The Marijuanalogues

Clever title! And all I can see when I read it is “anal.”

Good Sunday evening to you all. I hope your weekend was lovely and the icy grips of reality that tomorrow is Monday doesn’t vex you too much. But hey! Short week! Thanksgiving! Celebrate mass genocide with gluttony! It’s the American Way! I’m a snarky so-and-so!

I don’t know why I decided to write on this topic, but I’m going to write on this topic and probably go off on some long-winded rant and get way off topic, like I do. I just want to write on my laptop since it’s been gone for two weeks due to repairs and I wanted to give the ol’ girl a spin to make sure she’s functioning properly.

And away I go!

Marijuana. Pot. Ganja. The Sticky Icky. Wacky Tobacky. Smokin’ a J. Whatever you call it, I want you to know that I hate it. I fucking detest pot to my very core. The skunky, acrid smell of it by the hooligans who sneak it in to concerts to heighten their music experience make shivers go down my spine.

I would be remiss and a massive hypocrite to omit the fact that I have smoke pot five times in my life, and honestly, I hated every single time. Why did I try it the other four times, then? Good question, and my feeble answer is peer pressure. No kidding. It isn’t just a thing made up by after-school specials.

Also, let me get this out of the way, as well: I also understand the hypocrisy I have towards it because I drink alcohol, a substance that also alters one’s mood/behavior/used as an emotional crutch/terrible method of coping.

I also think the stuff should be legalized. I’ve read many articles on its medicinal purposes, and my family and I actually tried to convince my father to try it when he was in his last stages of terminal cancer (he declined).

So what’s my big fucking deal with it? I thought you’d never ask!

My big fucking deal with pot is personal, and I know how well anecdotal evidence for something isn’t effective in topics such as this, but this is my post, so I’ll dote on the anec all I want.

I hate pot because my ex-husband was a chronic (no pun intended) pot smoker. When we were dating, I honestly had no idea he smoked until we were several months into our relationship, which looking back now, I’m like, “really, Erin? No idea?” He was the quintessential and stereotypical bluntman. His red eyes weren’t from allergies, honey. The small glass pipe he kept in the front pocket of his military-style jacket wasn’t for tobacco, sweetie. Him saying, “oh, I smoke every now and again” response when you asked him how often he did after you did find out wasn’t the truth, pumpkin.

He hid his smoking spectacularly well for a few years after we got married. We had been lawfully wedded for about four years before I found out he smoked regularly. I had been cleaning our apartment and one of our washcloths was in a drawer in a side table in the living room. It looked dirty, so I picked it up to toss it in the dirty laundry pile when the smell hit me. I took a bigger whiff and was almost knocked over by the stench. There was a lighter, but he smoked cigarettes on occasion, so that didn’t phase me, but what the good-god hell was this foul-smelling washcloth for?

He got home from work and I asked him about it. His face turned red and he stammered out a barely audible reply of “I blow smoke into it…”

“You what?”

“When I smoke. I blow into the washcloth so you can’t smell it.”

“You smoke in the house?!” I was incredulous at this point. And, because I was innocent and naive as fuck, I immediately thought the cops were going to burst through the front door and arrest us both: him for smoking pot, me for being an accomplice to it.

Turns out my darling husband never told me the truth about his pot smoking, or how often he did, or that he fucking smoked in our apartment. I also don’t remember being that upset about it or with him. I think my exact words were, “dude, you don’t have to hide it from me.” Wife of the Year, folks.

Another hindsight moment is he used to hang out regularly with a guy who smoked constantly. In fact, the first time I met the guy, he offered me a hit off of his bong after asking if I was “cool.” Again, being naive as fuck, and thinking he was asking about my character, not if I was okay with people getting high around me. I laughed and said, “yeah, I’m totally cool!” Oh, precious Erin.

Honestly, not realizing the full scope of how often my then-husband smoked, I didn’t raise too big of a fuss about it after I discovered the vile washcloth. Perhaps I should have.

A few years of our marriage went by and things changed between us for various reasons. He took to being away from home a lot more than he used to, sometimes not coming home until 3 or 4 a.m, or mid-morning the next day. This is where it was tricky being his wife: we only had one cell phone and more often than not, it got left at home with me. His friends’ numbers were in it, but I didn’t want to be the uncool, nagging wife who called his pals to find out where he was. Besides, I got used to being alone. We never really did much together anyway–I did all the grocery shopping because he hated it, I cleaned, did laundry, made us food…gosh, I really had it made, didn’t I? Boy howdy! What a terrific relationship!

I digress. Anyway, we just had separate lives. He did his thing, I did mine. When we split up and agreed to meet to discuss our future, if it was worth fighting for and working on or not, he said something to me that made zero sense at the time, but makes perfect sense now: “we’re too codependent.” What? How can that be? We literally are never together! How can we be dependent on each other? Again, I am a precious angel to pure for this world. Codependency is his relying on me to have stable, steady job so he could do what he wanted. I relied on having to take care of him, even though he wasn’t there. I always made sure he was fed, had clean clothes to wear, had cash with him at all times, etc.

