Hey Boy Dudes and Girl Dudes,
I
found pot in my garage yesterday. I should end this communication right here.
No, that would be cruelly unusual. Okay, so I found pot in the garage
yesterday.
I
was throwing some storage boxes around, pretending to simplify and organize,
when one of the box lids came loose. Stuff flew out. Bending, I scooped up a
bit of desiccated leaves and seeds wrapped neatly in clear plastic wrap and
tied with a blue twist tie.
“What’s
this?” I mumbled to no one in particular. I shook the bag in front of my
face. Seeds jumped.
“Wow,
this sure looks like pot,” I said, also to no one in particular. Our cat,
Charlie, meowed.
I
glanced at her with narrowed eyes and asked, “Charlie, are you smoking pot?”
She meowed again, and that’s when I got paranoid.
First,
I made a mental note that the pot had flown out of the box belonging to the kid
that I’ve always suspected of everything. Then I made phone calls. I called my
husband, my best friend, my oldest daughter, and a drug awareness hotline. I
also confronted the only kid at home, with the righteous flourish of an 11th
century crusader.
I
said, “Sherwood, what’s the worst thing parents can find in their own home?”
My
husband said, “A used condom.”
“No.
Good answer, but wrong,” I corrected him. “The answer is pot. What should I do
with it?”
He
said, “Sell it.”
I
hung up the phone and tried my best friend Mindy. I said, “I found pot.”
Mindy
said, “Really, where?”
I
said, “On top of some Mother’s Day cards and Boy Scout awards.”
She
said, “How much is there?”
I
said, “A nickel bag.” I actually used the words nickel bag. I don’t even know what that means.
“What
should I do with it?” I asked.
She
said, “Flush it.”
I
called Heather, the oldest daughter. “I found pot in the garage,” I said. “I
think your dad is smoking pot.”
Heather
laughed—sort of.
“What
should I do with it?”
First,
she offered to take it to college and give it to her reprobate dancer friends,
then she said, “Flush it.”
I
shook the plastic baggy at Maren, the youngest daughter, and said, “Is this
yours? And is this why you’ve been in seventeen car accidents in two years?”
Maren
said, “Nope, I’m just a really bad driver. I don’t need marijuana to make it
worse.”
I
asked, “What should I do with it?”
“Smoke
it,” she said. My paranoia grew.
What
if there was a kilo of pot hidden in the Christmas decorations? What if the
neighbors were hiding their stash in our garage? What if the pot had been there
awhile and we have been transporting it across state lines every time we moved?
Would that make us drug mules or drug traffickers?
Going into my
super mom crime scene investigator persona, I started pawing through the
suspect storage box. That’s when I found the plastic bag full of black cocaine.
When
Adam came home, I shook the pot and the black cocaine at him.
“What’s
this?” I accused.
He
took the plastic bags stuffed with drugs from me. He handed the bag of black
cocaine back to me and said, “Well, this is dirt.” He handed the other bag back
to me and said, “And these are grass seeds.”
I
shouted, “Exactly! Grass,
marijuana, ganja, wacky tobaccy—DOPE.”
He
spoke slowly and clearly and said, “No, I mean grass like, ‘I’m going to mow
the grass.’ It’s an object lesson from church. My Sunday school teacher gave it to me."
I
stared at the pot and the black cocaine.
He
continued, “You know—seeds, fertile soil, faith, planting, harvest.”
“Wow,
that’s a relief. I thought our cat was smoking pot in the garage.”
Adam
laughed—sort of.
That’s
how my Monday went. Do I feel stupid? Gosh no. I feel I learned an important lesson—I
know now who really loves me. Mindy really loves me, and Heather really loves
me, because they told me to flush the drugs, thereby avoiding capture or death
in a drug shoot-out. In contrast, Maren tried to get me hooked on drugs, and
Sherwood tried to turn me into a drug pusher. Adam just tries to avoid me as
much as possible.
Have a great, drug-free week,
Linda (Sell it, Flush it, Smoke it)
Zern
