get up. My mom is back to crocheting a shirt and my sis is reading this book on seeds. My cat is just laying on the floor all cute and stuff.

I’m not gonna lie, it is a tad humid in here. Thankfully, the sun is covered by the clouds, so we aren’t dying of the heat, but we do have light to see.  I do have a handheld fan that I’ll grab in a second. That and more water since I’m thirsty as fuck.

Off in the distance I hear someone using a chainsaw. Probably to cut down the tree branches they can cut off. That’s wild, to be honest. The wind is strong enough to push me aside like tumbleweed. I have to use force to push the door shut. It’s not as bad as Harvey or Ike (I do recall with Ike that the wind being so strong I could see the wind punching the door partially open). But I know there’s still others less fortunate out there than I.

Anyways, to better things.

Yesterday, I downloaded FFXIV Online. I downloaded the free trial. Definitely did not expect it to take over six hours to download, but it did. I spent all that time waiting watching YouTube videos from AstralSpiff and Chickeninja42. The moment everything was done downloading, I hopped on the game. I only got as far as character creation. Which is not far, to be honest. But I did finish the character! I customized her the same way as I do in every video game that I own that has character customization - white hair, red eyes, fair skin, and some muscle. Her hair had to pulled back. Funny enough, choosing the voice I wanted for her took longer than anything else. It was great having my sister helping me out though. Not that she plays the game, but I like having her input. If I have time and electricity, I’ll put a picture of her below this paragraph.

[I am absolutely not in my computer to screenshot. RIP.]

I hope we get electricity back soon, but my gut tells me it’ll be a good while before it comes back. Maybe tomorrow morning. Will I even work tomorrow?

Eyyy, my brother finally made it downstairs. I’ll take it as my cue to go write or do something else. Cause, to be honest, I can only type as long as this laptop battery will last me.

5:41 PM

Electricity isn’t back yet. I’ve spent the last several hours napping my life away after I ate. For some reason the tiredness washed over me. Could keep my eyes open. So far, my phone is on 80% because I haven’t been using it. I need to remember to call my boyfriend later because I want to hear his voice. We won’t be able to FaceTime today which sucks but that’s okay. I need him to know that I’m alright. I mean, he knows I’m okay, but I want him to hear it out of my mouth.

The sky is blue. Like nothing ever happened. My mom stuck her tongue out at it.

I did finally wash my hair. I didn’t put conditioner, just leave-in. My lower back pain flared up which made me cut my wash time in half. Let’s see how long my hair lasts. For now, I’ll just sit here and talk to my mom and sister.

7:10 PM

My dad and brother got the generator working. It’s working upstairs for sure. Got my phone charging. I think they’re trying to get the refrigerator and freezer to turn on. I’m just saying, we can do without the TV. And we could just keep the power downstairs instead of both. I can sleep on the floor that’s chill.

For now, my mom is going to find something for us to eat. I am going to try to cool down some more. All I want is to cool down. At least the A/C is on so the upstairs can cool down. There’s nothing much else to say.

I did talk to my boyfriend on the phone for a little bit, but the call dropped. It was nice hearing his voice. He’s more freaked out than me, but in his defense, I’m used to this.

Just talked to bro. He said the freezer and fridge are working. He’s going to turn off the A/C because we don’t have enough gas. That’s cool, to be honest. We can survive the heat for a little while. It could always be worse. I have my handheld fan, it’ll be okay.

8:11 PM

WE GOT POWER BACK, BABY! Wifi isn’t working but honestly, I don’t care.

I’d like to thank the hard workers who oversee the electricity shit because I know they’ve been working nonstop. I also like to thank my boyfriend for being patient with me. Honestly, just give it up to the electricians who were working honestly all-day getting shit done.

Now, I have to be real, I’m probably one of the lucky ones. While the storm was only during the day, there’s probably still well over a million people without power. I hope they get theirs soon. For now, I’m going to finally relax, maybe take a cup of decaf coffee, and continue playing minesweeper for the rest of the night. Hey, I might even get on YouTube. I’ll see what I’ll do.

Until next time,

Vivid Entropy

[brandyllyn]

In our own image...(05)

Chapter 5

(Poe Dameron x OFC)

Other chapters... My Masterlist

Word count: 2600. Read it on AO3.

Rating: Teen & Up (PG). some talk of past fears/trauma (from canon).

