In the Weeds

Tonight after work, I got into the elevator at my condo building with four others. Three young men in their late teens or early twenties in casual dress, and one older woman in what looked like a church pot-luck dinner dress and pearls. I slid in the front, closest to the elevator door.

I smelled it instantly.

As soon as the metal door slid shut, the whiff of marijuana was so strong that it almost made my eyes water. If I hadn't known better, I'd thought that it was being smoked IN the elevator. I suspect it was just in a pocket, or sticking to clothes from a recent smoke, but I'm not sure. I couldn't help but smile to myself and think how the offender must have been either super-conscious of the scent, or oblivious to it entirely.

For risk of drug profiling, I won't commit immediately to which character I believe was carrying the pot and the corresponding smell.

But let's just be fair. Unless this lady goes to some seriously happening pot-lucks, I think we all know who had the weed.

The best part is this.

As we reached floor three, the little old lady, standing to my left in the corner by the elevator buttons, said brightly, "My my. It sure smells like grass in here!"

I almost swallowed my tongue.

And then she, with a happy grin, continued, "You boys must have been out there playing in the park, huh?"

Oh. That kind of grass.

Nope, Grandma, pretty sure you were right the first time.

The boys didn't respond to either statement. But when she exited the elevator on the 11th floor, and the doors slid closed, they broke out in a fit of laughter, bumping each other and generally just cracking up. It took everything in my power not to turn around and laugh with them, but I'm pretty sure they'd have just told this story later and included the part where the middle-aged lady laughed with them like she was a hip young thing.

So I refrained.

Grandma's reaction reminds me of the naivete that I experienced in high school, on the subject of weed.

I was a pretty solid goody-two-shoes. I know, you're shocked. It goes against every tough girl image you have of me. But, it's true. I had never smelled, seen or much less smoked pot. I was 14 years old, and living a very 14-year old life of innocence and childish joys. I recall vividly asking my mom what pot smelled like. (I have no idea what prompted that question.)

She said, and she was right, "When you smell it, you'll know. It smells sickly sweet, and nothing else smells quite like it."

Fast forward a few months. It was 1991 and I was a high school freshman. A bunch of kids decided to go to Lakewood Amphitheater to see Aerosmith. I went along. Brought my blanket and my hooded sweatshirt—you know, the innocent's essentials.

During the show, perched on the lawn littered with colorful blankets, fans of all ages and beer cans and other trash, I sat with my friends and jammed to the show.

At one point, as the sun started to slip behind the theater, I turned around to realize that someone was sitting on the back edge of our blanket. It appeared they were holding a small pottery souvenir. And? Lighting it. Hmmm.

I was unsure. I mean, I wasn't a total imbecile, but again, I was pretty naive to all things illegal.

Quietly asking a friend nearby, I remember asking what that kid was doing.

My friend looked at me incredulously, "Uhm, he's smoking a bowl." Like I was the biggest idiot ever.

He may have been right, but I didn't know. I nodded like I knew that and of course that miniature piece of pottery was a bowl. That you smoked with. I knew that.

I got home that night, in time for my 11 pm curfew, and told my mom the story.

The first question she asked wasn't, "Did you do it?!?!" with horror. Nope. She said, with a knowing smile, "So now you know what it smells like. Sickly sweet, isn't it?"

She was right. Just one of the many life lessons I learned from my mom in those pivotal years.

I guess no one ever taught Grandma that one.

Small Spaces, Big Laughs

Since I mentioned recently that I was getting the itch to get back into the real estate game, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about life in the city.

A few things have occurred to me, and I am not sure you'd understand unless you've:

a) lived in a huge city,

b) lived in a high-rise,

c) lived without a car or

d) lived on your own for a really long time.

So, here's to us. The apartment dwellers. The high-rise residents. The world-weary urbanites. The soloists.

With that in mind:

You know you live alone in an urban, high-rise apartment when...

...you now understand the idiom "not enough room to swing a cat" quite literally.

…you only have two small lamps and the whole room is bright.

…your social events have a max load capacity requirement guest list.

....you had to choose one color palette for every 'room' in your house since you can pretty much stand in the 'foyer' and see every corner of the joint.

...your next-door neighbor is a quiet Portuguese woman who cares for her not-so-quiet Portuguese wheelchair-bound mother.

...you have invented stories, and names, for the neighbors you see in the building next door.

...your arms are sore from the full-contact sport that is grocery shopping and walking the two-blocks and up the elevator and down the hallway and into the apartment only to dump it on the floor because your kitchen is too small before it gets put away and who's hungry anymore fact of the matter.

…you have to switch out the clothes in closet seasonally because only one season fits at a time.

...you recognize that privacy must be planned, as in, "I'm going into the bathroom for awhile, okay?"

...you have scheduled a luggage or a shopping cart from the front desk, a la the bellstand at a hotel, just to get your shopping treasures inside.

...you know that your upstairs neighbors are new parents and like to make love at about 9 pm on Tuesdays.

...you have experienced the 'use the stairs only in an emergency' down 13 flights when you awoke to the fire alarm, only to find out that the billowing smoke was luckily coming from the south tower of the building, not the north (yours).

…you can carry on a full conversation with someone in the kitchen from your bedroom.

...you see someone downtown, on the sidewalk, and you think you know them from somewhere, all before you realize that they run the 'volunteer library' in your building, which says something about your lack of social life.

...you have to dust the kitchen countertops and the dining room table more than once a week because of the dust from Lake Shore Drive.

...you know when your downstairs neighbor is cooking Italian, and you smell it long into the night.

...you have ridden in an elevator upwards of 12 times in one day.

...you have three overnight guest options—a pull out sofa, an Aerobed and to spoon with you.

...you know precisely how much laundry you can manage to carry in an elevator up to the 26th floor laundry room without wincing in pain.

...your wingspan is wider than your bathroom.

...you have towels and sheets folded into a linen closet that doubles as storage for your hotel-stolen-toiletries, your feather duster, your ace bandages, your laundry detergent and your extra lightbulbs.

...you live, shower, sleep, eat and drink within 4 yards of at least 12 people and you could neither recall their names or pick them out of a lineup.

...you know the Cubs are playing a night game because of the neon glow it makes in your bedroom and the sullen admission that, no, the applause is not for you.

...you have actually felt jealousy, no, rage, at the sheer envy that bubbles up inside when you overhear someone talking about their "backyard," "garden," "driveway," "deck," "patio," "garage," or, God forbid, their "cul-de-sac."

...you've decided that it no longer matters if the neighbor building sees you in your skivvies while you iron in the living room.

...you've felt self-conscious while putting your it-was-more-than-one-week-I-swear stash of wine bottles into the recycling bin in the trash chute room.

...you know your bus is coming because you can hear it before it arrives, and you may actually make it downstairs and out the front door before it pulls up to your stop, sortof like in grade school when you stood at the base of your driveway.

...your morning showers are affected by the untimely flush of your upstairs neighbor.

...you just vacuumed your entire apartment while plugged into one outlet.

That last one actually just happened to me and I laughed out loud.

Because it helps to have a sense of humor while trapped in a 900-square foot, 4-room looney bin.

Trust me.

Any other small-space urban dwellers that want to chime in?

By all means.

In fact, shout it aloud—I can probably hear you through the walls.