It wasn’t long ago when medical marijuana was legalized in the state of Ohio. That time only 21 conditions were recognized as qualifying conditions to allow patients to get medical marijuana. Recently, there have been lot of talks and the list might just get a bit longer.

But as of the moment, the diseases are still being petitioned to become fully qualified. There has been a lot going on in the state and we’ll discuss that further in this article.

Current Situation in Ohio

The program has gone through lots of setbacks and delays but since its full operation back in 2018, people have been looking forward to its expansion. The authorities also have the power to make the list longer. But it doesn’t seem too bright for the residents of the state who are hoping for it to happen.

Getting conditions qualified is not an easy task because technically, weed is still illegal and not much research has been done to prove that it actually helps patients scientifically. All we see are testimonies and lawmakers aren’t too sure about it.

21 conditions are actually quite a lot but not quite enough. People are still petitioning to add more conditions to the list but not all of them get cleared through.

Compared to many other states, Ohio is one of the few who considered conditions such as fibromyalgia and Tourette syndrome to be part of the 21 conditions. Even patients who suffer from chronic traumatic encephalopathy (CTE) can even have medical marijuana treatments if they so do wish.

Conditions Being Added

Since November 2018, the medical board has been accepting petitions for conditions to be added. About 110 petitions were received and the list was narrowed down to five conditions.

All the petitions had to include evidence and data that will support the condition being petitioned. Being a Schedule I drug, it was pretty hard gathering evidence and studies that could prove the effectiveness of the drug.
That’s why the board asked experts to help review the proposals and check if the claims are true. Despite having evidences and data, it’s still not a guarantee that the petition will be approved or even considered.

Like what happened last May, Ohio’s medical board committee ran through a list of conditions submitted for approval. Depression, insomnia, and opioid addiction were the ones rejected but the board is still considering on letting anxiety and autism come through.

The proposed expansion of the medical marijuana program, if approved, will be the first in the country to consider insomnia as a qualified condition for medical marijuana treatment.

Being supported by the experts consulted by the medical board for marijuana, it would a safer and more effective alternative for present treatments.

According to statistics, about 44,000 children who live in Ohio have autism. If their parents or guardians want them to avail of such services, they can easily just registered. As for adults, the number is still not quite accurate.

Reasons for Rejection

Others may not take the rejection lightly simply because they were really hopeful for its approval. Many cry out that if it’s truly to help out patients suffering from such pains and ailments, every condition should be at least considered.

As for experts, they have their bases on why insomnia, depression, and opioid use disorder won’t get approved. Ohio is not the only state double checking and reconsidering on whether to accept or reject such conditions.

Experts says that while marijuana can help patients in the first few days, it won’t help them have normal sleeping patterns that will help with their insomnia. Worse comes to worst, it might even become too addictive without giving any help at all which is counterproductive.

Depression-related studies for marijuana were also low-quality and were not able to produce the kind of results that really supported the treatment. For the condition to become qualified, it has to have lots of studies supporting its claims and results that really convince you of its effectiveness.

Opioid addiction won’t also be solved by marijuana because there’s no proof that the use of opioid decreased after marijuana was introduced.

But these experts don’t deny that there are studies that have shown improvements during the first few stages of use. It’s just that the claims are not strong enough and it doesn’t push the cause further.

A decision still has to be made on whether or not the conditions get to become qualifying conditions. But one thing’s for sure, autism and anxiety are a step closer to getting qualified and a lot of people are going to benefit from it. The state just needs to make sure that the dispensaries have enough supply for a surge in demand.
If you want to know more, you can just visit:

Dear Davy Jones,

I’m writing you a letter to send off into the digital airwaves in hopes that you might read it as you drift up to Rock Star Heaven.


Let me assure you, I’m not jumping on the posthumous bandwagon. I already wrote about my love for you (here and here) long before you were eulogized by Deborah Norville. That posthumous bandwagon? They haven’t thought about you for decades. Pay them no attention. And they’ll probably tack on a footnote that you once played in the musical “Oliver!”

Here there will be no footnote that you once played in the musical “Oliver!”