Poe was jealous. He was man enough to admit it. Good old fashioned jealousy pumped through his veins as he sat in the Command center. It wasn’t logical. It was deep, centered in his chest and spreading out through his body until his fists clenched.

He was jealous of Rey.

She wasn’t forced to sit through endless strategy meetings. She didn’t have to listen as people droned on about dwindling supplies and troop recruitment. She didn’t have to pretend to be awake when Commander D’acy went over the base’s security protocols for the third time in as many days.

Next to him, Finn was struggling to stay awake as well and Poe reached out and kicked him with one foot. Finn lurched upright, "What?"

"It sounds like Finn is volunteering, Commander." Poe said in a quick clip, trying to hide his smile.

"I did? I am?" Finn mumbled, trying to look like he hadn’t just been woken up.

"Good to hear," Leia said with a smile, raising an eyebrow and winking at Poe as she turned away. Poe grinned back as the other officers broke into smaller groups.

"What did you just volunteer me for?" Finn whisper shouted at him.

"Cavern scouting," Poe whispered back.

"Cavern… as in underground?" Finn gasped, shock on his face. "Poe how could you?"

Poe snorted. "That’s what you get for falling asleep. Have fun with the lokka worms."

"What’s a lokka worm?" Finn called after him but Poe had seen Leia nod his way and was already halfway across the room.

"Yes General?"

"Go find Rey for me, I need to speak with her," Leia told him, leaning away from the people she was talking with. Poe couldn’t help a small sigh of relief. Leia rolled her eyes, "Wipe that look off your face. I’ll start to think you don’t like spending time with me."

"Yes ma’am," he saluted, smiling at her before turning on his heel and exiting. Finn glared as he walked by, deep in conversation with Commander D’acy.

Poe skidded to a stop at the edge of the tent covering Command. He’d been able to hear the rain but seeing it was another matter. It was coming down in sheets, wind blowing the water up ten to twenty feet inside the Command structure. Had he remembered to batten down his bunk? He wasn’t sure. Well, it was on his way to the Falcon so he might as well stop by on his way. He zipped his jacket up and ducked out into the downpour.

Luck was with him as his bunk was dry and tight. But it was the only piece of luck he had. The Falcon was empty save for Chewie who was re-running some electrical wiring.

"Hey, do you know where Rey is?" Poe asked.

"Gwwrrgghh," Chewie rumbled back and Poe groaned.

"The Droidsmith? All the way across the…" he sighed, "of course."

He stood at the hatchway on the Falcon for a moment. It was really wet out. As he looked, a flash of lightning lit the surroundings and a moment later he heard the loud crash of thunder. No matter how long they were on Ajan Kloss, he didn’t think he’d ever get used to these storms. They were beneficial, the large amounts of electrical energy shielded the base from radar and the rain kept them supplied in seemingly endless fresh water. But also it just made everything wet and sticky all the time.

Grunting, he shook the water out of his hair and plotted a path from the Falcon to the Droidsmith. There were several tarps set up between where he was and there, even a few trees that might give shelter for a moment. Provided he didn’t slip and fall on his ass. Saying a quick prayer he darted for the first shelter, barely hearing the squelch of his boots in the mud.

Miraculously, he made it to the workshop without incident, stepping inside and shaking himself off as best he could as he looked around. There was no one in the front of the shop, not even the little translator droid came out to meet him.

"Rey?" Poe peered into the workshop. He could see lanterns swaying in the high wind, hear the howl as it moved around the outside of the large tent. "Rey?" A soft beep echoed and Poe saw BB-8 for just a moment before the droid slipped under a nearby table, disappearing into the back of the shop.

Poe moved around the crates, noting that there were now two hammocks strung up in the back room. Had she taken on a roommate? Thunder rolled through the structure again and Poe felt the ground cover shift beneath his boots.

"Rey?" He called again, pushing past a set of wheels hanging in a chain from the roof posts.

A low whistle and he turned the corner to see BB-8, sitting next to a table. "Hey buddy, is she here?"

BB-8 turned his photoreceptor up to look at Poe, then rolled forward slightly and Poe realized that he could see Rey’s shoes under the edge of the table. He walked over and squatted down, "Rey?"

"Shh," Rey held a hand up, eyes darting to the woman next to her. The Droidsmith was curled up in a ball, sitting back on her haunches with her arms wrapped around her legs and her face buried between her knees. She didn’t acknowledge his presence, only shivered when a crack of lightning lit up the night air.

