We all know that the great state of Cali has legalized medical marijuana. You have a torn ACL and Vicodin makes you nauseous? Try this reefer. You’re undergoing chemo and can’t keep any food down? This weed chocolate bar will not only alleviate your pain, but it will also stimulate your appetite. You’re an insomniac and might actually murder your coworkers if you don’t get a good night’s sleep? Have a little puff puff so you can dance with the sandman.
I get in depth with the laws in my piece Sentenced, but today we’re goin to the Pot Doc.
I went to visit my first Pot Doc a year and a half ago. He was an MD who had rented out space (read: a garage) on the Venice Boardwalk (a place where you can’t walk a block without getting contact high). The doctor’s visit was $150, cash, and no appointment necessary. I was in line behind 20 or so other patients and when it was finally my turn to see Dr. Reefer, I got inexplicably nervous.
As if I was about to see the Wizard and he may or may not grant my permission home.
I went into his office and found someone who looked like the love child of a Kiebler Elf and Santa Claus. He examined my paperwork, asked me a few questions about my condition (I have ovarian cysts which cause intense cramping; I also have bouts with insomnia—the symptoms for both of which are alleviated with marijuana). He then checked my vitals and my reflexes and proceeded by writing me a year’s prescription for pot. As in JACKPOT.
I walked outta there like I just learned how to pick winning lotto numbers.
Once you have your prescription you can visit any medical marijuana pharmacy that you wish. Luckily, there are three pharmacies within walking distance from my house. That’s my definition of location, location, location.
Cut to a few months ago my prescrip expired. Oh sad day. My most favorite pharmacy gave me a referral card to a pot doc around the corner and $70 off the exam.
Lemme get this straight—I can walk to my doctor’s appointment and the fee is almost half off? If you know me at all, you know that I’m the laziest person on the planet when it comes to driving and if herpes was on sale I’d buy it.
I made the appointment quicker than you can say rice krispie treat.
The receptionist informed me that I needed to bring doctor’s records of my condition, dating within the last year. Gulp.
I mean, I did go to several doctors about all my iss-ues. In 2003. But after thousands of dollars and Doc after Doc just writing me Rx after Rx for Vicodin and birth control I broke up with Western medicine.
For two years now I’ve been seeing my magical acupuncturist and my condition is far better than it was when I was just pumping pills into my body. But yuknow, sista still wants her medical grade puff puff for all the ales that needles can’t cure. Like my neurotic brain that won’t shut the fuck up and let me sleep.
Anyherb, I didn’t want to bother my acupuncturist with getting written consent for the Pot Doc (it’s a sticky subject I wasn’t dying to broach with Dr. Needles). My only other choice was praying that the marijuana gods would shine down, causing Pot Doc to have a memory lapse when asking for my medical documents.
I also wore a deep v-neck shirt and tight jeans. A girl’s gotta have a Plan B. Fingers crossed Pot Doc was a straight man and the weed hadn’t killed his sex drive.
But I was nervous. Really nervous. I needed a joint for all this anxiety I was creating for myself.
In the waiting room I tried to invent some sort of reason why I didn’t have the documents.
A) “House burned down?”
B) “Umm, my doctor wrote everything in invisible ink?”
C) “I’m blonde. And did I mention I have boobs?”
Yeah, option C was the clear winner.
Amidst biting off all my nails, Pot Doc called me into his office. I was relieved to find that he had an unflattering haircut and an out of date suit. Lookin’ like we got a hetero on our hands here. Go time.
I sat down in his office and he asked me if this was my first time. My legs involuntarily squeezed tighter together. I explained to him that I go to the pharmacy down the street; he glanced over the questionnaire I filled out in the lobby and then he asked me what I usually buy.
I was a little taken off guard, but I rambled off a few of my favorite varietals and edibles, finishing my monologue with a particular chocolate bar. To which Pot Doc says,
“Oh I love that chocolate.”
“Me too!” I blurted, a little too eagerly, just happy to have found something to talk about other than the fact that I didn’t have my medical records.
“Have you ever tried the cannabis drinks?” he continued.
“Yeah!!” again with the excitement, chill the fuck out HHH. Then much more matter of factly, “The horchata flavor is my favorite.”
“Me too!” Now he was the excited one. This was looking good people, real good. I released the death grip I had on my purse and relaxed into the chair. Oh yeah, Pot Doc, I’ll talk cannabis with you all day as long as you sign that little piece o’ paper.
He went on to recommend a few different products to me—marijuana bath salts (yes please!), pot lip balm (sure why not!), and bud breath freshener (make it a double!). He said that he uses the breath freshener right after work so that by the time he’s home, he’s high.
I was really starting to like this guy.
After several more minutes of exchanging tips on which sativas are the headiest and which indicas are the best body high, he merged off topic and told me several stories about his crazy ex-wife who was now his landlord. I consoled Pot Doc and told him that she clearly needed some cannabis bath salts in her life. He agreed.
Yeah, I had this one in the bag.
And then, as an after thought, he stood up and walked around my side of the desk to take my blood pressure. Well alright, if you would feel better with such formalities, I’m game.
As he finished he said,
“Okay Miss Charlet, I’ll see you in a year for your renewal.”
As I stood up, Pot Doc reached out to shake my hand. With glee and a deep desire to get the F outta there before he changed his mind, I rammed my hand into his. To find that he only had two fingers.
How did I not notice this? I was too distracted by my missing documents. Clearly I’ve known digitless people in my life, but it rarely goes without noticing. Like if someone has two different colored eyes, or backne, or red hair. You notice those things.
And when you shake the hand of someone who only has two fingers, you want to be prepared, not cuz it’s gross, but yeah, it’s a little weird. Where do you hold onto? Anyway, that moment was like taking a glug of what you think to be beer, but it’s really tomato juice. It’s not gross; you just wished you had known it was tomato juice in the first place.
Anywhatevs, I love Pot Doc, his two fingers, and my renewed marijuana prescription. God bless Cali.