The Time I Ate a Hash Cookie and Missed the Olympics

Photo by Margo Amala on Unsplash

hen the 2010 Olympic Winter Games came to Vancouver, there was lots of excitement about getting over to experience it, since — much like the turn of the millennium or 2017’s total solar eclipse — you might never get a chance to experience something like this again in your lifetime.

I was 26 years old at the time of Vancouver 2010. My sister was 24 and lived with a roommate smack dab in the centre of downtown Vancouver.

My fiance, best friend and I caught the ferry from Vancouver Island on a Friday night amid the two weeks’ festivities, taking advantage of the 90-minute crossing to covertly suck back a concession-bought Pepsi spiked with Bacardi Dark.

By the time my sister and her boyfriend had picked us up and brought us back to the apartment, we were determined to keep the party going before venturing out into the celebrations.

After a short time, my sister’s boyfriend brought out a plate of homemade peanut butter cookies he explained were infused with hash.

“How much hash?” we queried.

“Oh, like a decent amount. I don’t know.”

“But how strong?” we pressed.

“Like decently strong, I guess.”

At the time, I smoked pot pretty regularly (we had, in fact, been passing around the bong prior to the cookies appearing), but my experience with edibles was marginal, at best.

My fiance (now husband), on the other hand, had not had any desire to smoke pot since high school.

Peanut butter cookies are his topmost favourite treat, however, and after half a two-six of Bacardi Black, he was not about to let anything stand in his way.

We split the cookies in half and tentatively chewed, the sweet, dense dough tinged with just a subtle skunkiness. The plan was to wait about a half hour or so for the cookie to kick in, then head out to explore the sights.

Of the five of us, the only one really accustomed to the effects of edibles was my sister’s boyfriend. I suspect this also made his tolerance significantly higher than the rest of us, which means we probably shouldn’t have used him as a gauge to decide if the cookies were working.

And we definitely shouldn’t have listened to his suggestion that we eat another half, “just to make sure.”

ere’s what I remember of my Vancouver 2010 experience:

Within approximately 30 minutes of consuming the second half of the cookie, the five of us were next-level, full-tilt, wholly-fucking-shit high.

At first, everything was hilarious.

We decided to think ahead and get our beds ready for the night, for after we returned from our adventure. The hand pump we were using was called a “Double Quick III”, the name written in bold, red letters down its side.

“Wait, wait — ,” we paused. “If it’s twice as fast, times three, wouldn’t that make it six times as fast as the original?”

“No, no, I think it means, like…it’s, like, the third edition of the Double Quick. It’s a better version of the Double Quick I and II!” we howled.

“You guys! You guys!” alerted my sister’s boyfriend, clutching his chest. “I think I just had a mini heart attack.”

At this point, my dear fiance had been missing in action. I was too preoccupied with my own state of affairs to have noticed until we spotted him emerge from the bathroom with a stunned look on his face and disappear into my sister’s room directly across the hall.

When I got up to investigate, I discovered him laying flat out on my sister’s bed, virtually catatonic. After trying unsuccessfully to coax some words out of him, I got up and ventured into the bathroom where I discovered my fiance, my love, had projectile vomited around the whole 360 degree perimeter.

He’d probably not appreciate the fact of me sharing this, but I’ll even the score by confessing that a couple years prior, we’d been celebrating Thanksgiving dinner with a group of friends, during which time I got a bit carried away with the boxed red.

I probably would’ve managed the wine relatively fine, but against my better judgment, I decided to smoke half a joint to my face once we’d got home. Fast forward to 15 minutes later, and I was sitting on the toilet mid-pee when I suddenly began vomiting red wine all over the floor of our half bath (and all over myself, inevitably).

My addled brain refused to comprehend the sight of so much red, so that when my love came to attend to my sorry ass, I looked at him and asked, “Am I bleeding from the inside?”

And so it was that when I discovered my darling fiance had sullied the toilet and walls (and shower curtain and tub) of my sister’s bathroom, I had little choice but to accept the karmic reality of the situation.

Except, have you ever been high as fuck trying to scrub a vomit-glazed bathroom while you, yourself, try everything in your might not to add the contents of your own stomach to the mix and oh god, what cruel universe is this?

unsurprisingly did not leave the apartment that night. When we woke up the next morning we were still feeling the effects of the cookies, which is why we spent the better part of the day stretched out on the sofa, half-dazed and watching the events unfold on T.V. instead of mustering the energy to make it outside for the real thing.

But alas, the drive for food got the better of us. We stumbled into the crisp February sunshine like hermits emerging from their caves and found our way into a nearby Greek restaurant where we inhaled pitas stuffed with creamy tzatziki.

We declared, “I feel better. I feel more normal, less high.”

This assertion was likely just relative to our degree of high-ness during the previous 12 hours, because even though we did in fact finally make it downtown to walk the crowded streets, I could hardly make sense of the chaos blurring around us.

There are photos proving that we were present for Vancouver 2010 — pictures snapped at the Robson Square Ice Rink and in front of the Olympic Cauldron. In every single one, our eyes are bloodshot and puffy.

We made an effort to keep our experiences to ourselves.

“How was it?” asked friends and coworkers.

“Great. Like, so great,” we’d reply.

At least what we could remember of it.

“We’re all mad here.” Just another 30-something elder millennial writing from the heart about whatever. Oversharing is my specialty.

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