Poe raised an eyebrow and Rey gave him a small smile. "I’m keeping her company."

"The General needs you," Poe told her and saw the concerned look that Rey gave the Droidsmith. Without thinking he said, "I’ll stay with her."

Rey’s eyes shot back to him, and he noted the slight hint of dubiousness. "Do you even know each other?"

Poe huffed a laugh, "Yeah, we’ve met. She worked on Beebs remembers?"

Rey still looked hesitant, "Are you sure Poe…?"

Poe held his hand out, pulling Rey out from under the table and then hauling her to her feet. "I promise I’ll stay until the storm ends or you come back."

Rey nodded, eyes darting on the table once more before she squatted down and laid a hand on the other woman’s arm. "I have to go. But my friend will stay here with you. Okay?"

The Droidsmith didn’t respond and Rey gave him one last look turning to go.

"Wait," Poe reached out, catching her arm, "Where’s the little translator droid? K-0?"

Rey shrugged,"I don’t know, I haven’t seen it." Then she was gone.

Poe looked at the table, at the small space and obviously uncomfortably hard ground cover. He shrugged out of his jacket, dropping the sodden leather across the worktable. He was mostly dry beneath it, even if his bottom half was soaked through. Groaning, he squatted down, and then folded his body into the space Rey had just vacated. He cursed, trying to fit his shoulders in without jarring the woman next to him, but after a minute of squirming he had managed to stuff himself into the small area. He was bigger than Rey, and despite his efforts to give the Droidsmith room his hip and shoulder were pressed to hers.

"Well this is going to be interesting. You can’t understand me and I can’t understand you," he started conversationally, folding his hands over his chest. "Maybe that’s for the best. I have a tendency to stick my foot in my mouth where you’re concerned."

She didn’t respond and he settled deeper under the table, stretching his legs out in front of him. "So you don’t like storms huh? I was never particularly fond of them myself growing up. Storms meant I couldn’t fly and there was nothing I hated more than not being able to fly."

BB-8 flashed a questioning light at him and he nodded, gesturing with his head to the Droidsmith. Thankfully, his friend took his meaning and Poe felt the woman shift slightly when BB-8 pushed himself into the space on her other side. Now she was snug, between his body and the droid. If Poe had been a betting man he’d have said she probably drew more comfort from the BB unit than she did from him but he was okay with that. Thunder rolled through the tent and he heard her gasp in air.

"My mother used to tell me that storms were the souls of people who had passed on with something left to say." He kept his voice level, not even looking at her. Just having a conversation. "She said that every roll of thunder was someone making an announcement that they weren’t able to make before they passed."

As if on cue, a rumble of noise rolled across the two of them, making the spare parts on the table above shake. Poe smiled then frowned as she shivered next to him. "I don’t speak ghost but I think that was saying 'My daughter just graduated from flight school'." Another rumble, this one lower, not quite as loud, "That one is an older lady, she says her neighbor stole her jam recipe." He paused, cocking his head, "She’s pretty upset about it. I would be too. A really good jam is hard to find."

He sighed, resting his head back against the wall of crates behind them. "I asked my mom once what the lightning was. If the thunder was the voices of those gone, then surely lightning must have some mythic origin as well, you know? Do you know what she said?" He was speaking nonsense but it didn’t really matter since she couldn’t understand him anyway. "She said 'Poe Dameron' - that’s how I knew she was serious. She never called me by my full name unless she was serious." He paused, brow furrowed for a moment. "When she was really happy with me she’d call me Poe Bey. Those days I was only hers."

He could remember it. Remember his mom’s smile. The way she would laugh and show him the controls of the small transport. The day he’d successfully guided them out of a stall at six thousand feet without her help. He had been Poe Bey that day.

"I asked her about the lightning and she said 'those are electrical charges in the air connecting with the ground.' I don’t know why thunder has a story, but not lightning. I never had a chance to ask her." He took a deep breath, staring out from under the table, not that there was anything to stare at. He could feel a small puddle developing under him, where the water from his pants was collecting beneath him and he shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable.

And he kept talking.