We weren’t meant to be, you and I. You were not of my generation. I had no business loving you. I should’ve been off hanging out with kids my own age. Maybe Kirk Cameron, like the rest of teenage-1989.

But thanks to cable reruns, I hung out with The Monkees. And I think I speak for a lot of women when I say, I watched the show just for you.

In my mind, the other Monkees were just your human props. Mike was too mature for me. Peter was too immature for me. Micky was too Micky for me. And then there was you. And maybe a few great songs. And maybe some Benny Hill-esque shenanigans set to a few great songs.

You were as cute as a teeny-tiny turnip seed. A normal-sized woman might’ve fit you inside of her back pocket. You probably would have enjoyed that. Me, at just 5’1”? Well, I might’ve fit you inside of my backpack. You probably would not have enjoyed that. Unless it had some sort of transparent, net-like window thingy that provided proper ventilation. And maybe a salt lick and a few cedar sticks to chew on.

1966-Davy. (Sigh.) Oh, what a pity that I wasn’t even a zygote back then. Because we would’ve made beautiful, freakishly short children.

And those children would have had no trouble at all finding parts as gnomes or Oompa Loompas or garden shrubs in their high school plays. Then a talent scout would spot them and they’d be snatched up by Hollywood because of their unique ability to play 9-year-olds for 35 years.

Oh, what might’ve been.

I’m sure the rest of the Bradys would agree — despite you donning a pre-‘80s mullet, you were the best celebrity cameo ever to try to shag a teenage Marcia Brady. You put even Desi Arnaz, Jr. to shame. And Joe Namath, too. Well, he was Bobby’s crush so that’s neither here nor there.

I’d like to close by honoring you, the Davy Jones I wish to remember.

I don’t really know what you’re doing in this iconic video for Daydream Believer. You’re snapping. You’re clapping (a little off-beat). You’re lip-synching (a little off-sync). You’re trying to play a duet with Peter. He doesn’t seem to like that. You’re desperately hoping Micky will hand you back your tambourine so you’ll have something to do with your stumpy little fingers.

You poor thing, you’re just knocking yourself out to appear relevant here, what with the way that everyone scoffed at you for calling yourself a musician.

And then finally, mid-song, you realize something. All you really need to do to be loved is that odd little dance that makes you look like a bell-bottomed leprechaun.

A bell-bottomed leprechaun that I want to make sweet, sweet love to.

Said a 1989-Angie who believed “make sweet, sweet love to” means passionate necking.

And said a 2012-Angie who knows exactly what it means and wants her husband to know here that she loves him very much.

Rest in peace, Davy. I hope to see you on the other side. (I hope that won’t be for a few more decades.) I hope you’ll look just like 1966-Davy. With no mullet. But that little gold tassel necklace? Yes, please wear that.



P.S. Sorry, Davy, that I opened this letter with a line from a Beatles song. I always get The Monkees and The Beatles mixed up. Oh, except for the fact that The Beatles were actual musicians and not like, say, former Broadway actors who played in the musical “Oliver!”…

Last week, while perusing The Marcia Archives, I made an amazing, life-altering discovery.

My children are ages four and two. So, knowing it would be highly unethical to read my children’s private mail, not to mention a betrayal to the intentions of 1982-Angie, I decided I would refrain from tearing open the envelope with the sole purpose of exploiting its contents.

Instead, I called on an episode of Kate & Allie and used my steam iron.

As expected, within the envelope was a letter from 1982-Angie. Much like Nostradamus’ eerie prediction that we would grow fins and live in underwater suburbs by the 21st Century, 1982-Angie’s prophetic words will astound you.


Thus, I’m sharing this letter today in hopes that you will learn from this voice of the past.

Dear Rosebush, Unicorna, Blinky, Rubik and Farrah,

Oh, my children. I love you more than the fruit-flavored jelly-simulated substance inside of a Pop-Tart.

That’s why it is important for me to write you this letter and tell you what I know.

I have freckles. I have blond hair. My favorite Smurf is Smurfette. My favorite food is frosting.

