I lost my medical marijuana letter the other day. Since I only take some brownie before I go to bed to relieve pain so I can go to sleep, I stupidly didn't think about it until night... for three nights in a row. Which means that when I did finally go to sleep on those nights, it was at about five in the morning. So yesterday my niece Kate took me to the doctor to get another letter, and then we went to the dispensary. The dispensary is closed. They had a sign on the door that said they only do deliveries now. Actually, that's nice, because there are times when I feel too sick to go down there. Anyway, I called in an order for my brownies (I don't smoke... that wouldn't be healthy). Kate and I had to go run some errands, so I asked if I could just leave my ID and letter with my son and have him receive the meds. "No problem," I was told.
If you have been reading this blog for any length of time, you will know that my household can always turn things into a problem.
Despite my having told Momo that they had two new Tongan security guards that are easily 6'6" and 350 lbs., he greets the grumpy one at the door with, "Hey sole!" Which means "hey boy" in Samoan. This could've been a natural mistake because Momo has a Samoan uncle and cousins, except that I had already told him these bruisers were Tongan. I had even warned him that you could tell the uncle and nephew security guards apart because the nephew is nice and the uncle is grumpy.
So Uncle Tonga gives Momo a look that clearly says, "I am thinking about ripping off your arms and shoving them down your throat," but settles instead for telling Momo that he's Tongan. Do you think that Momo gracefully gets out of this? What my son lacks in bulk, he makes up for in chutzpah. He looks Uncle Tonga in the eye and asks, "You know what you call a good looking Tongan?... Lucky."
Amazingly, when Kate and I returned home, Momo was uninjured and had the brownies.
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