"I used to not be scared of anything. Drove my dad up the wall. The number of times I came home with a broken bone or some weird bite because I had done something no one with a functioning sense of self-preservation would do… those were his words not mine by the way. I feel like I’m scared of everything now. No. Not everything. Just…" he sighed, watching the lights sway across from him. "Do you know what it’s like to be a grown man and be afraid of the dark? I have to sleep with a light on nearby. It’s ridiculous, I know. But… I was captured. A while back. Captured by the First Order. Maybe you heard about it… no. Sorry. You wouldn’t have. But anyway they caught me and … I’m supposed to be making you feel better so I won’t go into any details but ever since then I can’t stand the dark. I wonder if I had someone to share it with if it would be different, like you with the storm. It’s odd, isn’t it? How we can’t control the things that make us afraid. I guess if we could we’d be different people."

He stopped, skin jerking slightly at an unfamiliar sensation. It took him a second to realize she had turned, was leaning her head against his shoulder. She was still holding her knees tightly, but her whole body was tilted slightly toward him, her weight a steady presence. Cautiously, he lifted his arm and wrapped it over her, cupping her far shoulder and pulling her closer. She shivered against him but didn’t say anything. Didn’t pull away.

"You’re uh… you’re really pretty you know that? Sorry. Of course you know that. It’s just, I like looking at you. I don’t mean it in a creepy way. I just… I like looking at you. I like watching you work. I wish I could just hang out here with you, like Rey does. I’ve been by a couple of times. I don’t think you even noticed me though, you were caught up with the droids. Sometimes you bite your lip when you’re concentrating and I think about kissing you. Sorry. That’s not. I mean. Shit sorry."

Poe closed his eyes, leaning his head back again. Her weight was a solid next to him, grounding him even though he was the one holding her.

"Thank the Maker you can’t understand me right now. Everything I’m saying is trash by the way. If your little droid is listening, tell him not to translate any of this later. It’ll just be embarrassing for us both."

A bright light filled the tent, almost blinding him. Fuck, that lightning strike must have been - the noise that followed rattled Poe’s teeth, echoing around them like a cannon shot. She moved so fast he didn’t have time to react. One minute she was next to him and the next she was sideways in his lap, fingers curled into his shirt and face pressed to his chest. He shifted his weight, settling her between his thighs and then bracketing her with his legs, his arms wrapping around her and pulling her close.

He laid his cheek against her head, "It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. That was a close one but we’re still here. Nothing broken, nothing on fire. Right Beebs?" He waited for BB-8’s affirmative and then pressed a kiss to her hair. "We’re fine. I won’t let you go. As long as the lights stay on I can be your big strong protector. If they go out though, you’re going to have to trade places with me." He laughed at his own joke, running his hands soothingly up and down her spine. '

"This feels really nice," he murmured, "I know it shouldn’t. You’re obviously terrified and I promise you I wouldn’t dream of taking advantage. But it still feels nice. You smell nice too. Like honey and… grease? Okay, so that has no business being as sexy as it is. You have no business being as sexy as you are." The storm was passing, growing fainter. Whatever that last lightning strike had been it seemed to be one of the last. "I wish I could figure out how to talk to you. There’s something about your eyes that just make me… I know how to talk. Obviously. And I don’t even need participation to carry on a conversation. Again, obviously. But you look at me and I forget how words work. It’s annoying. Do you know what else is annoying? That you can understand my droid and not me. Don’t get me wrong, I love Beebs," he glanced over at his droid and BB-8 flashed a series of lights in return, "but it’s not fair that he can talk to you and I can’t."

He kept holding her as the storm passed. Kept talking to her, silly thoughts and bad jokes and stories from when he was learning to fly until he felt her breathing even out. Her hands relaxed slightly on his shirt and he felt it loosen across his shoulders. He kept holding her even as he felt himself drifting off, the gentle swaying lights and the sound of her breathing lulling him to sleep.

=

Chpt 6

[atomairbus1-blog]

Pot Is Super Popular Among My Fellow Boomers. So Why Can’t I Get on Board?

City

One of Philadelphia’s most celebrated novelists tries to rekindle the spark.

Turns out, plenty of Baby Boomers smoke marijuana. Photo illustration by C.J. Burton.

I’ve been doing the cha-cha with a novel I’m working on where the age-55-and-over main characters regularly smoke marijuana to get high. Really high. So much so that when I’m writing about them, whiffs of that unmistakable aroma akin to a rope on fire with a punch of wood and thyme rise from the page. I get giddy as I write, suddenly craving sweet ginger tea and crunchy carbohydrates as I pull down memories to authenticate the scenes, memories that have long lain dormant in the dusty attic of my brain.