By now you are living it up in 2004 on your new planet. Ron Reagan is continuing his father’s five-term legacy by serving as your 41st Commander in Chief. Soon, in a dramatic upset, President Ron will fail the Pepsi Challenge, lose reelection, and Leif Garrett will return to power.

If I could stay up all night, first, I’d eat popcorn until I threw it up. Then, I’d play UNO with my mom. Finally, I’d put on fancy dresses, purple eye shadow and watch Falcon Crest.

As you sit eating your packaged astronaut dinners, you may be surprised to know that people in 1982 once ate their food whole and served on plates. Yes. While we here in 1982 are gobbling down our push-up pops and cherry chapstick, we can only dream of the day when all food comes packaged in tubes.

Sometimes I pretend Tenderheart Bear and my Cabbage Patch Kid fist-fight over who will sleep next to me. Sometimes I make them say, “She loves me best.” “No, me.” “No, me.” “I’m gonna rip out your yarn hair, bitch.” And so on and so forth.

My financial advisors tell me you should buy stock in apples.

“And she’ll tease you. She’ll disease you. All the better just to peas you. She’s a locust. And she knows just what it takes to make a toe brush. All the boys think she’s a spaz. She’s got Bette Davis eyes.”

I like that song.

I have a really bad feeling about a man named Ryan Seacrest. Do not trust him. He’s what we call back here in ‘82 “a buttmunch farthead dickweedface”.

One time I fell off my bike and got a piece of gravel stuck in my forehead. My mom picked it out with her eyebrow tweezers.

Well, my Shrinky Dinks are in the oven so I better skedaddle. But I want to leave you with an important piece of advice. Listen to Dolly — working 9 to 5 is no way to make a livin’. Do what you love. Look at me, by now I’ve fulfilled my dream of running a profitable mylar balloon store.

Yours truly,


P.S. What’s your favorite color? Mine’s rainbow.

My husband and I had a grown-up evening out last night while his parents watched our kids. When we came home, the kids were in bed and this was on the refrigerator.

My daughter is finally getting to the age where she can draw things that actually resemble humans. But as someone who grew up as a card-carrying member of the Drawing Enthusiasts Club, I’m hyper tuned in to what she draws and how.

So, right after I squealed with delight at how edible this is in a way that makes me want to cram it into a sugar-coated candied fig and devour it so that it resides deep in my soul forever, the very next thing I did was notice this. Um . . . my (ahem) unit.

Perhaps it’s a tail. Didn’t we all have tails at one point? Or — dear God no! — perhaps my daughter believes me to be transgendered. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

I promise I haven’t given her a reason to believe this. I don’t have to wax a mustache, not even a stray chin hair (yet). And I think I look pretty damn decent in a dress. I think I still own one anyway. Does a bathrobe count?

But then I thought, Relax! This happens all the time when you draw stick people. It’s a textbook stick people affliction. Certainly the risk is always there when you don’t pay attention to where your lines connect. Common rookie mistake. Some of my best friends drew their stick people this way and still got accepted into college. No big deal.

But then I noticed that my son appears to have either a really bad comb-over or is wearing a toupee. In fact, he has great hair — like thick, beautiful, long California surfer dude hair. So I found this to be grossly inaccurate. Although, I applaud her that the rendering of my husband’s hair is spot-on.

Disturbingly, my daughter looks to have a spider embedded in her bangs. You probably wouldn’t have noticed this had I not pointed it out. Or you probably wouldn’t have noticed this had you never experienced having a spider embedded in your bangs. Because I have. (Read here.)

Why is my daughter the only one with teeth? I asked her this today and she couldn’t explain it. I’ll let her mull it over a few days, give her some time to notice that my teeth are remarkably straight and white, and then I’ll request a meeting to discuss it further.

All of this reminds me of my own childhood drawings that I need to lug out of that old box from our garage. From there, I’ll have to dig through a few hundred high school art class drawings that are only bad in an amateur way and not bad in a cute way, though thankfully not bad in a delusional way. And, after that, I’ll hopefully find the beat-up manila envelope labeled Angie’s Preschool Drawings that my parents once left on my doorstep in the middle of the night (seconds before their tires squealed away).

