Weed Has Been Following Me Since 1978 😂
If you read my blog the other day about my trip to the Galleria, you already know I mentioned something that drives me absolutely insane:
WHY DOES THE GALLERIA ALWAYS SMELL LIKE WEED?!
Y’all. I am serious.
I live in Houston, and when I go to the Galleria, 90% of the time Welton drives me. He’ll usually drop me off at Saks or Neiman Marcus, and if I’m going to be walking around much, he normally goes with me.
I’ve always assumed this was because he doesn’t like me wandering around the Galleria by myself.
But now that I’m actually sitting here thinking about it…
that may not be it at all. 😂
Maybe Welton isn’t worried about my safety.
Maybe Welton is worried about his bank account.
Maybe this man has spent all these years escorting me through the Galleria not as my loving, protective husband, but as SHOPPING SECURITY.
Because let’s face it — leaving me unattended somewhere between Saks, Neiman Marcus, Gucci and YSL probably does present a certain level of financial risk.
Suddenly this entire marriage makes more sense. 😂
The other 10% of the time, I go alone — but let’s be clear, I am not trekking across the entire Galleria.
Saks to Alo? Fine.
Neiman’s to Gucci or YSL? Fine.
Beyond that? Somebody needs to come get me.
But I swear, it does not matter where I am in that mall — I smell marijuana.
Not once.
Not occasionally.
ALL. THE. TIME.
And I cannot stand the smell.
But here’s the thing: my lifelong feud with marijuana did not begin at the Houston Galleria.
Oh no.
Marijuana and I go WAY back.
It Started When I Was a Kid
When I was growing up, marijuana was definitely around.
My dad smoked it. My mom and stepdad smoked it. My aunt and uncle smoked it. Their friends smoked it.
Basically, every adult I knew apparently had a joint. 😂
And this was back in the day when nobody was stepping outside or worrying about secondhand smoke. Oh no. They were smoking wherever the hell they wanted.
I can remember being maybe 8 or 10 years old, piled into the backseat of my aunt and uncle’s little AMC Gremlin while they were up front just toking away.
And YES — they smoked it right there in the car with us.
Windows? Who knows.
Ventilation? Apparently not a concern.
Meanwhile, little Tammy is in the backseat gagging and choking, probably getting a contact high against her will, thinking, What in the hell is that SMELL? 😂
And it wasn’t just the Gremlin.
I remember my dad, or my mom and stepdad, sitting in the living room with their friends smoking, and when that door opened…
THE SMELL.
Dear God.
That cloud would come rolling out, and I hated it then just as much as I hate it now.
So when I tell y’all I have had a lifelong relationship with the smell of marijuana, I mean LIFELONG.
I didn’t discover weed in high school.
Weed discovered me in the backseat of an AMC Gremlin sometime around 1978. 😂
And apparently I’ve been trying to get away from it ever since.
For the record, there are two smells in this world I have never been able to tolerate:
Marijuana and coffee.
I know. People love both of them.
I do not.
Then Came the Stoner Years
By junior high and high school, of course I had friends who smoked weed.
We all knew the stoners. 😂
Some of them were my friends. I didn’t care that they smoked it. I didn’t think any less of them.
I just didn’t want to sit in a cloud of it.
And yes, I tried it.
I wasn’t some little angel who had never touched marijuana. I tried it.
And do you know what happened?
I got hungry and sleepy.
That was it.
Everybody else seemed to be having some magical experience, and I’m sitting there thinking:
This is what everybody is so excited about??
I had been on a diet basically my entire high school career. The LAST thing I wanted was something that gave me the munchies.
And sleepy??
Y’all, I already loved to sleep.
I didn’t need recreational assistance. 😂
So marijuana offered me absolutely nothing I was looking for.
Food and a nap? No thank you.
Years Later, I Had to Check Again
Fast-forward to my first marriage.