I’m 14 or 15 again, riding up Montgomery Drive on a brilliant summer Sunday in the backseat of my father’s car, slightly nauseous from the smell of his cigar. Having been the victor in the tussle with my sisters for a coveted window seat, I lean my head out of the car as we curve around Montgomery and approach Belmont Plateau. I say I’m hanging out of the window to get relief from the cigar, but I’m really trying to catch a contact high from all that hippie hemp smoke (my mother’s term) informing the air around the plateau, which is already charged with the jolting sounds of electric guitars mixing with mellow vibes of Make love not war.

Or I land on that memory from 1973 when I went to see Pam Grier and her fabulous ’fro in the film Coffy. My date and I had gotten off the D bus, now the 21, at 18th and Chestnut and walked first through Rittenhouse Square to get a couple of hits of what we hoped would be “the killer,” our term for really potent weed. It did not disappoint. We laughed our way to 16th and Chestnut and into the movie theater. We settled in with butter-saturated popcorn and cherry Cokes that were heaven to the weed-altered palate and proceeded to tilt our heads in confusion as Barbra Streisand and Robert Redford commanded scene after scene. At what point would Pam Grier rush in and pull the weapons hidden in her enviable woolly hair and kill the drug dealers who’d messed up her sister? We wouldn’t be seeing it that night, because, high and discombobulated, we’d sauntered, not into the Duke, where Coffy was showing, but instead into The Way We Were, playing at the Regency next door.

That’s actually a timely recollection as I two-step through my novel-in-progress and consider my love affair with weed: how it changed as I did, and how the words to the title song of the movie I watched in reefer-fueled error — would we, could we referencing the chance to do it all again — shimmy in my head to the beat. The lyrics tantalize, as if egging me on to join the legions in my age group who would, could and are smoking, eating, sipping, spraying, rubbing on weed in any of its myriad forms. So many boomers, in fact, are getting high that according to recently released results of the National Survey on Drug Use and Health, marijuana consumption is as common among my generation as it is among teens! I would be in familiar company, then, should I decide to reintroduce a ganja-stuffed bowl to my recreational pursuits. But would I, could I, pull on a pipe, or joint, or bong, and hold it until I cough, and recapture the high-heady, floaty times of my youth?

•

I began smoking marijuana in earnest in the early ’70s. I was fresh on the University of Pennsylvania campus from my cloistered West Philadelphia neighborhood — where I’d been a glasses-wearing, youth-church-ushering, teacher’s-pet-type good girl — and smoking a joint was a way for me to dip my toe in the counterculture. My then-boyfriend knew people, and on Friday nights he’d bring me cheesesteaks from Jim’s, Boone’s Farm apple wine that his older brother procured at the state store on Market Street above 40th, and a precious plastic baggie filled with a half-ounce of the most beautiful mix of brownish-green buds and twigs and seeds. I say precious because the half-ounce bag cost $20, and if there were several of us putting in, that could amount to more than five entire dollars fished from my very shallow stream of disposable funds.

Mythology had it that weed was legal on campus; it was not, of course, but I’d never heard of anyone getting arrested for smoking in Penn’s high-rise dorm. Still, out of an abundance of caution, we’d stuff a blanket in the slip of space under the door to keep the smoke from selling us out. We’d burn apple-scented incense, insisted upon by my non-weed-smoking friends, and then get down to the business of moistening sheets of Top paper to envelop the stogies we rolled. We’d toke and pass and toke and pass to the rhythm of Bloodstone crooning “Take to the sky on a natural high” (irony noted) until the munchies hit and the cheesesteaks were devoured and the table got cleared for marathon pinochle games interspersed with chatter about world affairs and campus gossip and how generally effed up everything was; or funny, hysterically so; or deep, too deep to dig, maybe, because much of the commentary was followed by Can you dig it?

I, for one, dug the weed. I much preferred the giggly high to the sloppy buzz of the cheap fruity wine, more a bring-down than a laugh-maker. And although the 1936 propaganda film Reefer Madness would have one believe that marijuana is highly addictive, I was never so ensnared that I suffered withdrawal when I was without it. Nor did I need to smoke increasing amounts to get that pleasurable feel of pings melting in my head. That sweet joint or hit from the bong or pull from the pipe was sufficient, my reward for getting through the week — or the day, depending on the day I’d had. Penn was hard, and I’m not talking academically, because the “heavy booking” — our term for studying — had been expected, accepted. The real energy-sapper was the constant stroking and kicking to keep from drowning in the high-tide oceans of whiteness and privilege. It was exhausting. Weed made it less so and was certainly preferable to the tranquilizers Student Health had prescribed for the tension headaches that befell me.

