According to the Book of Discipline, a young adult is someone who is "approximately" 18-30 years of age. Which means that I am now, officially, young only in an approximate sense.
I do, however, give thanks for all 31 completed years, and for celebrations yesterday, which included cobbler, cake and a choco taco. (Plus a full moon, good company, and the rest of Weeds, Season 2. I'm hooked on Weeds, which is, I suppose, how a show about a drug is supposed to work. I should be glad it's not named for a more addictive substance. And, since we're never going to have Showtime, I'm attempting to cultivate patience as I wonder what will happen to dear, deep-in-trouble Nancy. It's all clever social commentary. And has that addictive "Little Boxes" song that Pete Seeger used to sing. I would not, however, recommend showing it to small children.)
My folks have been here this week. I just took Mom to the airport, and am working at my transition back to regular life. It's fun to show them my life, but, as one might guess, life is different when they're here. Oh, the impossibility!
My neighbors of the Garden Club have been coming by in search of access to a little piece of ground where they can plant whatever they want; I've been too busy to come out and play. Maybe tonight. Or tomorrow.