Some time after the cherry limeade cannabis drink kicked in, I decided to kick my hobby of complaining for good. I was saying something nasty about Albuquerque drivers from the passenger seat when I stopped mid-sentence. My chest was suddenly heavy and my pelvis was turning into a puddle. “Nevermind,” I said. “I'm not even driving. What's wrong with me?”
Two minutes earlier, I was tugging on my cowlick and grinding my feet into the floorboard, scouring the air with freshly-invented expletives. Suddenly I was a deflated balloon. The cars around me transformed into a series of meaningless colored surfaces reflecting the afternoon sun. I stared at the driver in the next lane and realized she wasn't a monster after all—just a person. I wanted to take a long nap.
After eons of silent contemplation, my wife pulled into our parking spot and I slowly, slowly opened the car door. The effects of the limeade had started up a bit earlier than expected. I'd picked it up from Sacred Garden over at Green Jeans—a shopping center that always kickstarts one of my famous complaint sessions. The tight quarters and shiny chrome of that hipster hideout never fail to rub my nerves raw.
Sacred Garden somehow manages to seem like a cool island of calm, though. It's tucked into a corner, away from most of the bustle. It was particularly busy during this visit, and a number of patients were sitting at a picnic table in the outside waiting area, enjoying the oncoming fall.
As I signed in, the receptionist commented on how long it had been since my last visit. The patient behind me chimed in. “I've been coming here for a year,” she said. “I don't go anywhere else.”
“Oh, well I live on the Westside, so I don't come around this way too often,” I lied.
“Me, too,” she said. “It's worth the drive.”
The line moved quickly, despite the crowd, and I only had to wait a few minutes before being called in. I really liked Sacred Garden's showroom. It's small, but cozy and comfortable, with pleasant decor. The budtenders were all very attentive and relaxing to be around—a trait that's easy to overlook, but actually pretty important in this business.
I chose a nugget of Snow White (THC: 18.4%, CBD: 0.04%—$12/gram) and Strawberry Fields (THC: 21.8%—$12/gram). In the corner was a cooler packed with edibles and drinks. I spotted a lemonade and iced tea alongside the cherry limeade (40mg THC—$7) that would eventually make its way to my tummy. I wasn't necessarily in the mood for an edible, but I did want something sour.
When I got home, I put some music on and cracked the bottle open. It had been incredibly tasty and sour as all get out. I'd grimaced through the first sips and managed to swallow the small drink in a few hasty gulps that caused me to squint like Popeye. This might sound like an unpleasant experience, but nothing could be further from the truth. It was a throat-constricting, tear-jerking experience that I thoroughly enjoyed.
My wife walked in just then and ordered me into the car with her for a trip to the post office. My masculine prowess was required in carrying a heavy package. (Come to think of it, maybe it was all the heaving and hoeing that got the drink working so quickly.)
By the time we'd made it back, I was feeling wiggly and ready for a smoke break. I pinched off some of the Snow White, a 50/50 hybrid, and packed a bowl. I also rolled up a joint of the Strawberry Fields in case my motor skills were too deteriorated by the time I wanted one.
Snow White is a child of White Widow, and I noticed its quickly felt effects were very similar. I immediately felt relaxed and slowed down, but with little headiness. This grassy and sweet bud bestows feelings of euphoria coupled with an intensely pleasant body high that should be helpful in fighting minor aches and pains.
Not long after I finished the bowl, I noticed a vicious hunger building in me and ate the most amazing peanut butter and jelly sandwich to grace this Earth.
Satisfied and beaming, I splayed across the living room floor and lit the joint. Strawberry Fields is an indica-dominant strain that tastes like candy and tickles on the way down. The effects seemed to take some time to kick in, but were extremely powerful when they did.
I was overcome by that old “couch lock,” my limbs turned into lead and my thoughts turned into sludge. Halfway through the joint, the cherry went out. I noticed about half an hour later and stared at it. A few more minutes, and I reached for the lighter. I made it almost halfway across the cushion before giving up. I didn't complain once.