In a similar way, all of the inhaling a couple of years after college softened, if only a little, the jags of heartbreak and grief as I watched my mother die from esophageal cancer. My father would prepare lavish Sunday dinners in the weeks after her death, and his house would be overflowing with food and people, and at some point those of us so inclined would look at one another with subtle raises of eyebrows and casually move in the direction of the back of the house and into the yard, where a joint or two or three got quickly smoked. We’d make our way back inside, red-eyed and thumb-burned, laughing as we piled plates high with Dad’s signature bread pudding, swooning over how good it was. He must have known that I’d just been out in the yard getting high, likely in view of the neighbors, who’d talk. He never acknowledged it, never discouraged it. He was probably relieved that for the moment I seemed to hurt less, and if it was the result of the weed, so be it.

Then I stopped smoking abruptly, in my late 20s: Pregnant with twins, I put away my bong, my array of pipes, the Top papers, and expressions like Who’s got the killer? and What you got for the head? I needed to adult with clarity. Caffeine was my new go-to. Also new was my shifting attitude about getting high. This was now the early ’80s, when crack cocaine was beginning to thrash and burn its way through black communities, bombing out families. My sister lost a college friend to the epidemic — rumor had it that someone laced her marijuana with crack, addicting her. I witnessed a cherished friend descend into a heroin swamp — he didn’t die physically, but his potential died, his spirit. This was before all classes of white people became casualties of the opioid epidemic. Back then, there was no push for addiction to be recognized as a brain disorder. People afflicted with addiction were at best considered weaklings incapable of just saying no; at worst, dregs.

I never grew so callous as to fail to see the humanity of a person suffering from addiction, but my attitude toward highness was becoming, dare I say, conservative. So much so that I confess to being somewhat affected by that PSA that began airing regularly in 1987 that showed a hot skillet sizzling with butter, and then a voice-over warning This is drugs; a raw egg is then plopped into the skillet, and as the egg begins to quickly fry, the voice further intones, This is your brain on drugs. Any questions? A decade earlier, I might have said to the television, “Yes, I’ve got questions: Can you sprinkle a little salt and pepper on that, maybe a side of bacon with some cheese melted over the top, and slip it between two slices of pumpernickel?” The ad would have been worthy of such jokes to anyone who smoked as I did yet still moved through life with brain intact, synapses still firing. Also, the PSA didn’t distinguish the wide range of detrimental effects that lay between puffing on a marijuana-stuffed pipe and injecting heroin. Amazingly, I had begun to do the same thing. I lumped them all, weed, crack, heroin, LSD, speed; they were all tools the devil him/herself employed to establish a bona fide hell on earth. I was in good (horrible) company. The Controlled Substances Act signed into law by Richard Nixon had classified marijuana as a Schedule 1 drug, right up there with heroin, meaning that at the time, it was thought to be highly addictive and to have no medical value.

By the time my twins crossed over into adolescence, I had completely exchanged my laid-back attitude toward marijuana for mom pants and zero tolerance. I’d convinced myself that should my kids smoke weed, the results would be abysmal SAT scores, lackluster college admissions essays, the death of motivation. Forget inhaling; merely walking around with reefer might jeopardize their freedom. Especially my son’s, given that young black men were routinely being stopped and searched and, even when in possession of just tiny amounts of marijuana, finding themselves on the periphery of the modern-day slavery that is the criminal justice system. And I’m not being hyperbolic with the slavery reference; I watched Ava DuVernay’s documentary 13th.

•

Fast-forward to today: My kids didn’t go to jail, and my attitude toward marijuana has become nuanced once again, helped by all the related headlines that have managed to grab my attention from the horror show that is national politics: marijuana’s availability in the dispensaries that are popping up in the Philadelphia area like, well, weeds; its inchworm moves toward legalization here, where Mayor Kenney has called for green-lighting adult recreational use and having it sold in state stores; its medicinal use by people in my generation, who are increasingly lighting up or eating or rubbing on oils or swallowing pills containing weed derivatives to treat the chronic pain of rheumatoid arthritis or the nausea from cancer treatment, or to mitigate the symptoms of glaucoma or multiple sclerosis, or to reverse cognitive decline. Cognitive decline? I’d assumed that THC, the active ingredient in marijuana, caused that very condition. But an NIH-supported study found that cannabinoids may remove plaque-forming Alzheimer’s proteins from brain cells. And a headline in Scientific American blares out to me: “Marijuana May Boost, Rather Than Dull, the Elderly Brain.” Apparently, senior-citizen mice treated with THC improve on learning and memory tests — perhaps another reason the National Survey on Drug Use found that boomers are using as much pot as teens.

