I don't know how we made it through the weekend without any life-changing events occurring, but it was a "Home Show" weekend, so I can see how you might have gotten your hopes up.

The weather happened like there was a sudden rift in the season, with hot air bursting out of a vent from the winter's cold, cracked earth. I wanted to spend it all getting the garden up and going, but I knew the rift would close up by weekend's end, and there are too many other tasks around here that need attending to.

I did get outside for a bit. (Since it was 77 degrees, how could you not?) I took an hour and clipped up the overgrown Cabernet vine, cutting them into asparagus lengths and bundling the twigs for some grapewood smoking later next summer. (Let me know if you have any tips.) And I pulled out the dusty old stroller. Not the sleek, ultra-modern greased-up Jogger stroller, mind you, but the old reliable perambulator. The pram. The one we've hauled from the ends of the earth to its opposing corners, slapping babies in it and pushing it over gravel paths to astonishing view points and trailheads. So the thing was a bit dusty, and I gave it a good hosing off, ready for round three.

It was also January 29th, the day the Girl Scout Cookies are released. We dressed up the wagon and dragged it around the cul-de-sac on a practice run. Stopped at neighbors who'd already purchased some and gave the Little Ditchman a lesson in salesmanship: speak up confidently, look people in the eye, and know your product. I'm the worst salesman in the world -so I admit to being more focused on the wagon decorating- but sales are what we have Mrs. Ditchman for, who, unfortunately for the day's cookie disbursement quota, was at the Home Show, doing actual sales. Or so we hoped. Anyway, kid, let's hope you have your mom's genes. Unless there's a contest for creative marketing, as I could have a hand in that.

It was also my Big Sis' birthday, who turned 50. She lives a hundred miles away, so going to the big celebratory bash put us outside of the safe zone in case we suddenly needed our midwife. But I gave them a call and enjoyed the glory of being on Speakerphone with her family, some visitors, and another sister, who was also on Speakerphone, patched in from Hawaii, via L.A. -I could hear her perfectly, if you're wondering. Funny. Here we are, old, and living in the future, and we're all still stuck in Speakerphone technology. But, hey, it works.

My older sister turned 50. FIFTY! Not that she looks it. Quite the contrary, actually, she looks younger than me at nine (okay, 7-and-three-quarters) years her younger. I mention it because it was pointed out to me and I suddenly felt old. My sister is 50?! I remember when my mom turned 40, and I thought that was old, and here we are up to fifty. That's life. You're as old as you feel. What possessed me to have another kid at this old age, is a question that will transcend the ages, and by some could be construed as child abuse.

And there's nothing like the commensurability of having children to make you feel simultaneously young again and older than Zeus. I spent a good portion of the weekend making fairy pop-up books, eating Girl Scout cookies, and having lightsaber battles, but in the end found it all exhausting, with me yearning for work. Not that I have energy for work. I'm holding out hope that when my youngest son is old enough to enjoy and appreciate good beer, I'll still be able to hold my own in the video games. There, the twain shall meet. Zeus willing.

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