Your good friends at How to Get Rid of Weed Smell, we hope you know, would never advocate any form of illegal activity. One can hardly but notice, though, that these days, such a large number of American (and other) jurisdictions have marijuana decriminalized. Whether the explanation is medical or recreational, a concern with getting rid of weed's distinctive odor nowadays is just good housekeeping. You'd think Martha Stewart would be covering this stuff!
A dinner invitation to your employer, a next door neighbor, or your in-laws, shouldn't be an aromatically awkward occasion. It doesn't matter if it's legal; some people just remain uncomfortable, for whatever reason, with marijuana smoking. At that point, the choices are trying to change other people's values and preferences to your own - an undertaking equally as notable for its futility as for its vanity - or you can just exercise a little discretion.
I say, if it happens in personal space let it stays in personal space. After all, that's really what personal space is all about, right?
Ironically though upon reflection, it turns out that even those who now show acute conscientiousness over this kind of aromatic discretion had our own first experience of such concerns in somewhat less pristine circumstances. A story from my own youth might illustrate the point. Certainly in the time and place I grew up there was no mistaking pot as legal. Funnily, however, though it was if anything even more culturally taboo than today, I can't help remembering it as being somehow a more innocent time, when it came to pot.
On this one occasion I recall with amusement, my parents were away for several days. I had my girlfriend of the time, Kimmy (ah, Kimberley, the stories I could tell, but let's not digress) and my good, but rather permanently pot addled pal Dave over. We were sitting in the living room. This incidentally was one of those living rooms from the mid to late 20th century in where the furniture was all covered in plastic. I don't know if younger people today can imagine such a thing. Surely no one today does that. If you know of anyone who still has a living room that is treated as a museum and has all the soft furniture covered in plastic, do let me know in the comments section. I'd be fascinated to hear.
Alas, despite my best efforts, I digress. Well, there we are, the three of us, having only just recently imbibed from Dave's perpetual stash, splayed in our teenage languish over the plastic furniture. Then, horror of horrors, the distinctive sound of keys prodding at the front door lock shocked us out of our reveries. Well, all but Dave, in a state of infinite reverie, I expect. Even I though, taken off guard, was rather dazed and confused. Good old Kimmy, though, was her usual rockstar in action. Like a coiled cat she sprung from the couch and dashed the length of the living room, like some kind of crazy wizard, her arms flayed about with mystical speed, throwing open all the living room windows. She then flew like the wind back across the room, where, in a death-defying flourish, in one fell sweep, she scooped up Dave's various weed paraphernalia off the coffee table, proceeding to stick it inside his jacket.
Now, I know that some of you are going to doubt the veracity of this next part. I confess I can't be completely sure of it myself, but what I recollect was that at this point Kimmy darted to the distant end of the room and proceeded to expel tempestuous gusts of exhalation right across the living room, blasting all lingering odor of recent weed straight out of the gaping windows at the other end of the room. All to say that, amazingly, when my parents stepped into the living room, there we three were, queued up with Cheshire cat grins, like the servants of an aristocratic home attending the arrival of the new lady of the house.
Make no mistake, my parents were not cool and most certainly would have not been cool about me smoking weed, anywhere, much less in the house. And yet, somehow, nothing came of it. It was a more innocent time; is it possible they just didn't know the smell of weed? One way or another the occasion passed without incident. The only real perturbation seemed to be the prospect of us scuzzy loafers sprawling our disheveled selves over their plastic covered furniture. So, I can't say with any certainty if they just didn't recognize the weed odor or if, in fact, Kimmy superstar girlfriend of all time, did indeed save the day with her magical powers and somehow get rid of the weed smell.
However, it's unlikely that you know Kimmy (but if you do, drop me a line and let me know, I'd love to catch up with her again), so in all likelihood you are going to need less magical means for weed odor abatement. That's why we're here at How to Get Rid of Weed Smell. We've got the lowdown for you on the gold standard of aromatic discretion.
A dinner invitation to your employer, a next door neighbor, or your in-laws, shouldn't be an aromatically awkward occasion. It doesn't matter if it's legal; some people just remain uncomfortable, for whatever reason, with marijuana smoking. At that point, the choices are trying to change other people's values and preferences to your own - an undertaking equally as notable for its futility as for its vanity - or you can just exercise a little discretion.
I say, if it happens in personal space let it stays in personal space. After all, that's really what personal space is all about, right?
Ironically though upon reflection, it turns out that even those who now show acute conscientiousness over this kind of aromatic discretion had our own first experience of such concerns in somewhat less pristine circumstances. A story from my own youth might illustrate the point. Certainly in the time and place I grew up there was no mistaking pot as legal. Funnily, however, though it was if anything even more culturally taboo than today, I can't help remembering it as being somehow a more innocent time, when it came to pot.
On this one occasion I recall with amusement, my parents were away for several days. I had my girlfriend of the time, Kimmy (ah, Kimberley, the stories I could tell, but let's not digress) and my good, but rather permanently pot addled pal Dave over. We were sitting in the living room. This incidentally was one of those living rooms from the mid to late 20th century in where the furniture was all covered in plastic. I don't know if younger people today can imagine such a thing. Surely no one today does that. If you know of anyone who still has a living room that is treated as a museum and has all the soft furniture covered in plastic, do let me know in the comments section. I'd be fascinated to hear.
Alas, despite my best efforts, I digress. Well, there we are, the three of us, having only just recently imbibed from Dave's perpetual stash, splayed in our teenage languish over the plastic furniture. Then, horror of horrors, the distinctive sound of keys prodding at the front door lock shocked us out of our reveries. Well, all but Dave, in a state of infinite reverie, I expect. Even I though, taken off guard, was rather dazed and confused. Good old Kimmy, though, was her usual rockstar in action. Like a coiled cat she sprung from the couch and dashed the length of the living room, like some kind of crazy wizard, her arms flayed about with mystical speed, throwing open all the living room windows. She then flew like the wind back across the room, where, in a death-defying flourish, in one fell sweep, she scooped up Dave's various weed paraphernalia off the coffee table, proceeding to stick it inside his jacket.
Now, I know that some of you are going to doubt the veracity of this next part. I confess I can't be completely sure of it myself, but what I recollect was that at this point Kimmy darted to the distant end of the room and proceeded to expel tempestuous gusts of exhalation right across the living room, blasting all lingering odor of recent weed straight out of the gaping windows at the other end of the room. All to say that, amazingly, when my parents stepped into the living room, there we three were, queued up with Cheshire cat grins, like the servants of an aristocratic home attending the arrival of the new lady of the house.
Make no mistake, my parents were not cool and most certainly would have not been cool about me smoking weed, anywhere, much less in the house. And yet, somehow, nothing came of it. It was a more innocent time; is it possible they just didn't know the smell of weed? One way or another the occasion passed without incident. The only real perturbation seemed to be the prospect of us scuzzy loafers sprawling our disheveled selves over their plastic covered furniture. So, I can't say with any certainty if they just didn't recognize the weed odor or if, in fact, Kimmy superstar girlfriend of all time, did indeed save the day with her magical powers and somehow get rid of the weed smell.
However, it's unlikely that you know Kimmy (but if you do, drop me a line and let me know, I'd love to catch up with her again), so in all likelihood you are going to need less magical means for weed odor abatement. That's why we're here at How to Get Rid of Weed Smell. We've got the lowdown for you on the gold standard of aromatic discretion.
About the Author:
Mickey Jhonny also writes for the Walking Dead celebration cite, Pretty Much Dead Already. His hit post on The Walking Dead Fanfiction is a must read.
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