November 28, 2004

Herbal Medicine

Where in the world is a middle-aged, high-income white woman supposed to get weed these days? The five pounds I bought an equal number of years ago has dwindled to nothing but a pile of stems and seeds, and I grow increasingly aware that I have lost every last connection during my absence from "the scene".

In days gone by, there was always a handy hippie or two hanging around; a neighbor, or a friend-of-a-friend, or, at times, just some dreadlocked and pit-pungent vegan stranger in a park. My other talents may have been paltry in compensation for it, but in past years, my friends, I proved myself a weed-magnet. I used to brag, as the kids say, "back in the day", about my superhuman sativa-sniffing capabilities; I had scored weed within minutes of touchdown in virtually every major American metropolitan area, as well as some capitals of Old Europe, and a few select places (the Islam-eschewing ones, where it is less likely the natives will cut off your hand for possession) in Southeast Asia. Ah, those were the good old days, people. No worries, no children to watch for, plenty of hard currency - Around the World With a Really Good Buzz - by Queenie MacFarland. International fucking bestseller, no? Ahem.

Alas, for Queenie has lost her mojo. All yesterday's hippies are just so much bong resin, and all my friends are good Churchgoing folk. I can no longer risk the random encounter in the park, for fear of unspeakable things that can go wrong, like murder or rape or robbery or, Lord help me, involvement with the Authorities - and I doubt I am likely to find myself in Bora Bora or Baden Baden again any time soon - unencumbered and ready to party, that is . I have a family and a painstakingly re-created good rep to protect. I am crazy enough to try to grow some - and I have tried - but there again, I am stymied. My thumbs are black as midnight, and I am sheer Death to any botanical matter I attempt to care for. Seriously, my spouse won't even let me cut the grass or trim the hedges anymore. I'm that much of a fuckup.

To add insult to these enumerated injuries, alcoholic beverages of all varieties have recently begun to induce raging heartburn upon ingestion. I still drink...but at a cost. I pop Prilosec now, instead of Valium or other exotica, to feel good. Oh, the ignominy of the aging process.

So, here I sit, sober as the proverbial judge, and here I suppose I shall be content to remain. /insert heaved sigh. I probably have enough THC stored in my body-fat to keep my Aloha unharshed for a couple of months, anyway.

What? You people thought I was writing all this stuff cold turkey sober? I don't think so.

Posted by Queenie at November 28, 2004 10:45 PM
Post a comment

Remember personal info?