Humor by John Garvey

Considering whether to imbibe with cannabis before any given family event is a complex and tricky choice. Just kidding. It is actually possible that the reason God created cannabis is family holiday dynamics. Now that we’ve settled the question of whether it’s okay to get surreptitiously high before spending all that time in close quarters with your family, you want to know how to do it right.

Basics

Since it has just dawned on me that I’m an advice columnist, I suggest you first consider “The Quarter Gummy Solution.”

The most accessible and reliable approach to microdosing, “The Quarter Gummy Solution” goes like this: Take a standard 10mg weed gummy, cut it neatly into quarters, and take one 45 minutes before walking in the door. That’s too small a dose to impair most people, but enough to give conversations, music, and … um, writing … a pleasant and subtle flow.

The extent to which you can prudently use marijuana in any kind of family context has to do a lot with your family culture, and your personal relationship with weed, so I won’t walk you through every caveat. I’ll just suggest you wait until Thanksgiving dinner is over before lighting up in your cousin’s ‘89 Bronco so you don’t hog the pumpkin pie.

Supply

Now, this whole discussion is moot if you don’t have a supply. Are you traveling to a state with restrictive cannabis laws? Don’t worry; it’s a particularly contentious election year and they’re likely too busy hoarding canned food, ammunition and Hostess Cupcakes to enforce their laws. … Unless, of course, you have the wrong bumper sticker. So that brings up a good point:

If you’re operating in a legal gray area, keep your politics low-key and stock up on Febreeze. You’ll be okay. Probably. But if you take some inspiration from this article that ends up getting you in trouble, remember that my name is Josh Granvey. J-O-S-H
G-R-A-N-V-E-Y

If you can’t get weed in your hometown, I don’t know what to tell you. It would be uncouth to suggest that you break the law. But I have, and Santa still delivered on my wishes at the usual 50 percent rate. I am neither your lawyer nor your moral compass.

The Big Day

Now you are at the Thanksgiving (or pick your occasion) dinner table and the token family political junkie has just cracked open his third beer. Or maybe a sibling has brought up an embarrassing stage you went through in high school. They know how to get their hooks into you; they know they know, they know you know, they know you know they know.

But you are about to thwart their efforts. You excuse yourself with a euphemism that might imply you need to poop, grab a tampon, etc. There is always some reasonable pretense to hit pause on a conversation.

In the bathroom, you stand on top of the toilet to get close to the ventilation fan in the ceiling, fish a doob and lighter out of your pocket, and take a hit. You then realize that you forgot to actually turn the ventilation fan on — which was the whole point of standing precariously on the toilet — and as you exhale it is like a reenactment of Vesuvius blowing its top.

Fortunately, there is some Febreeze under the sink. You turn on the fan, wash your hands and return to the dinner table gauntlet that awaits you. You smell heavily of Febreeze and weed, but you nonetheless feel much more comfortable.

When the conversation resumes, you deflect every jab. You masterfully resist the bait when one of your politically entrenched dinner companions asks what you think of the conspiracy of the week. A Fruition song is stuck in your head and it gives you the sense that you’re floating gently down a river with a light breeze through your hair.

One or two relatives gaze at you sternly, but otherwise pretend not to notice your bloodshot eyes or your odor. An uncle you always thought was a square gives you a big, goofy smile and a knowing wink.

By the end of the meal, your relatives are none the wiser about your views on various hot-button topics: politics, critical race theory, “Elon,” your cousin Frankie’s sharp-tongued fiancé, and a few other things people seem to have conspired in advance to disagree with you on. The tactics you’ve employed may include: A. agreeing with political assertions in a subtly sarcastic manner, B. feigning deafness, and C. generally conveying that you give zero craps.

The day draws to a close. You and your family part ways peacefully. And that’s a good thing, because you do, after all, love each other.

You have survived the holiday with your family. Congratulations. And you’re welcome.

John Garvey is a storyteller, freelance writer, illustrator, and nerd. You can see more of his creative ventures at clippings.me/johngarvey and CreativeFollies.com.