THE PROBLEM WITH EDIBLES

You've probably noticed that over the past year, cheerful little shops with names like Nature's Care, Sunnyside, and the Greenhouse have popped up all over Chicago and the suburbs. These brightly-lit stores have black and white walls, gleaming teak floors, sparkling glass cases, and displays as colorful as a Disneyland gift shop. Yes, we're talking about cannabis dispensaries. 

Our friends, like most Boomers, have been heading to the shops in droves. Even my 88-year-old mother has been seen marching through the doors of her local dispensary, merrily waving her medical marijuana card. 

My husband and I have been a bit more hesitant. See, a little over a year ago, my oldest son thought it would be cute to gift his dear old mom and dad with a small batch of special brownies. He warned us that they might be a little stronger than they'd been back when we were in school. Now, I'd never really done that kind of thing in college because I am a spectacularly boring individual. My husband HAD done that kind of thing, but then he married me. The brownies sat in our refrigerator for weeks. 

One night, though, we decided that--what the heck--we'd try them. We positioned ourselves on the family room couch, took a few bites, and waited nervously. Time passed.

"You feeling anything?" asked my husband. 

"Nope. You?" 

"Nothing." 

We waited a little longer. Then my husband ventured a theory. 

"Maybe we've gotten immune or something." 

"Maybe. Should we have one more?" 

My husband shrugged. "Why not?" 

A short time later, I found myself in the kitchen, convinced that the counters needed to be wiped down immediately. This, despite the fact that I have a superhuman ability to ignore crumbs and spills for days at a time. Anyhow, I got out a sponge and moved it along each granite surface with the dedication of a forensics specialist dusting for fingerprints. Then I went around the entire kitchen again. And again. And again. Because I wasn't sure where the countertop ended. 

After a while, I put the sponge away…somewhere…and opened a drawer. There I found a pair of cheese spreaders that we'd been given as gifts about ten years before, but that still had two twisty-ties holding them onto a piece of cardboard. I decided that it was very important that I finally undo the twisty-ties.

 

Twenty minutes later I was still undoing the twisty-ties. That's when my husband wandered into the room. I use the word "wandered" very literally. 

"Where'd you go?" he asked. 

"I went here." 

"Why?" 

I paused. "I don't know." 

"So what are you doing now?" 

"I'm trying to undo these twisty-ties, but they just keep staying twisted." 

My husband leaned over and stared intently at the ties. 

"Let me try." 

Twenty more minutes passed. We were no closer to our goal. 

"I think you retwisted them," I said, after careful analysis. "Want me to try again?" 

My husband nodded and went back to wandering. Shortly afterwards, I heard a thunk. I turned around to see him bent over the kitchen island, his forehead on the granite counter. 

"What's wrong?"
 

"My head fell down and I can't pick it up." 

At that point, he started giggling. And then I started giggling. And then we collapsed on the floor and continued giggling until we decided it was time to eat a whole bag of Doritos. Along with a package of Chips Ahoy cookies. I believe whipped cream and a bottle of Hershey's syrup may also have been involved. 

Anyhow, that's why we're not racing to the Greenhouse or Sunnyside or any of those other places. Next time we might hurt ourselves.