Medical Marijuana, My New Bestie

Part 1: We Meet

A backstory can sometimes be boring so in order to spare my young adult children this boredom, I’m going to omit detailing some things in my past that might seem relevant to an essay about marijuana. They’ve asked about my past, of course, but I know they’re just doing it to be polite. They are well-raised, sweet, and nosy as hell. I don’t think that they really want to know, so why expound on that stuff? You know, stuff like the 33 year old undergraduate I often visited in his hazy basement room (tunnel) at the University of Sussex. It’s probably fair to say the university had “lost track” of him and he was just living there. It was the 80s, who knows what was going on?All of the times I visited, I never got a good look at him because the room was so smoky. I would just see this reddish beard and these incredibly white legs in crumpled knee socks and worn leather sandals moving across the room. I’ve told my kids that I was going over there for calculus tutoring and I am certain this is true though I can’t exactly recall. Another thing my kids wouldn’t be interested in reading about is that time in Amsterdam. Any of it. Or that time their father and I were driving around Tucson at 2 a.m. looking for something to do. All I can say is that everything we did seemed like a good idea at the time. We are in the here and now, the year is 2015 and I’m going to tell you about me and my new best friend, medical marijuana.

After an extensive physical exam which consisted of walking to the counter at the clinic and saying, “I need a medical marijuana card,” I got a medical marijuana card. May I present my bona fides: neck surgery, delivery of three babies, surgeries on both feet, eyeglasses since 2nd grade, I’m hairy, have very long arms, a poor sense of direction and cannot, for the life of me, stop myself from watching the Republican Presidential debates. ALL of these things can be helped with medical marijuana.

For the unanointed, there’s the weed that your hella unreliable cousin Dookey has and then there’s medical marijuana. Dookey’s weed is similar to the pot my UBER driver was smoking just before he picked me up and the reason he was blasting “Hotline Bling” the whole ride. Medicinal strains take it to a whole other level. Employees at a reputable dispensary know their stuff. They’ll ask what ails you and give sound advice. My personal issue is that I don’t understand a word they’re saying so I’ve devised a system of keeping it simple: buy the weed with the best names. I thought names for lipsticks and race horses were cool, but these names are downright delightful! There’s “Lemonhead Double Threat”, “Purple Bubble Gum Shatter”, and “Polar Dawg” to name a few. There are edibles of all sorts so I bought some cookies in addition to weed because, I reasoned, I like sweets. Neck pain? Gone. Insomnia? Zzzzzzzz. Hairy with long arms? You’ll be hairy with long arms but you won’t care. The Republican debates? OK, I can’t say it helps. During the last debate, I noted, about twelve times, how chapped Donald Trump’s lips always are. This then turned into how I thought he’d benefit from having his whole body rubbed down with petroleum jelly. By the time the next debate rolls around, he’d have a nice, moist glow. I expressed a strong desire to slap that look off of Ted Cruz’s face, but I realized it was just his face so I’d actually have to slap his face off which I kept explaining to anyone who would listen. I wondered how many Goo wax grams Ben Carson had already had, but I wonder that during every debate. Does it help? You be the judge.

Part 2: Besties Go Out!

This picture might be me after my first therapeutic treatment.


Let me explain.

This was after a walk to and from the grocery store during which, I am certain, the store was moved several times. The walk takes 10 minutes. On that day, I swear it took friggin’ 45 minutes because I kept taking like, 20 steps, and I’d be in front of the same house I’d just passed 5 minutes before! Why did someone keep moving the damn store!

On the way back, I spotted a neighbor. I don’t know her well at all but we’d chatted a couple of times. I knew it was her because she bears a striking resemblance to the actor Brian Dennehy. Seriously, put Dennehy in a tight, short dress, pastel lipstick and bangles and it’s my neighbor. Brian Dennehy could kidnap her, transport her to a remote location, move into her house and her husband would never know the difference.

Anyway, I spot her about half a block away and decide, with my sharp as a tack medical marijuana decision making skills, that pulling up my hood and cinching it around my neck – I’m also wearing the biggest pair of black sunglasses Prada makes – would make me somewhat less noticeable. The only other thing, I reason, that could make me even less noticeable would be to start running, then walking, running, then walking, all the while laughing and yelling, “Is it obvious?” to my daughter who had walked the one hundred miles with me to the store.

The picture above is after that walk. I was physically and mentally exhausted. Unfortunately for me, though I had made it home, we had a major remodel underway and about three minutes after this picture was taken, one of the sub-contractors needed to talk to me. It went like this:

Sub: “We don’t need all of the lumber we ordered to finish the trim work, so we’ll just send it back and get credited. We have too much.”

Me (hood up, sunglasses on inside the house): “OK. Do you have enough wood to finish the trim though?”

Sub: “Yeah. We have too much.”

Me: “For the trim?”

Sub: “Yes.”

Me: “So, you’re going to send some back.”

This state of mind lasted for one and a half days. I went to bed and woke up high. No neck pain, no insomnia, feet nice and flexible but …wow. Bestie and I need to talk.

Part 3: Craziest Bestie Ever

Let’s try a cookie. Just two nibbles. Two nom noms. You know that drug they’re always using in movies that completely paralyzes your body? You’re conscious, your eyes can move but the serial killer has you tied up and there’s nothing you can do about? Yeah, that one. I don’t know what that drug is but if it isn’t available, a medical weed cookie will do. My intention was to treat the cracking in my neck. The outcome was me sitting on the couch only able to move my eyes.  My daughter, yes, the same one from the previous thing, kept saying, “Mom, are you OK? You’re good right? Yeah, you’re good.” This only made everything thing in the entire world WORSE and I became paranoid that I was going to stay like this forever. This would then motivate me to jump up and run around the house in an attempt to do…I don’t know…run around the house. Later, I ate a bunch of food and watched televangelist huckster preacher, Peter Popoff. I noticed that there’s a typo in one of his advertisements. Peter, you spell “pressure” like I just did. It does not have an “a”. I used to win spelling bees which is probably why, even when I was that high, I spotted a typo during Popoff’s bullshit TV program. I see you, Peter Popoff, I SEE you through my “Bro Diesel” high, scamming all of those people and throwing their canes and walkers and shit across the auditorium and I don’t like it one bit especially since there were moments after I ate that cookie when a walker would have come in handy.

Part 4: I’m Not Giving Up on Us

Sometimes you suspect that your new best friend might be a bad influence but you don’t give up on them because to be honest, you like them anyway. Besides, maybe it’s me. I’m obviously miscalculating. Come to think of it, that isn’t my fault. I blame it on the metric system. I don’t get it. When the guy told me there were 5 grams in one cookie, it sounded to me like they had put marijuana sprinkles on top. Thus, my next move was to buy six of them. Not my fault.

Like any good relationship, it takes time to get your sea legs or in this case, to feel your legs and I’m willing to give this relationship time. A lot of it. Probably an infinite amount of time. I think the kind of time I’m talking about is called “forever”. I’m not going to quit you, best friend.