My mother, ah. My mother. She never, ever listens to me.
About three years ago she went to visit me in Australia while I was studying abroad. I took her on a weekend trip to Byron Bay.
I had no idea there was a section on Byron Bay for the herbal aficionado or else you better be sure I wouldn’t have taken my MOTHER there. Our bus had to make a pit stop there before heading to the watering hole we were so anxiously looking forward to.
As soon as I made eye contact with someone rolling a joint I knew I had to keep my mother in the bus. All along hoping she would not notice the Marijuana Museum on her left or the café with a huge marijuana leaf on the glass window. I did everything to distract her. I offered her some tunes and even started confessing some behind-my-mother’s-back teenage stories but of course that didn’t work.
See, the thing with my mother is that she eats every two hours and does not gain one ounce. Still somehow, she is the most petite woman. Arms slender and short enough to get lost in a New York crowd all jam packed into her white Reebok sneakers.
So she turns and interrupts me by saying, “Ay, yo quiero un snack.” (translation: “Oh, I want a snack.”)
I say, “Mami, let’s wait until we get to the watering hole and eat our sandwiches.”
“No, ya vengo. Esperame aqui, quedate con las bolsas,” she says. (translation: No, I’ll be back, you wait for me here, watch the bags.”)
I saw her step into what looked like a supermarket and felt almost relieved. There certainly couldn’t be anything fishy in there. However, my mother must have strayed because when I turned around she was coming out of the marijuana café! All I kept thinking, was ‘holy crap, what did she get in there, I hope she didn’t buy a brownie.’
When I asked her why she went in there she said the supermarket didn’t have anything small to just carry in her purse. So she thought the café might have a pastry or something. We got back in the bus and on the road towards the watering hole.
When I looked at what she was eating it seemed okay, until a few moments later she said she felt funny.
“Ay, Yulissa, yo me sentio rara. Hehe,” my mom giggled. (translation: “Oh no, I feel strange.”)
“Hehe? Mami, what’s wrong?” I said.
She looked outside as if she were in a daze. Her eyes seemed cloudy. Then, she giggled again. But I didn’t say anything. Oh my god! My mother was HIGH! There must have been something in the trail mix. There had to be something in the trail mix. There was not a scenic route in the world that could make this woman that relaxed.
I immediately took the trail mix from her and asked the driver if the cafés put marijuana in the trail mix and he smirked and said, “They put a lil’ mary jane in everything around here, ha! Don’t tell me your mother bought something here!?”
Now, came the difficult part-actually telling my mother that she was feeling rara (translation: strange) because she was high. Oh god. Why me.
I reluctantly say to her, “Mami, yo creo que habia marijuana en el trail mix.” (translation: Mom, I think there was marijuana in the trail mix.”)
“Como!? Ay, Yulissa no me digas eso. Oh my god!” she responded. (translation: What!? Oh, Yulissa, don’t tell me that. Oh my god!”)
Moments later there was an awkward silence in the air and then I couldn’t help it. I had to. I burst out laughing! My mother turned red with embarrassment and slapped my arm. She didn’t want anyone to find out. Two hours went by and when we arrived the watering hole my mother seemed like she was back to normal. But whenever I bring up that trail mix she shoots me the look. You know what look I’m talking about. The “you better not saying anything look or I’m gonna lose it look.” Ah, denial.
My mother made me promise not to tell anyone on the bus what had happened-technically I kept my promise. It’s times like these I am glad my mother has no idea I have this blog. Ha!
