By Mickey Jhonny
No one at How to Get Rid of Weed Smell would ever advocate illegal activities. Yet, with so many jurisdictions in the United States with decriminalized weed laws, whether due to medical or recreational concerns, there remains relevant the question of how best to remove that distinctive pot odor. It's just good manners.
I mean, if you're having the boss or the neighbors, or even the parents, over for dinner, not everyone is yet comfortable with the smoking of marijuana for any reason, even if it is legal. So, you can waste your time, launching an indoctrination campaign, trying to convert the values and preferences of others to reflect your own values and preferences - an endeavor equally as notable for its futility as for its vanity - or you can just make the effort to not rub your personal practices into the noses of those who'd rather just not know.
What happens in personal space stays in personal space. In fact, that may well be the very condition of possibility for the existence of personal space. But let's not get too philosophical about the matter.
Perhaps somewhat ironically, though, many who today exercise just such conscientious aromatic discretion learned our lesson the hard way, under different circumstances. During my all too misspent youth, in my hometown, there was no doubt about that fact that pot was illegal. Maybe I'm prone to look back with rose colored glasses, but there does seem to have been a kind of innocence to it all which has since been lost. Regardless, it was still verboten.
In any event, this story begins with my parents being away for a few days. My girlfriend at the time, the dishy (and otherwise amazing) Kimberley, was sort of staying with me in the parents' absence and my pal, the more or less perpetually pot addled Dave, had dropped by. We were hanging out in the living room, which was one of those icons of the mid to late 20th century, where the furniture was all covered in fitted plastic. It had a bit of a space station feel to it. Weirdly, for a while there, this was a popular choice for living room decor. The antiseptic look, you might call it.
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.
I confess, I'm not entirely sure how certain I can be about this next part, but as I recall it, she then flashed across the room, opposite the open windows, and rapidly exhaled great gusts of air right through the entire living room. Miraculously, it would seem, this had the effect of completely sweeping any lingering smell of pot out the a-gape windows. Amazingly, by the time my parents arrived in the living room, there we were, the three of us, standing in single file, our faces sporting vaguely absurd smiles: perhaps reminiscent of the service staff employed at a mansion attentively awaiting arrival of a new lady of the house.
Look, my parents weren't exactly cool in any sense. I don't think they ever smoked pot and I'm certain they would have been more than a little disapproving of me doing so. One way or another, though, all this passed without great incident. If anything, they were distressed at the prospect of such a gaggle of scruffy teenagers lounging over their plastic covered furniture. So, looking back on the incident, I can't really say if it was just that they didn't recognize the smell of weed or if indeed superstar girlfriend Kimmy did exert a bit of her magic to miraculously rid the living room of the odor of culpability.
The bottom line for you, though, is that unless you have the extraordinary good fortune of knowing Kimmy (and if you do, please let me know, I'd like to get in touch with her again), you'll be needing more conventional weed smell abatement strategies. Fortunately for you, we're here on the job at How to Get Rid of Weed Smell, providing the gold standard of aromatic discretion.
I mean, if you're having the boss or the neighbors, or even the parents, over for dinner, not everyone is yet comfortable with the smoking of marijuana for any reason, even if it is legal. So, you can waste your time, launching an indoctrination campaign, trying to convert the values and preferences of others to reflect your own values and preferences - an endeavor equally as notable for its futility as for its vanity - or you can just make the effort to not rub your personal practices into the noses of those who'd rather just not know.
What happens in personal space stays in personal space. In fact, that may well be the very condition of possibility for the existence of personal space. But let's not get too philosophical about the matter.
Perhaps somewhat ironically, though, many who today exercise just such conscientious aromatic discretion learned our lesson the hard way, under different circumstances. During my all too misspent youth, in my hometown, there was no doubt about that fact that pot was illegal. Maybe I'm prone to look back with rose colored glasses, but there does seem to have been a kind of innocence to it all which has since been lost. Regardless, it was still verboten.
In any event, this story begins with my parents being away for a few days. My girlfriend at the time, the dishy (and otherwise amazing) Kimberley, was sort of staying with me in the parents' absence and my pal, the more or less perpetually pot addled Dave, had dropped by. We were hanging out in the living room, which was one of those icons of the mid to late 20th century, where the furniture was all covered in fitted plastic. It had a bit of a space station feel to it. Weirdly, for a while there, this was a popular choice for living room decor. The antiseptic look, you might call it.
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.
I confess, I'm not entirely sure how certain I can be about this next part, but as I recall it, she then flashed across the room, opposite the open windows, and rapidly exhaled great gusts of air right through the entire living room. Miraculously, it would seem, this had the effect of completely sweeping any lingering smell of pot out the a-gape windows. Amazingly, by the time my parents arrived in the living room, there we were, the three of us, standing in single file, our faces sporting vaguely absurd smiles: perhaps reminiscent of the service staff employed at a mansion attentively awaiting arrival of a new lady of the house.
Look, my parents weren't exactly cool in any sense. I don't think they ever smoked pot and I'm certain they would have been more than a little disapproving of me doing so. One way or another, though, all this passed without great incident. If anything, they were distressed at the prospect of such a gaggle of scruffy teenagers lounging over their plastic covered furniture. So, looking back on the incident, I can't really say if it was just that they didn't recognize the smell of weed or if indeed superstar girlfriend Kimmy did exert a bit of her magic to miraculously rid the living room of the odor of culpability.
The bottom line for you, though, is that unless you have the extraordinary good fortune of knowing Kimmy (and if you do, please let me know, I'd like to get in touch with her again), you'll be needing more conventional weed smell abatement strategies. Fortunately for you, we're here on the job at How to Get Rid of Weed Smell, providing the gold standard of aromatic discretion.
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