Artichoke dip garlic bread
Bread
Tomorrow is my birthday. Not a momentous number: 34. Slowly creeping up on those mid to late thirties. Oh God. Am I already in my mid-thirties? How did I just now realize this? I don’t feel depressed about this number, per se. Maybe more like, meh. I don’t feel old. Older. I do still cringe every time I hear the word, “Ma’am.” But, like my Mom said, “What are people supposed to call you?” If somebody called me “miss” I would probably give them the worst death stare ever because I know they are just being a kiss ass. My thirties have led me to many self realizations so far. I suck at receiving gifts and compliments. You could probably gather from that second paragraph that I am a sort of hard to please person sometimes. I think I have worked on becoming more gracious—or maybe just better at not letting my face make an unwanted reaction. My body may be slowing down, but ye olde face is still quick to show all my inner thoughts. The second realization is that after two kids and 34 years of life, my vision is awful. Why do the little youths I live …
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