So this weekend was, like I said, my mom's birthday. We went to Gabardine, a restaurant owned by Brian Malarkey (of Top Chef and now The Taste). He owns a few really well-known restaurants in San Diego, and this was one of the ones that wasn't wayyyyyyyyyy out of my price range. Still, for just my mom and I, the bill was almost a hundred bucks. Of course, we had an appetizer (TRUFFLE FRIES. OH EM GEE.) and drinks. Multiple drinks. And for dinner my mom got Lobster Gnocchi--btw, the fact that a fatty like me resisted ordering LOBSTER GNOCCHI (that's two of my favorite foods in the world, y'all), is an accomplishment. Even with the truffle fries. And the beer. And the Old-Fashioned. I ordered Mahi Mahi. Which was bomb, and WW friendly--like the rest of my meal was. Stupid.
Then I got an unexpected phone call from my cousin, who I affectionately have always referred to as Tooty. And here's the story behind that, just because. He's my non-biological aunt's biological cousin. Are you following? He's my age, my aunt is my mom's age--hence why I call her my aunt. They're best friends of over 30 years. Tooty was living with their biological grandmother in Juarez, but she was like, 80 years old, and my aunt and uncle adopted him to give him a better life when we were 12. But before that, he had come and visited numerous times and my gringa ass couldn't say Arturo right. Instead I said it art-too-tow. Yeah, I know. That led to my aunt and uncle jokingly calling him Tooty, and it just stuck.
Anyway, I digress. He called and said he needed cousin time, so I went and picked him up and we drank wine at my house.
The Redneck Wine Glass is mine, and Tooty's drinking straight from the bottle. Classy.
So, needless to say, I had a great weekend, but a bad weekend. Oh, and the Superbowl happened. I went to my friend's house and had wings. Lots of homemade wings. And wine. Bad bad bad. But sooooo good. Then we went to Cold Stone. Sue me.
Side note: fav superbowl commercial was by far the Dodge Ram one. Aka, 'so God made a farmer.' I loved it. Maybe it's because I'm a country bumpkin. Maybe it's because I like trucks. But the biggest reason I loved it is because it showcased the true heart and soul of this country--really, the foundation of this country. Hard-working, self-made folks who aren't ashamed of getting their hands a little dirty to make a buck. And who won't accept not being successful and providing for themselves and their families. Unlike so many people I see every day working in a downtown area who have completely lost any sense of reality and accepted failure and are content to live off other people's dollar. I know this is probably controversial, but I don't really care. Especially because I don't have real readers anyway :) just kidding, the few of you who are out there, love ya!
Good news is I didn't GAIN any weight! I'm crossing my fingers I'll cross the 10 pound line by Wednesday morning!!
Also, just because I need to vent, I have to say that the title of this post stands for the physical pain I felt at the gym, and the emotional. Yes, sad to say I'm going through heartbreak. Isn't it weird how every time you get your heart broken, you look back at the last time and think, 'that was NOT heartbreak.' I hope I'm not the only one. Wtf is with that? You'd think we'd learn. But I don't seem to ever learn anything. Almost 2 years I feel have been wasted. I won't go into all the gory details, but I'm sad. Really, really sad. And the best friend issue I talked about before is still an issue. I'm praying every day that everything going on in my life is leading to a better me--mentally and physically. It's just hard getting there I guess.
Alright enough of me. Hopefully next time you hear from me, I'll have lost 10 pounds officially.
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