I'm getting old

It's true. When my Mother e-mailed to discover what I so desperately wanted for Christmas this year, I responded with "well, I don't really want anything, but I do need some mixing bowls and a muffin pan." Mixing bowls and a muffin pan. Is this what I've become? I also requested measuring cups/spoons, a potatoe masher, a pizza slicer, a can opener, chopping knives, cookie cutters, a rolling pin, a spoon rest, a ladle, etc. I asked for a rolling pin. I'm in my mid-twenties! I am young, hip, and cool! I live in the thriving metropolis of Houston, Texas! I can literally walk to the Galleria and to numerous trendy, expensive bars and restaurants! You'd think I need sexy heels (which I do), flashy jewelry, short skirts and shiny, low-cut tops!

Nah. I just need a rolling pin.

I asked for this for a reason. I'm not just a freak. I was baking cookies the other night, and I wanted to use my brand-new cookie cutters that my mother so kindly bought me. Making cut-out cookies involves rolling the dough onto the counter in order to create a flat pallet off of which you can cut out your cookies. In order to do this, I needed a rolling pin. Well, seeing as I didn't have one, I used the next best thing: a wine bottle. After covering said wine bottle in flour, I proceeded to roll the dough out onto the counter. Needless to say, I was incredibly unsuccessful. Dough got everywhere, particularly the places it shouldn't have been, specifically, my mouth. :( It was a mess. I was a mess. AND I had to throw away the wine bottle because I was too lazy to wash it off and place it back on top of my cabinets, which is where my wine bottle graveyard is located. I guess I'll just have to drink another bottle of wine. Too bad.

Moving on, the whole point of this entry was to explain how lame I now am. Hopefully, I have successfully conveyed that message to you. If not, let me elaborate. I could easily be talked into not doing anything fun on New Year's Eve this year. Yeah. What the hell? For some reason, sitting at home, drinking Irish coffees and watching movies seems like the most fantastic idea in the world to me. This isn't to say that I don't have incredibly fun options: I could drive to either Austin or Dallas to attend fabulous house parties at good friend's houses. I could also hop on down to San Marcos to spend time with my amazing sister and niece, which I may do, just not on New Year's. I, too, could go home and party it up with some old high school peeps. OR I could stay in Houston and go with college friends to a pub, dress to the nines, party my ass off, and stay at a super-nice hotel. But all of these options involve money, driving somewhere, and me showering. Sitting on my ass at home, eating chicken pot pie does not, however, involve me bathing. Or even having to resemble a respectable human being. This option seems just glorious, and that, my friends, makes me old. And somewhat anti-social, but I can live with that.