My ex-husband had some friends who smoked weed, and they used to give me a hard time because I was always talking about how terrible it smelled.
And one day I started wondering…
Maybe marijuana has changed.
I mean, years had passed.
Maybe there was some new and improved marijuana.
Maybe I had judged it unfairly.
So I told my ex-husband to have one of the guys bring me a joint.
And I smoked some.
Y’all.
SAME SHIT.
Same smell.
Same hunger.
Same sleepiness.
Apparently marijuana had made absolutely NO technological advancements since high school. 😂
I remember thinking, This is STILL what everybody is carrying on about?
Experiment over.
Marijuana and I remained incompatible.
And Then Marijuana Got Fancy
Fast-forward again, and suddenly marijuana had gotten itself a complete makeover.
Now we have gummies.
Candy.
Brownies.
Cookies.
Drinks.
Chocolate.
Apparently marijuana decided that if I wouldn’t smoke it, it was going to disguise itself as dessert and try again.
And this is where things went terribly wrong.
THE GUMMY INCIDENT
This was probably around ten years ago — give or take, so don’t hold me to the exact timeline.
We were on a family trip in Colorado. I think we had rented a house in Breckenridge, and one of Welton’s sons had gone to school in Colorado, where marijuana was legal and dispensaries were everywhere.
So naturally, after spending basically my entire life telling everyone how much I hated marijuana, I announced:
I wanted to try a gummy.
Why?
Sleep.
That was literally my motivation.
People kept saying gummies helped them sleep, and I thought, Well, marijuana always made me sleepy before. Maybe THIS is finally how marijuana and I become friends.
And if you know me, this should make perfect sense because I am sitting here writing this blog at 1:30 in the morning.
Going to bed at a normal human hour has never exactly been one of my strengths.
So the kids got me gummies.
And they were VERY clear with me.
“Mom. DO NOT eat the whole gummy.”
They told me to cut it into fourths.
So I ate a fourth.
And waited.
Nothing.
I waited some more.
Still nothing.
Now, a rational person would have continued waiting.
I am apparently not that person.
I decided the gummy wasn’t working.
So I ate some more.
Still nothing.
More.
Eventually I had eaten about three-fourths of the gummy.
And then…
Apparently it worked.
Y’ALL.
I SLEPT FOR TWO DAYS.
Not two hours.
Not a fabulous eight-hour night of restorative sleep.
TWO. DAYS.
I wanted a little help falling asleep.
Marijuana apparently interpreted my request as:
Would you like to completely remove yourself from society for the next 48 hours?
Apparently the answer was YES. 😂
I basically went to Colorado, ate three-fourths of a gummy and missed Colorado.
You would think that would have been enough for me.
Nope.
Because apparently once wasn’t enough for me to learn my lesson, I tried a gummy again another time when we were back in the States.
And guess what happened?
Same thing.
GOODNIGHT, TAMMY. SEE YOU IN TWO DAYS.
Marijuana and I Are Officially Done
After all these years, I have finally accepted something.
Marijuana and I are simply not meant to be.
We’ve tried.
Lord knows we’ve tried.
We’ve had decades to work this relationship out.
I’ve inhaled it secondhand in the backseat of a Gremlin.
I’ve smelled it my entire life.
I’ve smoked it.
I’ve revisited it years later just to make sure it still sucked.
I’ve eaten it.
And every single time, my body has basically said:
ABSOLUTELY NOT.
Other people smoke weed and apparently become relaxed, philosophical and happy.
I either want to eat everything in the kitchen, take a nap, or need someone to check on me sometime Tuesday.
So now when I’m walking through the Galleria and that smell hits me again, maybe that’s why it irritates me so much.
We have HISTORY.
Marijuana has been trying to win me over since I was a little girl gagging in the backseat of an AMC Gremlin.
And after all these years, I’m finally ready to say:
It’s not you, marijuana.
Actually…
Yes. Yes, it is you. 😂
— Mrs. Whit