I’ve been fortunate so far in not needing medical marijuana for the host of maladies proponents claim it will help ease. But since I’m a writer, boosting the brain is something I’m definitely open to — even as I talk back to those “The Way We Were” lyrics stuck in my head and struggle with my reluctance to light up for the sole purpose of getting high.

Part of my resistance has to do with the inequity of it all — who benefits, who suffers. Take the hoopla over Elon Musk, billionaire CEO of Tesla and SpaceX, puffing on a joint on a live podcast. That’s some rich-white-male privilege on display, because even though recreational weed is legal in California, where he lit up, imagine the likes of rapper and criminal-justice-reform advocate Meek Mill, a black man, doing a similar thing. (By the way, Meek, please don’t try that here at home.) And then there’s former U.S. House Speaker John Boehner’s lightning-rod tweet months ago announcing that he was joining the board of Acreage Holdings, formerly (cutely) known as High Street Capital Partners, a marijuana processing and dispensing operation currently licensed to operate in 14 states and with plans to expand. He’d once famously said he was unalterably opposed to the legalization of marijuana. Now he claims that his thinking on marijuana has evolved. Sadly, his evolution can do nothing to evolve the criminal records of the countless young black men caught up in the system because they were stopped and frisked and found to be carrying maybe a single marijuana cigarette. I know a woman who had to shell out hundreds of dollars for legal representation for her college-student son, who was caught with paraphernalia that had trace amounts of weed. Trace amounts!

Another part of my resistance to getting high has to do with the learning curve. There are so many new-to-me ways to use marijuana now — edibles and oils and mists and capsules and tinctures and patches and creams. One can spray it like a breath freshener or consume it on a dissolvable strip. I shudder to think I might end up like New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd, who ingested a cannabis chocolate in a hotel room in Denver in 2014 and ended up curled on the bed for hours in a state that sounds more like a bad LSD trip. Do they still smoke plain old joints? Yes, according to a man I know who asked to remain anonymous — the only person who would even talk to me about still getting high once I disclosed that I was writing about my marijuana journey. He cautioned against buying it on the street the way he did years ago: “There’s nothing but crap out there,” he said, adding that his bud in New Jersey uses medical marijuana and the quality is much better than it used to be. He rushed to add that he himself, of course, would have no way of knowing other than what his “friend” has told him. Apparently his “friend’s” assessment would be correct. Generally, marijuana today is much more potent than it was when I was puffing away. Most of the weed that found its way to Penn’s Superblock in the ’70s had made a long, hot trek from places like Colombia, causing its potency to decline. Back then, the THC level might have been three percent. Today, it could be upward of 12. That sounds much stronger than the “killer” of years ago that sent me into the wrong movie.

A while back, I attended a dinner with people I knew from decades ago. Somewhere around dessert and coffee, a few of them disappeared from the table, but not before giving that slight raise of the eyebrow I’d used myself during my father’s back-in-the-day dinners. They met up with the rest of us later as we milled around outside; they were giddy with the type of laughter that scrunches the eyes practically shut. But it wasn’t just the laughter fusing their eyes. I joked that they smelled like 1975, even as I felt a swath of regret that I hadn’t joined them. Why didn’t I? I’m still asking myself.

I could validly claim any or all of the reasons my contemporaries have expressed for why they choose not to smoke weed: They stopped because of the children and never looked back; they live with or very close to someone recovering from addiction; they’re afraid of an adverse physical reaction; it feels immature at this age; wine is legal, and they’re not trying to break the law at this point in life. When I asked, “What if it was legal?” my sister Paula said, “If it’s legal, I mean, well, yeah, but only if it’s legal, not just decriminalized — fully legal at both the state and federal levels.”

