Monday & Murphy's Law.
It's fucking Monday. Which means that Murphy's Law shall (and will) apply. Wait for it. So, my furnace died (I've been telling my landlord it's going to happen – FYI), I have a semi-narcopathic graduate school professor who assigns arbitrary (read: impossible) homework, and depositing a tax return check (paper) has become some weird scene out of Matrix (Agent Smith style). Because, the IRS apparently lost my direct deposit information and needed to send the check in paper form. Because, they had my direct deposit information back in June. Because, this is what I get for filing that fucking Federal 1040-X (the IRS really doesn't enjoy paying out, for the record). Murphy's. Law. In. Full. Effect.
Ergo, I'm now comfortably numb. Thank you, Pink Floyd. Thank you, local cannabis dispensary peeps. Because, my shitty Monday has become a mere thought bubble that drifted away. After popping that 1906 edible, I got it together. Here's how I dealt with this bullshit: I purchased an awesome DuraFlame space-heater-that-looks-like-a-fireplace. My Ecobee reports a comfortable 67 degrees F (science nerd/returning graduate student who habitually labels things like degrees, distance, and all things measurement-related). OH – did I mention I then had a legit excuse to eat cheeseburgers and fries for dinner – with my six year old. Because, shitty Monday's call for shitty food. The kind of food adults love to pretend they don't touch, then binge eat when stoned AF (you know you do it – don't judge).
Saying “legalized cannabis” feels like the grownup way of saying, “let's rip a bong hit, dude”. Legit. It's the Grey Poupon version, now. I'm not sure when it actually became chic, but I will gladly take it over being hungover from Herradura. Real talk: I am an uber happy stoner mom who resides in a state that allows for both medical and recreational cannabis use. Frankly, since the onset of all things COVID – I cannot imagine my life without.
I have a term I've recently (sort of) coined. WTHF (What The Holy Fuck).
WTHF (defined): loosely translated, WTF on steroids. It's what I mutter anytime I interact with snobby/judgmental/quasi-narcopathic/narrow-minded/self-entitled-important people. Projection, Your Honor (see what I did there…). Side note: I often mutter this when something just doesn’t add up. A-hole people, or a-hole situations.
I've learned that I really, honestly do not mind spending time alone. I enjoy having a small, close-knit group of friends. Why, because I no longer feel like going out and dealing with large crowds of people. Dude, I went out – when I was 22. OK, liar, liar – 32. I'm kind of done. I don't really drink (it doesn't agree with me). And, the last time I was hungover around my child, she was two. I. Hated. That. Day. I didn't like the mother I was – irritable, annoyed, and sick. All the while, my daughter smiled, cooed, and played. I felt terribly, horribly wrong about that situation.
So, I re-discovered something hadn't done in quite some time – cannabis. Legalized. It takes the edge off. I'm much more outgoing, less stressed, and probably (OK, definitely) a better parent. I'm not wasting time at a chain-store pharmacy for some mediocre fill of Xanax (nope, Dr. X, I require more than 4 pills per month to chill out). Instead, I get to go to really cool dispensaries, and have awesome conversations about edibles, wax, vape, and bud. I get to hear funny stories from the security guards who work there (consensus is that cannabis from Cali is the best – just watch your edible intake, my friends).
Simply put, I've found a way to be a better version of me. I look at the bright side of things, versus the dark. I may need to ask my best friend to remind me where I'm going with a story – but, it's all good.
Stay stoned, my friends. FUCK Monday, and avoid the WTHF.
~SM