Daily Dabble: Married to the Best Undercover Agent I Know
The thing about my wife, Mary Jane, is that she’s no fool. Never has been. She’s got the radar of an air traffic controller and the poker face of a Vegas dealer who’s seen it all. And yet, for years, I’ve operated under the comforting illusion that I am The Great Stealth Stoner of Our Time — the man who can sneak a bowl, hide the evidence, and stroll back into the living room smelling like fabric softener and innocence. And for years… she’s let me believe it. That’s the part that gets me. It’s not that I’m actually pulling off the con of the century — it’s that she’s decided it’s better to let me think I am. Somewhere between my stash drawer and her knowing smile, we’ve built an unspoken treaty that has kept the peace, the love, and the snacks flowing in this house.
The Treaty
Our marriage has its own foreign policy when it comes to cannabis:
- I don’t make it obvious.
- She doesn’t make it awkward.
This is the agreement. No debates. No public negotiations. No airing of grievances. It’s the kind of unspoken understanding that diplomats wish they could bottle and sell. I don’t light up in the middle of the kitchen while she’s making dinner. I don’t leave my vape pen on the nightstand. I don’t stash gummies in the cookie jar. In exchange, she doesn’t question why “taking out the trash” sometimes takes 14 minutes or why the garage smells faintly like a Grateful Dead concert. We orbit each other in this quiet understanding, like two satellites passing in the night, one of which smells faintly of Kush.
One of Those Moods
Last week, I went outside for “mail” at 9:30 p.m. The mailbox is twenty feet from the front door. It’s a quick job… unless, of course, you take the scenic route through a well-packed one-hitter. I came back in, cheeks loose, eyes a touch glossier, carrying a single envelope that I’m pretty sure was junk mail from last year. Mary Jane’s on the couch, flipping through Netflix. Without looking at me, she passes me the remote and says: “Why don’t you pick something… you’re in one of those moods.” No wink. No smirk. Just casual delivery. That’s the thing about her — she doesn’t need to call it out. She just plants the flag in the middle of the conversation and moves on. It’s both unnerving and endearing, like she’s gently reminding me I’m not half as sneaky as I think.
The Snack Surveillance Program
Mary Jane has a tell of her own. If I’m cooking anything at midnight, she’ll appear in the kitchen doorway, leaning against the frame with her arms crossed. “What’s for dinner?” she’ll ask, with that specific tone that means I know you’re high, but I want to see how weird this gets. One night, I was making what I called a “loaded nacho lasagna.” Tortilla chips layered with cheese, beans, salsa, sour cream, more cheese, and crushed Doritos for “texture.” She didn’t intervene. She didn’t comment. She just watched for a few minutes, shook her head, and went back to bed. The next morning, she asked how it turned out. No judgment in her voice — just curiosity, like she’d been watching a cooking competition where the prize was “bragging rights and indigestion.”
The Strategic Ignoring
Sometimes, she’ll hear the faint click of my stash drawer upstairs. Or she’ll pass by the garage just as I’m “fixing something” at the workbench that definitely isn’t a home repair. Her eyes will flick toward me, then away. She won’t slow down. She won’t ask questions. She just keeps walking. That’s not disinterest — that’s strategy. It’s her way of saying, I see you, but I’m choosing peace. And honestly? That’s love in its own way.
The Smirk
The smirk is her most devastating weapon. It comes out when I’m two hits deep into a comfort show and laughing way too hard at something that isn’t actually that funny. We’ll be watching TV, some mediocre sitcom rerun, and I’ll be halfway doubled over at a throwaway joke. I’ll glance at her, and she’ll be looking at me with that smirk — the one that says, You’re ridiculous. And I love you anyway.
The smirk is dangerous because it makes me wonder:
- How much has she really noticed over the years?
- How long has she been letting me play secret agent while she’s been holding all the intel?
Close Calls
There have been moments — oh, there have been moments — where the treaty nearly collapsed. Like the time she found a lighter in the couch cushions. I was ready to spin a story about needing it for “emergency candle situations.” She just handed it to me and said, “You dropped this,” with zero emphasis, like she was passing the salt at dinner. Or the time Kushie — my loyal Brittany bird dog — wandered into the living room with an empty edible wrapper stuck to her paw. Mary Jane looked at me, then at the dog, then back at me. I braced for impact. She just said, “She’s your problem if she gets the munchies,” and went back to reading.
Why She Lets It Slide
Here’s what I think: she’s not letting me get away with anything. She’s letting me be happy. She’s figured out that this isn’t rebellion, it’s ritual. It’s not about sneaking around, it’s about finding my own version of peace. And maybe, just maybe, she enjoys watching me put on my little cloak-and-dagger act. It’s like letting a kid believe in Santa Claus for a few extra years — not because they don’t know the truth, but because it’s fun to see the joy it brings them.
The Genius of the Unspoken
Some couples need everything out in the open. Every habit discussed, every feeling dissected, every opinion aired. That’s great for them. But Mary Jane and I? We’ve got the genius of the unspoken. She doesn’t need to approve, and I don’t need to confess. We both get to keep a little mystery. And in that mystery, we both win.
The Big Picture
The truth is, Mary Jane knows more about me than anyone else on the planet. She’s seen me at my best, my worst, my hungriest, and my highest. And she knows when to step in… and when to step back. It’s not about weed. It’s about trust. It’s about letting each other be ourselves without turning everything into a debate or a negotiation. Some nights, I’ll be lying there next to her, the faint smell of pine and citrus still clinging to me from the garage. She’ll be scrolling on her phone, pretending not to notice. And I’ll be smiling to myself, because I know that she knows… and she’s letting me think I’m winning.
That’s our love story.
Mary Jane knows.
And she lets me think she doesn’t.
Which, if you ask me, is the smoothest move of all.