And yet, the illegality is what enticed me all those years ago when I stuck my head out of the car window to gulp in the weed-tinged breeze moving through the be-in on Belmont Plateau. I got high on the anticipatory thrill of it before I ever smoked a joint. I was on the precipice of young adulthood. Marijuana wasn’t just about getting my head right, as we used to say about a good high. Marijuana also represented the revolution that was all around me, growing me up. I was doing this absolutely taboo thing — good-girl me — and that enhanced the pings firing and melting in my brain, getting me higher still. Smoking again would feel like desperately chasing a thrill that’s long gone because it should be gone, because it no longer serves a purpose.

So, for now, since the lyrics from “The Way We Were” are stuck in my head anyway, I’ll hum the part about memories lighting the corners of my mind, grateful to know that should those memories grow too dim from age-related cognitive decline, there will be the medically sanctioned option to swaddle crumpled buds of weed inside sheets of moistened Top paper and toke away.

Published as “Joint of No Return” in the February 2019 issue of Philadelphia magazine.

Source: https://www.phillymag.com/news/2019/01/26/baby-boomers-smoke-marijuana/

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You Need To Be In Control Of Your Personal Finances. Read How!

Dealing with personal finances is more than just dollars and cents. When you think about it, a lot of what it takes to manage money successfully comes down to common sense. Wisely managing your finances is a behavior that must be learned, often times, the hard way. Read this article to learn about the most efficient ways to manage your income and expenses.

Be aware of IRS income tax deadlines. For a faster refund, file as early as possible. If you owe the government money, file as close to the deadline as possible.

Do not make charges on a credit card that you are having trouble paying off. Go over your expenses and eliminate things that are not vital to your survival. Try to find another form of payment for the things that you really cannot live without. Pay off the full amount before you begin using it again. Afterwards, try to pay off the full amount every month to avoid interest charges.

Try to negotiate with debt collectors who are trying to get you to make payments. The debt collector company has bought your debt and will work with you to get at least some of your payment. They will make a profit even if you pay a percentage of your debt. This is a good strategy you can use to rid yourself of older debt less expensively.

Garage Sale

Holding a yard or garage sale is a great way to get rid of items that you no longer use and generate some additional income. If you want, you can also charge your neighbors a fee to sell their stuff at your sale as well. A person can be as imaginative as possible when holding a garage sale.

Switch out your old incandescent bulbs in favor of new, energy-efficient bulbs. Not only will you be lowering your electric bill as a result, but you will also be doing something good for the environment. Compact florescent bulbs last a lot longer than their predecessor. Also, you will be saving money by not having to constantly buy new bulbs.

Even if you buy grocery items at deep discounts, it’s pointless if they just spoil in your fridge. Stocking up on items you use regularly can save a lot of money, but only if you actually eat it all before it goes bad. So, to get the best deal when stocking up, be realistic and only buy as much as you can actually use.

Instead of trying to raise money to make a large purchase, consider enlisting the financial support of family members. If it’s something that the whole family could find a use for, like a new TV, then the family may be able to be convinced to put their money together.

If someone notices that they always have a left over dollar bill after paying for something, there may be a way to stretch that to have some fun and win some money. Use the dollar to by a lottery ticket, and there is always the chance for winning!

Give yourself a “pocket cash” allowance for small expenditures every month. You can use your cash allowance to reward yourself in whatever way you want, but you can’t spend more than your allowance. It’s a great way to allow yourself to have a little bit of fun without getting into your budget.

Keep an up to date filing system, saving all necessary financial documents that you need for filing income taxes. Keep all your important documents such as receipts or insurance papers in one file so you can access them easily.

Buy a store brand rather than a name brand. A lot of the costs associated with national brands go to funding the advertisements for their products. You can realize significant savings on the purchase of generic products. There’s seldom any difference when it comes to taste, quality or performance.

Speak with your friends and family about the situation that you are in and ask for their help. Doing so will help you feel less badly if you must decline invitations to go out. Not telling people about your financial problems may make them feel responsible for an awkward situation when you say no to hanging out. Keep your friends, just let them know what is going on in your life.

Give some serious thought to your feelings on financial issues. You are not going to be able to improve your overall personal financial situation until you understand different choices you’ve made about money. Sit and list what you truly believe about money, material items, and earning money; try to work out where your ideas came from. You can then keep going and making positive changes.

Personal finance is different, as it varies from one person to another and only you could determine which one would work for you. Now that you have learned new ways to manage your money, look for chances to put your knowledge to good use. If you want to have small reminders placed in strategic locations to help you better manage your money, then do it as quickly as possible. Using what you read here will give you great results!

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