We ended up separating in July 2010 for various reasons that we deemed not worth fixing. He moved out of the house we were renting and I stayed there, which again, goddamn fucking hindsight because his best friend lived next door to us, so he would be next door all the time, something I didn’t realize until whenever I would be outside with the dog and it would start freaking out by jumping on the chain link fence between the two properties. Again, sorry for getting off track.

Fast forward a few months after he moved out and I get a phone call from his older sister. He had been in a bicycle accident and was in the hospital due to his injuries. I freaked out. I didn’t know if I should go to the hospital or not. He’d been gone for three months. Was he my responsibility anymore? No, he wasn’t. But…I still cared about him, so I ended up going.

He had been riding his bike late the night before and was on one of the bike paths when he had a head-on collision with another bicyclist. My ex didn’t have any lights, nor was he wearing a helmet, so when he and the other guy crashed, he got thrown off his bike and landed face first on the pavement, busting his face up and giving himself a concussion. Oh, and he had pot on his person, so when the police and ambulance came to his aid, he also got a ticket for possession. Classic.

He had to spend two days in the hospital for observation after his concussion and since he had been under the influence of both pot and booze during the crash, he had to visit with a social worker before he was discharged home. I was there with him in his room when the guy came in to talk to J and I asked if he wanted me to leave or stick around. He asked me to stay. Okay.

I am both glad I stayed and also wish to the stars that I hadn’t. The social worker asked him about his pot use, how often he did it (a few times a day), and if he thought it had caused any issues with his relationships.


I about flew up off the uncomfortable chair I had been sitting on.

You dumb motherfucker. Really? Your daily pot use, several times a day, had no effect on your relationships? I could have killed him. I wanted to kill him. Killing him would have been so satisfying…illegal, but satisfying.

In that moment, I realized why we were getting divorced. The very reason why we were in our current state was almost a year prior, his hours at work got cut back. He’d send me a text around noon while I was at work, saying he was home for the day and he was going to play video games for a while, then head next door, or over to his other friend’s house, aka I’m going to smoke weed for the rest of the day. Our boiling point came the day where I had finally reached my limit and asked him what he was going to do about this job situation. I don’t think I was overly nagging or being a total cunt about it; I simply asked him, “are you going to look for another job? Maybe a part-time job? Or what about going back to school like you’ve always talked about? You have to do something, J. We can’t survive very well when your paycheck got cut in half.”

You’d have thought I asked him to murder his entire family for me based on his reaction to me, which was to lock himself in our bedroom for the rest of the day, that night, and parts of the next day. So…that’s a “no” then?

So, for me to hear him then tell this social worker that pot wasn’t an issue, it made me irate. It made me despondent that once again, he was choosing pot over me, like he had been for years. It made me feel worthless, that maybe I am such a truly awful wife and companion that not even my own husband can stand to be around me for longer than a few hours a day that he has to leave and smoke pot as an escape from his horrible home life and the wicked woman he unfortunately married.

So, when the topic of marijuana comes up, you’ll have to forgive me for having a Vietnam-esque flashback moment. But again, I don’t give a shit if anyone else smokes it. If you can handle it and still be a functioning, productive member of society, toke it up, brother and/or sister. If you want to fill your bed with nothing but pot leaves so you can sleep on your weed, by golly, knock yourself out. If you want to fashion a suit out of leaves, weave a pot hat, and drive a car made out of pot, more power to you, friend. If you want to craft a family out of pot and take pictures of your pot family to hang over your mantel made of pot, be my guest.

Back in September of this year, Facebook reminded me that on September 12, 2012 we made our divorce official. I hadn’t heard from him in over two years, but that memory made me think about him. I don’t do the FB stalking thing. I had once after we divorced and found his profile, took one look and went “okay, nope,” and never searched for him again, but that day back in September, I felt myself be very curious as to his whereabouts. I ended up sending a message to his older sister asking how he was doing instead. I was hoping to hear great news from her, that he had gotten his life together, had gone back to school and was working as a graphic designer somewhere; that he had met someone and they were incredibly happy together, maybe engaged or even married with a kid on the way or something. I wanted to hear from her that he was thriving, that he had ditched his old ways and was such a different person.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get that news. She actually hadn’t heard from him in quite some time herself. He ignores her emails, phone calls, text, courier pigeons, and smoke signals. She thinks he still works at the same place he has for the last almost 10 years, but isn’t sure. She doesn’t know where he lives, but last she knew, he had an apartment in a crummy part of town. He doesn’t contact his family, which breaks my heart for them and for him.

I truly hoped he realized what he has been doing isn’t good for him. Part of me wants to see if he still uses his old email address and write him a message, but I am not going to. It’s been six years since we split, four since it was official. He was a part of my life for ten years and I admit it’s been rough letting that go at times because there are still some ill effects of our relationship on me (obvs.), but I won’t let myself do that. Like I said, I very rarely think about him anymore, just the random “I wonder if he’s dead” thoughts.

So, you’ll have to forgive me whenever the topic of marijuana comes up and my muscles tense and my jaw clenches shut. I realize some people can be productive and not let their vices destroy their lives, but I’ve witnessed first-hand that sometimes, they can.

Thanks for letting me get this off my chest. I appreciate it. Okay bye!


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