u r b a n s l a n t

Last night I had raw oysters for the first time, and if they aren’t pure sex on a plate, I don’t know what is. I can’t even describe them in detail without sounding obscene. Briny, slightly sweet, the tender, glistening meat sliding around in their shells before slipping down your throat–see? I’ve had steamed oysters, but trust me, they aren’t even in the same league as the raw version. I thought that the sake nigiri I had with Robert at Kikugawa last summer was the best single piece of food I have ever eaten, but I think those raw oysters might have that beat.

Today I headed to David’s Bridal to find a bridesmaid dress for Christine’s wedding. The store was filled with teenaged girls shopping for prom dresses, reminding me of the time I was at the mall with my mom on my 24th birthday and a saleswoman earnestly tried to sell me a prom dress. I couldn’t decide if that was a good or bad birthday that year, especially since my mom giggled about it for the rest of the day, “‘What kind of prom dress can I help you find, dear?’” At any rate, nobody tried to sell me a prom dress today, which I actually might have welcomed, seeing as though my 29th birthday is a mere three weeks away. I did try on a gazillion dresses, though, and managed to find three that I liked (Chris is letting me pick my own dress, lovely girl that she is). They’re all fairly simple and elegant, and they could all double as prom dresses, should an invitation be extended my way anytime soon. Hey, I’m nothing if not prepared.

Tonight it’s all about the Final Four. I’m not really a basketball fan, and I don’t know any Florida players except for Joakim Noah, but I’m still going to watch and see if the Gators can pull off the national championship again, especially since they just might be facing Ohio State for the title. It’s not football, but it’ll do.

I was planning to look for a job today, but then Milo and I started a series of impromptu staring contests, and let me tell you, he’s nobody’s fool. He locks onto you with a steely gaze that says “I am the master, and you are going down.” Either that or “I want to lick your nose!” Still, I won every time, and not just because I was the only participant who had any idea what was going on. Then I fed him apple slices and he zoomed around the room like a dog possessed before falling on his side and pushing himself in backwards circles with his front paws, like he always does when he’s feeling a bit whimsical.

I did manage to do some spring cleaning, since the 70-degree sunshine really highlights how slovenly one becomes during the dark winter months. It’s amazing how new and shiny things look once they’ve lost that dull layer of dust.

And I can’t believe I keep forgetting to mention this, but my old college roommate Christine is getting married this June and has asked me to be her maid of honor. Of course I said yes. Christine is getting married! I’ll admit, I guess I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about weddings, because it took me a few days before I remembered that being the maid of honor means you actually have duties and responsibilities to perform. I was thinking about what I need to do (namely, buy a book that tells me what I need to do), when my stomach dropped as I realized, “Oh. Shit. This means I have to give a speech.” I hate giving speeches. I’ll do it, but I hate it. At least I have some time to write it. Because when it comes to giving impromptu speeches, I am The Worst. Total deer in the headlights. With all eyes on me, my mind goes blank, unless I already know what I’m going to say. But now that I’ve got time to prepare, I can plan to stand up at the reception and tell everyone about how Christine and I once went to a Florida-Florida State game in the Swamp and blithely sat in the middle of the visitor section clad in orange and blue, throwing out the Gator Chomp in the middle of the Tomahawk Chop. Or how jealous I was (and still am) of her ability to stay up until 3 a.m. writing a paper and then wake up at 7 a.m. totally refreshed and ready to go (bitch). And how she may look sweet and innocent, but she once tried to cram an Oreo down my throat using brute force. Really. I’ve got the picture to prove it. Oh, wait…actually, I just found the picture, and it looks like I’m the one trying to force her to eat the Oreo. Well, hey, how can one NOT want to eat a cookie? I’m just saying. I was simply helping her accept the fact that she really did want to eat it. Because that’s what friends do. Right, Chris? Aren’t you so, so glad you asked me to be your right-hand woman? I thought so.

