Last week, my two office mates and I somehow got on the subject of dealing drugs. I remarked that after watching Weeds, I seriously started doubting my chosen profession. Nancy Botwin made it look so easy, what with her sipping on her iced coffee, general aloofness, and selling pot to bored housewives and stressed-out suburban dads. She made her own hours, which generally consisted of driving to an area and hanging around, sipping on that aforementioned iced coffee, until somebody approached wanting to make a deal. And she banked. Hell, I could do that.
Of course, after I made my comment, my office mates immediately burst into laughter and jeers because we all knew that I could not, in fact, do that. I talk a good game, but when it would come time for the rubber to meet the road, I’d fail miserably. I’d be the world’s worst drug dealer.
Some people may be surprised to find out I have little to no street cred. Thus, if I were a drug dealer, I’d be shooting myself in the foot right from the get-go. The only terms I know for marijuana are pot, weed, and Mary Jane. I also know you smoke joints, blunts, and roaches, but that’s about it. So if anybody was to use a term that was outside of that limited vocabulary, I wouldn’t know what the hell they were talking about. Similarly, if a person was to ask if I was “holding,” I’d probably looking at them blankly for about five minutes before the light bulb came on in my brain and I exclaimed (in my loud voice), “OOOHHHHH! You mean pot!” Yes, I would actually do that. Outside. In public. BECAUSE I HAVE LITTLE TO NO STREET CRED, LIKE I TOLD YOU.
I’ve always been the girl with a thousand and one things to carry. It started in middle school, when I had to carry my saxophone everywhere because the band room had no lockers and my parents didn’t want to chance my instrument getting stolen (understandable). So everyday, from seventh to eighth grade, I would be carrying some variation of this: sax, lunchbox, backpack, and books/notepads that wouldn’t fit into my backpack. This was with a locker. Sadly, this has carried into my adult life, and on any given work day, I can be found carrying some variation of this: purse, book, lunchbox, water bottle that won’t fit into lunchbox, groceries (sometimes), and a book (sometimes). Following this pattern, it’s a pretty safe bet I’d have even more crap to carry if I were a drug dealer. I’m imagining several totes filled with all manner of strains and baggies in different quantities. And if this were my setup, there’s a BIG CHANCE that as I would be rummaging around for product for a client, some shit would fall out RIGHT AS A COP WOULD BE PASSING BY and my ass would be in jail faster than you could say, “HOLY SHIT, THERE’S A COP STOP WHAT YOU’RE DOING RIGHT NOW, IDIOT!”
Speaking of cops, remember how I said I had little to no street cred? This would fail me in my interactions with cops in a heartbeat. First of all, I’d just look guilty. One look at my face and a policeman would be all, “She’s totally selling weed. Better get the taser.” I’ve never mastered the art of masking my emotions. Secondly, I’d act guilty. Because I’m a horrible, horrible liar. A cop could approach me with intent of asking simply for the time, and I’d be all, “I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT. I AM A LAW-ABIDING CITIZEN AND YOU ARE HARASSING ME. BE PREPARED TO HEAR FROM MY LAWYER.” And if that cop had a dog? Forget it. Even if the dog was a Yorkie, I’d run away so fast, it would look like this:
So maybe I’ll leave the drug dealing to Nancy. After all, I can drink coffee and act aloof at my current job. I’m making less, but I also don’t have to worry about going to jail because a Yorkie happened to sniff out my “product.” Or because I said, “OOOHHHH, you mean pot!” in front of a cop.