Christmas came early for some Coloradans this week. In case you’ve been holed up in your house with the last remaining stockpile of Twinkies and MeTV, on Monday, 12/10, it became official. The Centennial State became the Sensamilla State, only the second state in the country to blaze a brave new trail.

Sure, it may not have been the kind of “green industry” Gov. John Hickenlooper had in mind when touting economic development, but nonetheless, he signed Amendment 64 into law anyway. And while he did take his sweet time in getting around to it, he reportedly got it done before 4:20.

Granted, some of the logistics still need to be worked out, and we’re not entirely sure that the feds aren’t going to bust in and ruin the party, but in the meantime, let the good times roll. Or drink, vaporize, ingest or whatever it is they do these days.

See, while I fully support the right of grown adults to partake in a drug no more harmful, and even less in my view, than alcohol, I am a bit of a super novice when it comes to the weed. In fact, I am ashamed to say even my own mother, who I’m pretty sure wouldn’t know a bag of pot from a bag of oregano, knows more than I do.

“You’ll be able to grow up to six plants legally … ,” she gushed excitedly when news of the amendment hit, “right in your garden, next to the tomatoes.”

I had to admit, the thought of becoming a small-scale pot farmer held a certain novel attraction, mainly from the standpoint that it would be legal.
Back in the day, when I was living in Steamboat after college and deciding what to do with my life, my boyfriend at the time had already found his. Over the course of the winter, he cultivated a small cannabis jungle in his closet. This was no stoner ski bum experimenting with some swag seeds and Miracle-Gro, mind you. We’re talking civil engineering major with a firm grasp on horticulture. The boy couldn’t sew a patch on his ski pants to save his life, but when it came to the finer points of marijuana connoisseurship, he knew his stuff.

And while I can claim no real interest in the end product (no, really), I must say it was fascinating and almost endearing to watch him raise his seedlings, from spindly adolescents to blossoming adults. In fact, he even named a few he had grown especially fond of.

Alas, as is the case with most illegal activities that take place in a closet under a black light, the project never made it to see the light of day. A tragic gas leak that winter sent an entire downtown block up in smoke and firemen door to door in search of gas leaks. When he got the tip from his roommate that The Man was on the hunt, Farmer Ron scurried home from the ski shop in a panic. See, even if there was no telltale smell of natural gas to raise the suspicions of the authorities, the overwhelming stench of the green ladies in full bloom – which I sometimes swore I could smell from down the street – surely would.

Fortunately for Farmer Ron, he made it home before the long arm of the law could knock on his front door, and the ladies of the black light district were hastily flushed to a watery grave in the Yampa River. And other than some abnormally high electric bills, there was no harm, no foul.

Of course, there is also a practical side of the experimental garden plot – marijuana’s industrial sibling, the oft underappreciated and misunderstood hemp plant. Forget the legal convenience of high-grade grass, a friend of mine, a died-in-the-organic-wool hippie, literally cried with joy last week. Just think of the possibilities of Colorado’s other newest cash crop: hemp soaps, hemp fiber, hemp paper, hemp burgers, hemp biodiesel, she exuded, overcome with emotion.

Unfortunately, as we’ve also learned recently, not all aspirations are so altruistic. Take the two aspiring Betty Crockers at the University of Colorado who allegedly showed up for class last Friday with a seemingly innocent pan of brownies. Well, if you are at all familiar with CU, I’m sure you can surmise what happened next. Which is good, because for several of the students’ peers, including the instructor, things got a little hazy. Suffice to say, the next day, three people had gone to the hospital and several more had complained of dizzy spells, lightheadedness, confusion, anxiety attacks and nausea. As for the “bakers,” they definitely were not laughing over the prank, which landed them overnight accommodations at Boulder County Jail and a slew of felony charges.

Of course, I like to think anything made by college kids and passed off as “edible” should immediately be suspect. Especially brownies decorated in Kit Kat bars, spelling out the name of the class (which for the record was a history class. Go figure it wasn’t organic chem – you’d think those kids would at least know proper proportions to save everyone a trip to the emergency room.) Despite these apparent red flags, I guess there’s no telling what you’ll eat if you’re hungry, bored and/or already stoned enough.

But there is one thing for sure. This isn’t John Denver’s “Rocky Mountain High.” In fact, it’s not even Cheech and Chong’s “Sweet Dreams” (although Tommy Chong recently claimed in an NPR interview he was planning to move to the state.)

We’re scaling new highs here; sewing new seeds; hoeing a new row. Which means there will likely be a few missteps along the way and even a few that stray into illegal activity – like dosing the entire class.

Fortunately, next to our rugged individualism, we Coloradans excel at self reliance. Like taking a stand against heavy-handed pot laws and allowing, once and for all, everyone to come out of the grow closet. After all, anything – even Twinkies – can be dangerous, lethal even, when consumed to excess.

But hopefully, when the smoke clears, common sense will prevail. And if ever in doubt, never take a brownie from a stranger.

– Missy Votel