My job ended a little over a week ago, and you think I’d have tons of time to lounge around, lazily dropping ripe grapes and silky chocolates into my mouth while ordering the scantily clad pool boy to pick up the towel that I’ve dropped yet again. Unfortunately, this is not the case, and not only because I don’t have a pool, much less a pool boy. Life without work is somehow busier than it might seem. I ventured back to the restaurant of my ethnic demise for a second try at dim sum. This time the meal was great, not only because my chopstick inadequacies were overlooked by all the non-Asians at the table, but also because I didn’t have to worry about anyone proposing to me while I tried not to flip a shrimp ball across the dining room. That night I ate my first fried shrimp head (eyes, feelers, and all) at Fuji Ya, and it tasted surprisingly like nothing. A few days later, I tried a new Thai restaurant with someone who opted to sit and stare at me the entire time, instead of actively engage in any sort of mutual conversation. Not long after that, I was shocked to discover that, despite my initial negative assumptions, Sushi Tango has the freshest sushi and sashimi I’ve tried in the metro area. Somewhere in there, I also tried a great new pizza place in the ‘burbs and another decent one in the city.

Apparently, my life is all about food.

In other news, I ventured up to the Leech Lake area to visit Robert and Sarah in their cozy new digs, where they moved to in January for Robert’s new job. We hit a wine tasting led by a local sommelier and bantered with the town bartender on the best pizza in Chicago (he says Pizzeria Uno, I say Giordano’s). I introduced Robert and Sarah to the wonders of St. Andre cheese while we watched Marie Antoinette (which I found even more boring than the previous night’s Cemetery Man, a considerably notable feat). I found piri piri at the local supermarket, which brought me back to Cape Verde and suddenly reminded me that as of today, March 20, I’ve been back home for exactly one year. I spent this year’s St. Patrick’s Day in an Irish bar reflecting on this as Robert ate corned beef and cabbage.

Apparently, even on vacation or in reflection, my life is still all about food.

Sarah and I shared the bed while Robert camped out on the couch, warning us not to engage in any nude pillow fights without him, a statement that was made even funnier when Sarah politely said to me the first night, “I’m a heavy sleeper–you can do anything you want.” I think I laughed myself to sleep that night. After the nude pillow fight, of course.

Now that I’m back home, I’m trying to find the inner strength to do my taxes, which, as far as I know, must be done by hand, itemized deductions and all, due to all of the complicated Peace Corps taxable allowances. I have to do them soon, though, since I’m headed to Florida in a few weeks to see my adorable new nieces. I’ll be staying with my brother and his family for six days, including Easter, and then spending the rest of my time with my best friend from high school, the only person with whom I’d takhomasak. I think I’ll just turn on some tunes (maybe a little Frou Frou or The Postal Service), grab the trusty calculator, take a deep breath, and dive in. While I’m at it, I should probably, oh, I don’t know, look for another job or something.

Or maybe I’ll sit here and watch American Idol. Life. It’s nothing, if not a crapshoot.

My brain is on a mental vacation. And it would really like another margarita! For some reason I have little desire to share that my new hairstylist is a dead ringer for Ashlee Simpson, and that despite this, somehow I find her absolutely, totally, entirely adorable, even when she stared me down in the mirror and deadpanned, “I hate you. Get out of my salon.” Nor do I particularly care to elaborate on last week’s crazy blizzard and how I trapped myself in my car while backing into the snowbank at the end of my driveway. Well, actually, maybe I do, because that was sort of awesome. After a pointless bout of spinning my wheels, I realized that not only could I not move forward or backward, but I couldn’t open any of my car doors, either, as they were all blocked shut by the massive wall of snow (left by the snow plower) that I brilliantly thought I could jump. Luckily, a very nice guy who happened to drive by stopped to shovel me out and save me from my own idiocy, which sometimes knows no bounds. As much fun as that was, I suppose everyone needs a vacation from their own stupidity once in a while. So I’ll stop here and enjoy my mental margarita that is Hugh Laurie and Dave Matthews somehow sharing the same television screen on House. Cheers!