I bet there are some prize-worthy nuggets in there. I bet there are some I drew of people. I bet there are some I drew of my family. I bet my mom looks like a woman. I bet I’ll put this drawing to shame. Not that there’s anything wrong with it.…

I finally ran out of Circus Peanuts. I wanted to throw them into the bag of other random stuff that I have for you today — like the kids’ party grab bags of yore. But without the Circus Peanuts, it’s not a grab bag. The Circus Peanuts really tied it all together. A theme, if you will. A bag-o-crap, if you want.

So instead of a grab bag, I just have random. Random bits thrown together. No bag. No Circus Peanuts.

But what about raisins? I do have those.

Random encounter. I met a woman at a party last weekend who used to work on the East Coast for — get this! — the guy who launched The California Raisins. “What was he like?” I had to ask. “Oh, my ex-boss?” Actually I had meant my favorite raisin, Beebop. But then I felt dumb so I blurted out, “Of course.”

She said he was still riding out his glory days of living high on the fat hog of stop-motion animation advertising. My favorite nugget — he wore Ray-Ban sunglasses to work. Before they were cool again. That’s how much he wished it was still 1986.

The look on the woman’s face said, This information is probably boring to you.

No, this information is all very important to me. Do you have anywhere you need to be right now? Do you want to get outta here and grab coffee? I had so many more questions to ask, including whatever happened to my favorite 1980s claymation Christmas special, A Claymation Christmas Celebration. I’ve searched in vain for that gem. And if there was time, I’d ask what she had on the Where’s the Beef? lady.

More advertising. I used to (still) get so enraged that the owl in this commercial chomped down on this innocent, trusting boy’s Tootsie Roll Pop that I could hardly see straight. I’m talking serious rage. I’m talking I wanted to rip the head off of that smug owl to see if he had a Tootsie Roll center. It was my earliest taste of injustice. It tasted like poop.

Dynomite! This is Jim, the husband of Darla. Darla of She’s A Maineiac fame. And also of German Clock Girl fame (sorry, Darla). I’ve had this sitting around in my email inbox for centuries waiting to do a new Dynomite! post.

This will probably be controversial, but I’m giving this ensemble a C+. I had to take off style points because polyester by no means has the stretchy give necessary for playing a brisk game of [your guess is as good as mine]. I miss those butterfly collars. Although, they used to be dangerously pointy. If parents didn’t already say it back then, they should’ve said, Don’t run with scissors. And for God’s sake don’t run while you’re wearing that shirt.

Eulogy. Jim’s shirt seems like the perfect segue for this. I hope you’ll join me in pausing for a moment of silence for my favorite Jewish Puerto Rican Sweathog, Epstein. When most Welcome Back, Kotter groupies were all like, “Oh, Vinnie Barbarino!” I was all like, “Oh, Juan Luis Pedro Philippo DeHuevos Epstein!” Robert Hegyes died last month at the age of 60.…

Dear Readers,

This post is not supposed to be funny. It’s about funny. That doesn’t mean it needs to be funny. This note follows a spirited discussion I had with my husband (a.k.a. #1 Fan) when he gently told me this post is not funny. Which made me launch into a belligerent, paraphrased Joe Pesci bit. “Funny, like I’m a clown? Am I only here to amuse you?” To which he responded, “Um, I love you.”

I take criticism well.


P.S. I am not having my period.

I’m making my kids watch Looney Tunes. I own the four-disc DVD set and they can call them out by name. Mom, can we watch the frickin-frackin guy? Yosemite Sam it is then. Of course, I realize they now may be more apt to drop a 300-pound anvil on someone’s head. And, sure, I worry about that. But I’ll be damned if they ever tell me Clifford the Big Red Dog is funny.

When I was pregnant with my daughter, I had three everynight prayers:

1.) Please God let her be healthy. Extra digits are fine. Just don’t let her have to spend life in a hospital room.

