She's baaaack! We like our cannabis columnist's girlfriend's writing so much that we had to bring you another one this week. Enjoy, canna-lovelies!
As my boyfriend recovers from his newest self-designed cannabis challenge, AKA "How Many Marijuana Gummies Can I Fit in My Mouth at One Time?"
(Answer: 28, and also, why babe? Why?), I've been asked to take over this week's column.
Look, I'll be honest: I'm not a big pothead, but I live with one. And I'm often asked what it's like to be the girlfriend of someone so immersed in the wide, wide world of weed.
"Immersed" is an apt term. If Josh and I were hamsters, weed would be our wood shavings. There is weed everyfuckingwhere. And by that, I mean you can open any drawer, box, cabinet, Sterilite tub, suitcase, or duffle bag and find some form of weed. I'm fairly certain that glass jars of various sizes are breeding like rabbits while we sleep. If there's a flat surface at our place, it's ripe for the placement of weed—most likely already ground up. Which is awesome for our two cats, who have zero concerns about walking through piles of ground-up weed.
The jars. Dear god, there are so many jars, in so many sizes, filled with so many types of weed. All labeled clearly and lined up by date, right? No. Nooooo, quite the opposite. Last week, I asked what was in a jar that had burst forth from one of our overstuffed cabinets. Captain Chronic peered at it for a long moment and solemnly responded, "I think it's weed, babe." You... don't... say.
How is all of this weed consumed? Through vaporizers. But if you think a single vape would suffice, I'm afraid you'd be quite wrong. No, we have an entire eight-cube Ikea structure—the kind used by normal people to store things like records or books—that's filled with all manner of tabletop and portable vapes. And, of course, their corresponding power cords, carrying cases, spare parts, cleaning tools, and printed instructions. Again, are these labeled? Organized? In any semblance of order? Survey says: No. Josh calls it the "Hall of Fame." I call it the "The Thing Most Likely to Fall and Kill Us in an Earthquake."
There are also the academic journals, i.e., the 15-year-old issues of High Times, Skunk, Weed World, plus shelves of books on how to grow, medical uses for cannabis and more than a dozen volumes on cannabis cooking.
These have been very useful in helping my own Bernie Crocker whip up batch after batch of his weed-infused edibles, which I admit have been quite tasty. What these creations have not been? Marked in any way as being weed-infused. Anytime I find something homemade on the counter, I'm now conditioned to automatically ask, "Is there weed in this? Seriously, is there?" Maybe that's paranoid on my part, but you try consuming 500 milligrams of THC when you thought you were eating a freshly made cookie, and let me know if I'm paranoid. Yes, I'm paranoid—THAT'S WHAT A HUGE ACCIDENTAL DOSE OF THC DOES TO A NORMAL PERSON.
Last weekend, Josh had to sample 31 different strains as an "Expert Judge" for a weed event. I was given the enviable task of jotting down his musings as he vaped all 31 strains at three different temperatures. "This one tastes like... lemons. This one tastes like fuel. This one tastes like fuel, perhaps made from... lemons." Oh, does it now?
To be fair, the term "canna widow" doesn't quite apply to me; he's not dead, at least not yet. As Josh likes to point out, no one EVER dies from over-consumption of cannabis (point taken, babe). And thank god, because at the rate he consumes it, I'd have him on a death watch for sure.