Last night my lovely boyfriend took me out to eat at the Crescent City Brewhouse, which was the locale of our first date. And our first anniversary dinner. And several dinners between. I really like it there. Good beer (not that I’m picky) and good food. Even though it’s on Decatur Street, which is tourist central, it doesn’t feel chain-y, even though I have a suspicion it is. But I won’t tell George that, he may never take me again. So we’ll pretend it’s a local restaurant with home-brewed beer and live jazz (which I could care less about but George likes) and that way I’ll continue to go. For free.

I was good and had a half dozen raw oysters (for ONE POINT. ONE POINT!) and a salad that was pretty low-pointy, I think. Only used a bit of dressing. Yay me. Beer was 24 oz, and deeelicious. (Weiss beer with a lemon. Ooh, now I’m a beer connosseiur and I can’t spell that word.)

Right now I’m listening to work people place their order for lunch. (Not me. I’m going to have my low-fat cheese filled pita and popcorn.) But they are ordering cheeseburgers and barbecue sandwiches with baked potatoes (“with everything on it…oh yeah, throw on the cheese, why not?”) and potato chips and cole slaw and everything I can’t eat. Need I mention even though I’m having a dull lunch that won’t smell as delectable as theirs, they’re on Weight Watchers too, so I do feel somewhat superior. (Wonder why I’m losing weight and they’re not?) Ah well, I still love the people I work with. But they actually wonder why they aren’t losing weight…hmmm…

And at the same time, I’m wildly jealous. Will I ever be able to nonchalantly order a pulled-pork sandwich with a loaded baked potato again? I guess not. I guess that’s a good thing. As long as I don’t order it without considering (and disregarding) the consequences, I must be doing okay.

Mom’s coming in tonight to take us out to eat. Hmmm. Don’t think I’ll be throwing caution to the wind, tonight.