2.) Please God let her have compassion. Please let her care about all of humanity. That includes the 31% who are complete assholes and don’t deserve to share oxygen with us, let alone be allowed to cut in line at Target just because they have two items and are oblivious to the fact that I have a screaming toddler in my cart. Where was I? Oh, yes — compassion.

3.) Please God let her have a great sense of humor. She doesn’t have to be funny. She doesn’t have to be the one at the party telling epic stories. What I mean is, please don’t let her be the one in the greeting card aisle laughing at the dog licking its anus.

Then when I was pregnant with my son, I repeated items 1 through 3, except that just after “. . . at the dog licking its anus” I added “. . . at anything about a woman having her period.”

I’m always intrigued to hear about people’s earliest taste of funny. How do we know what’s funny? Is it learned, is it genetic?

Immediately upon being weaned from the breast, I was bottle-fed a steady diet of The Muppet Show, Three’s Company, Looney Tunes, Saturday Night Live, The Carol Burnett Show, Caddyshack, The Jerk and Meatballs. (I wish I could add to that Monty Python, but my parents were not that cultured.) These shows are not necessarily funny. In fact, I would not stand behind any of them as funny. At the time, they were funny. But at the time, I was a kid. Now when I watch them, I still slap my knee and think, Now that right there is funny! And I have no idea if they’re actually funny or if I’m just amused by the memory of them once being funny.

Funny means a lot to me. In many of my relationships, I can remember the pivotal moment where I thought the person was funny. I mean, really funny. A month after dating my husband, we were sitting in a coffee shop and he presented a secret handshake he had invented for us. It contained ridiculous hand gestures and miming. It ended with jazz hands. I knew precisely then that I would marry him.

And then there was the moment in 5th grade when I moved to a new school and sat next to Kelley. She was caught talking in class. As punishment, she was seated next to Benign New Girl. But we had just received our textbooks, and in it was a picture I found funny. (And I’ll stand behind that as funny.) And I made sure to point it out to her. And she thought it was funny too. And that pretty much cemented our friendship.

We declared ourselves Supreme Spazzes. We embraced all things funny. Most of these things were not funny, but that’s what made them funny. We held sleepovers and then fought sleep to watch ancient reruns of Saturday Night Live and the Canadian sketch comedy show SCTV. Yet we still awoke early in time for Pee-wee’s Playhouse.

We decided, in order to carry on our lifelong commitment to funny, we must pair off with SCTV cast members. I would marry Martin Short and she would marry Eugene Levy. Our new surnames would ensure we could continue with our future plans to open S & L Pet Supplies (hamster towns incorporated, if you will).

I’ll be honest, we were freaks. And I wouldn’t want to babysit me back then, let alone carry on a conversation with me. Not that I would understand one bit of it. When normal girls were off making up dance routines to Paula Abdul songs, we were off making up a secret language comprised wholly of things we found funny. (I can assure you, none of these things were funny.) Later, if there was time, we made up dance routines to Paula Abdul songs.

My formative years included revolving periods of being both ostracized and respected for my brand of funny. I earned enough collateral to coin slang words and phrases that were adopted into school dialect. One such word – schmenge [SHMAYN-gee] – continues on in the halls of my alma mater today.

Some people are engraved on team trophies or hall of fame plaques. My living legacy is schmenge. I’m quite proud of that.

But then, I took a gamble and blew it all. It was coming up on our winter break, and we were to vote on the annual movie to watch on the last day of the semester. I decided to go for something obscure and formed a massive lobbying campaign to vote in The Apple Dumpling Gang. I seemed to remember it was funny. I hadn’t seen it since I was 6. When I was 6, I ate playdough.

So I put all my money down on red and hoped it’d pay off big. Just wait until they see this funny. And my classmates took my word for it – it must really be funny.

The day before winter break, a day when kids are typically giddy and drunk on impending freedom, 150 eyes stared somberly at a screen, watching men dressed as saloon girls, riding horses backwards, and a whole lot more of this crap:

A good litmus test for funny — if even 8th graders don’t think it’s funny, it probably isn’t.…