Marry Me or Marry-Wanna?

Dear Dategirl,

OK, so there's this guy named Johnny, and I'm really into him. We ended up kind of "getting together" at this school thing we went to. To make a long story short, I'm really into him, but sometimes it just seems like weed is more important to him than spending time with me. What do I do?Steph

Let me preface this by making it clear that I am firmly located in the pro-legalization camp when it comes to marijuana (as well as every other drug, for that matter). Unlike drunks, potheads don't generally get all stoney-pants and go out and start brawling. Nor are they a particularly loud bunch. In fact, before I spent four years working at High Times, I enjoyed the occasional joint. Back then, I naively thought there was no such thing as being addicted to something as benign as the mari-hooch. Working with a bunch of 24/7 stoners changed my mind on that and put me off the chronic for life.

While I still think it's very rare, the fact is, people can get addicted to anything from Easter Peeps to America's Next Top Model, so why would a psychoactive plant be any different?

But let's just toss the addiction paradigm aside because it takes a lot of weed and dedication to become an addict, and I'm guessing little Harold or Kumar is just your average teenage stoner dude: annoying, yes; pathological, probably not (unless you get in the way of his White Castle).

Your problem is that you're dealing with a teenage boy. I keep reading these accounts of full-grown teacher ladies seducing their young charges and find it completely unfathomable. Teenage boys are the most irritating creatures known to man—I didn't even like them when I was their age. (Girls have their own set of problems, but we're not going there today.) For the most part, they're oblivious, insensitive, and obnoxious—it's best not to take them too seriously.

At the risk of sounding like your mommy (I like to think of myself as more of a glamorous auntie type), you need to put this in perspective. You "got together" with a kid who'd rather smoke pot than smooch up against you—who needs him? Certainly not you. At his age (and again, I'm guesstimating), I'm sure he would also enjoy playing with his Wii, watching televised sports, enjoying frozen, trans-fat-filled microwave burritos, and/or engaging in a dozen other retarded activities rather than having a heartfelt conversation about his feelings with you.

And why not? He's a kid. It's a fact that the male of the species is slower to mature than the female. Way slower. Think of it as boy years—like dog years, but in reverse. Say your guy is 17. In boy years, that translates to 13.5. Oddly enough, the average 25-year-old guy is barely 18 in boy years. I know the math is screwy, and (of course) there are the rare exceptions to this rule, but, though the youngsters are cute, most men are fairly useless until they're about 30 or so.

Back when Granny here was in high school, I wasted far too much time worrying about whether or not boys liked me. My big clue that they didn't was the day a bunch of football players surrounded me, screaming, "You're UGLY!!!" as one of them shoved me up against a locker and threatened to punch me. Good times.

The remainder of my high-school years were spent feeling like those jackasses were right, and in my senior year I hooked up with a physically abusive asshole who also happened to be one of my town's only dropouts. So instead of getting mired down in a pathetic Lifetime-movie-type spiral of self-loathing like I did, move on. What some dopey pothead thinks of you won't matter two months from now, let alone two years. Worry about studying and getting into a good college. Read good books, don't smoke, and be sure to always wear sunscreen (you'll thank me in 10 years). That's not to say you shouldn't have anything to do with the hairy beasts—in fact, far from it. Just put them where they belong: second to you.

That concludes this week's Mommy Moment.

Dating dilemmas? Write Dategirl at or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.

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