You're the hemp in my...



Just so you know? It's two in the afternoon.

And I spent the day- so far- in bed. Snuggled beneath a Pendleton blanket, cruising the information highway on Steve's laptop. Nibbling pieces of smoked salmon. Approving Spicy Comments. Paying bills. Ordering lavender pillows stuffed with rice or buckwheat [not to eat, Darling, to heat- in the microwave- till toasty and warm and soothing; therapy for this sleep-deprived blogger's crooked neck and quirky tummy still not right from her sojourn into public dining in Los Angeles].

In light of a certain individual's recent ranting (and her pondering whether to throw in the towel and head for the nearest smoke shop- conveniently located next to Saints and Sinners) this post will be a simple thank you to Certain Readers- you know who you are- for the suggestion of hemp.

Hemp, as in milk.

Hemp, as in, You're the hemp in my mate... (that's MAH-tay for those of you not familiar with Viggo's preferred caffeine source).


How does it taste? asks a certain curious husband, pouring creamy moo-cow Half and Half into his steaming mug of organic roasted fair trade cafe (as in caa-FAY con LAY-chay).

The bastard.

Um. Not bad, your gluten-free goddess murmurs, smacking her chapped lips in a decidedly unladylike and childish manner.

Though it's kinda, sorta, um, grassy. That's it. Grassy.

Like cud? he offers.

Exactly! she snorts and nods and wiggles off to bed again, climbing under the covers with art books, a spoon, and white rice toast.

Life is good.



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