Growing up.

Sunday nights are filled with dread.
My day cannot begin without my cup of coffee.
I say that I'll do things, but I'd really rather not.
I say that it's ok, but it's really not.

I am officially a grown-up.
Talk about things not being all that it's cracked up to be.
By the end of the day, I don't want to do anything.
I don't want to play.
I don't want to talk.
And much to the chagrin of my loyal followers, I don't want to cook.
But because I'm a grown-up, I cooked.

Italian Baked Chicken and Pastina
(courtesy of Giada de Laurentiis)















It was good. Not amazing. But good.
The glass of Zinfandel helped.
I guess enjoying my drink more than my meal was very grown-up of me.