This weekend I became a legal user of medical marijuana. My sister-in-law, who is a prosecutor in the Seattle area, reacted vigorously when I told her I was going to be able to use pot with permission. “OOOH!” she exclaimed with relish (she loves her job), “I can tell you all the dispensaries not to go to because you’ll get SHOT!”
Right. Just because Washington State allows me to have weed doesn’t mean everyone is allowed to have it. And me, innocent, law-abiding, clean-living (with the exception of chemotherapies, of course) soul that I am, shy and retiring and insecure, arms full of a plant with a lot of value on the street—I’m the perfect target. And even though I am, in general, innocent and law-abiding and clean-living, and even though I am not shy, retiring, nor insecure—and I’m bad-ass buff—none of that matters to a handgun anyway.
One of the first side effects that I’m noticing from my newly cooked marijuana oil is a great need for naps. I mean, I am chill, brother. I decided that, if this oil works and cures my cancer, I would want to have a record of it, from the very beginning. I started that record yesterday (I think it may be a memoir project rather than just a series of blog entries . . . yep, that’s me, kicking around the idea of not only becoming a legitimate editor, but also writing a book . . .), but what I’m finding, at least so far, is that it’s hard to build up enough steam to do something when you are, essentially, stoned (the body is supposed to adjust to the side effects of the oil within 3 weeks, and it could be that I should be starting with a smaller dose anyway).
Dude. I’m actually relaxing for the first time in . . . who knows. Like, really just wandering around the house, having extensive, slobbering naps and in general letting things slide (with the exception of the laundry, which was really necessary). One of our friends, who may have been suspected of using pot illegitimately, and therefore may have been my drug “expert” over the last couple weeks, suggested that perhaps rest, just rest, once in awhile, might cure me. Maybe that’s the secret to the pot potions—they simply put you to sleep so your body can do its thing.
Back to procurement, though, because medical marijuana can do no one any good in absentia. Fortunately, for the avoidance of handguns, many of the medical marijuana users in the area are in difficult stages of difficult diseases—I mean, unfortunately for them of course as far as how they feel—but fortunately for the distribution of legalized pot, because there are lots of delivery options.
The industry is a weird mix of business-as-usual and hush-hush. I received my card from a Naturopath in West Seattle, at a 6pm appointment (i.e. after normal office hours), and it gives me the right to have, for my own use, a 60-day supply which comprises 24 ounces (1 ½ pounds) of marijuana bud and up to 15 plants. The appointment cost $150 if I brought evidence of current disease activity (I had evidence in spades); $200 if I didn’t, and needed the doctor to evaluate me. Payable in cash, or a money order. I chose cash.
There’s an online list of area dispensaries and other informative medical marijuana websites, and I eventually navigated to a place that could find me a pound of Indica bud (various strains) and deliver it to my house (it’s since been processed). I had to scan my driver’s license and marijuana card and email them over to the company: very official. The amount that I had to pay for my take, though—$3600—was in cash, and is a “donation”. The “donation” language is completely ingrained in the marijuana dispensers, because the law in Washington doesn’t make any provisions for how the marijuana should change hands; and federally, selling drugs is trafficking, and is a felony.
I discovered what may become my pet editing project in surfing through all this drug stuff: every single one of the websites I saw had typos, grammatical errors, and/or other unprofessional-looking issues with language. I should at least be able to help legitimize medical marijuana in a linguistic way. After the way I’ve been feeling today, though, both with doing things around the house and with writing this entry, I have a newfound understanding for the sloppiness. Does tidiness really matter? I keep asking myself, before lying down again and staring at my toes, or the patterns of shadow on the ceiling of my bedroom, or the backs of my eyelids.
On the evening of my delivery, the guy, whom I know by a first name only, called a couple times; first to say he was running late, then to find out exactly where I was.
“Is there off-street parking, or a driveway?” Marijuana Man asked.
“Uh, no, there’s not,” I replied, hesitantly. “It’s just street parking . . . I mean, we have a short driveway, but . . . just how cloak-and-dagger is this?” I finally asked, and he laughed.
“No, no, the street is fine. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
The deal came off perfectly easily, the first batch of oil went as expected, and now all I have to do is take a tiny bit every day, and see what happens.
Wake me in a couple months.