Domestic dope: One housewife, half a gram, and a clean-a** house.

I’ll be the first to admit that a large part of my 20s was spent in a euphoric haze brought on by fairly regular pot smoking.

I loved the stuff — and it certainly loved me.

I don’t feel I ever had a “problem” with it, but I did feel a strong pull to have it in my life. Sure, I got side-tracked sometimes with philosophical discoveries, but I was still making progress towards my goals.

I got my degree, and worked effectively in my field. I never went to school or work while stoned. That said, I certainly used pot on my own time. Cannabis allowed me to chill and appreciate the simple moments of my not-so-hectic (though I thought it was) twenty-something life.


"I loved the stuff — and it certainly loved me." Image via iStock. 

A high from weed was sort of like a pair of rose-colored glasses and a shoulder rub, to me. It made everything feel just a little bit lighter.

Fast forward 15 years, throw in three kids, a house, a husband, and some part-time writing, and, well… there’s no time or space for my former pot-smoking ways. In fact, I’ve had a lonely bag of weed (given to me by a friend) sitting in the back corner of our junk drawer for over two years.

Two years! Back in the day, that shit wouldn’t have lasted two days.

Obviously, finding the right time for “Mummy to get high” is no easy feat. Especially since I have a tween who stays up almost as late as we do now.

Wil Anderson on medical marijuana. Post continues below. 


Lately, the bag of weed in the junk drawer has been calling my name. I know I enjoy smoking weed, yet there it sits. It sits there, unsmoked, because;

  1. My kids are always around; and if they aren’t around, they may end up needing me, so I can't be stoned.
  2. I am a suburban mum, not a hippie.

Therefore, it just never happens.

But yesterday, I said “Fuck this! Weed and I will reunite — and it will be today.”

So, I dropped the kids off at a play date a few streets over, deciding if they needed me I could walk back over (with shades on) to get them.

I then came back home and rolled myself a small one.

Not quite a “wake and bake,” but close enough!

I stepped out into the backyard, with the BBQ lighter and my tiny little spliff.

I only took a few drags, not sure how I would handle it, and not wanting to get too altered, after all these years.

Within moments, the rose-colored glasses were on and the shoulder rub was beginning…

It felt damn good — a bit nostalgic, even.

I immediately noticed how fresh the air smelled, with its fragrant summer aromas. I went into the house, caught a glimpse of my scruffy self in the mirror, and decided I needed a quick freshening up. On went a black maxi dress, some lip gloss, and a dab of the patchouli oil I’d forgotten I had.


And then… THEN something happened that was absolutely out of this world: I cleaned!

"I cleaned!" Image via iStock. 

I was inspired, perhaps for the first time ever, and all I wanted to do was clean. So, I scrubbed. I organized. I wiped smudges and dirt that I’d overlooked for years. I folded and straightened, like an artist at work. Nothing could pull me away from cleaning, not even my laptop.


Now, for those of you who don’t know me — which is all of you, because I have written this anonymously! — I HATE cleaning.

But two tokes from a tiny little joint made cleaning fun!

It. Made. Cleaning. Fun.

Which, actually, really sucks. Because, inevitably, the buzz wore off and normalcy returned.

So, now I have to un-know the joy that my rendezvous with a dube brought to me and to the monotony of my daily mum-chores. I have to un-know it because I can’t justify smoking pot for fun on weekday mornings.

I’m not a hippie, I’m a housewife, right?!

But… perhaps I could be both? Can a suburban housewife not also be a hippie at heart?

Wouldn’t “Weed Wednesdays” be pretty fun? Every Wednesday I could clean my house in a euphoric haze of creative organization.

Man, I really like the sound of that!

Besides, the summer is almost over, we all survived, so I certainly deserve a nice pair of rose-colored glasses and a massage to celebrate!

This story by anonymous originally appeared on Ravishly, a feminist news+culture website.

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