Tolls and Trunk Pizza: My trip to Michigan

I just got back from Michigan, oh 2 days ago, and now feel my brain cells have started regenerating and perhaps can put together a few sentences. I left my condo at about 3pm on Tuesday so I could make sure I didn't miss the exciting Chicago rush hour and the insanity that ensues while merging across 8 lanes to get to the solitary cash toll lane. Seriously, I live in Wisconsin. I do not, nor will ever own an IPass. I pay taxes so I don't have to pay tolls. Either the Illinois (as a living entity) is a real pill or has a twisted sense of humor, watching an inattentive Wisconsinite maneuver a Hummer past whizzing Chicago assholes whose cars were not equipped with turn signals. When I finally made it to the cash only toll I really had a ball digging out $.80 seeing as I spent all my cash at the Brewer game and Bastille days when my brother was home. $.80, really? Why not $.93? It's just enough to screw up your quarter collection reserved for bar games, not to mention I realize I can no longer recognize nickels (when did the government change the doodle on the back of those and why was I not made aware of this?). I've also decided that dimes need to be retired. I believe they were designed with midget or children hands in mind and they make me feel like a giant when I'm fondling them. My fingers do not rival the capabilities of a pair of tweezers and I'm pretty sure whoever buys my truck in the future will be $1.20 richer. I turned the numerous tolls into sort of a fiendish game, whereby I handed Tollbooth Willy a diabolical assortment of coins that may or may not have equalled the appropriate amount. Usually he simply raised little red hurdling bar before counting his metallic treasures, most likely due to the lack of mathematical faculties necessary to completing such a transaction. Also enjoy the Willy's that actually want to flirt for the 26 seconds they're holding you hostage. As if maybe I'll slip a $.04 business card their way as well. Alright, enough about tollbooths.

Arrive at my cousin's apartment where I'm promptly greeted with a glass of wine - my most favorite of greetings. We get dolled up and hit the town. Upon arriving at our destination we hear, "Nice hat!" Yes, I was wearing a hat and yes it was a nice one. Kudos to the astute gentleman at the bar. As we're ordering our drinks, said gentleman and friend stagger towards us. Before I continue it bears mentioning that Mr. Nice Hat is an extremely attractive fellow whom I've decided resembles Gabriel Macht's identical twin brother. I say this because everything else that followed most likely resembled Gabriel Macht's "special" brother and I put up with it simply out of respect for my eyeballs enjoyment. After chatting a bit we grab our drinks and declare we're sitting down. Wouldn't you know it, they joined us. Apparently an invitation would have been too formal, so commandeering the spaces next to us and blocking both exits seemed more appropriate. The gentleman my cousin was fortunate enough to sit by seemed slightly less drunk (we're talking maybe a BAC of 2.4 compared to Gabriel's 3.8) but had a ridiculous pitch to his voice. I'd like to say it was a martini induced squeal, but some qualities can not be so easily written off. A few highlights of my experience with Gabriel. He said I looked like Gisele. No not a gazelle which may have been more accurate, but Gisele as in the supermodel, Bundchen. Whatever beer goggles Mr. Macht had on that evening I wish I could patent and disperse to the masses. What a beautiful world we would live in. As I'm basking in the glow of this brilliantly adept man, he began what would result in an hour long hiccuping competition with himself. For all you gentlemen out there who find yourself with uncontrollable hiccups while attempting to engage in a conversation with a woman, either excuse yourself until you're done or have someone kick you in the throat. I was opting for the latter but channelling my inner-Gisele, I thought it best to sit and look pretty while slamming a few more martinis. When 40 minutes into our experience together I asked him what my name was and that it rhymed with "Bachel," he simply shrugged his shoulders in confusion, that's when I knew it was love at first hiccup.

We ended up getting back to my cousin's apartment where I proceeded to finish an entire bottle of wine in a solo experiment determining whether or not my liver might actually have the capability of crying. Around 8am I decided maybe a couple hours of shut eye would greatly improve my chances of surviving my first night in Michigan. We woke up promptly at 3:30pm and I emptied a bottle of Advil into my martini hole. As I attempted to get ready for dinner and another night of debauchery I found it quite an exciting challenge to put on make up and manipulate the various enclosures of my apparel. Who knew getting ready could become an all out battle against one's internal equilibrium? So fun.

Dinner was touch and go for awhile as I felt the effects of my beloved Advil wearing off and noticed my cousin drifting off into slumber, but we forged through. Were a little slap happy when we arrived at the bar, especially when the lead singer of the band playing began bouncing frantically on his little stool. I'm always amazed at the turn out on weekdays at a bar. It's as if everyone has as little responsibility and self-respect as I do. The place was soon packed with a drunken assortment of police officers who hopefully left their firearms in their golf carts (they were in golf-attire which I thought may be the fashion rage in Michigan at the moment, but was later informed of an actual golf outing). Again, no invitation necessary, two 40+ year old cops decided our booth looked far more appealing than the rest of the open ones surrounding us. When the cop talking to me finally got his car keys out of his pocket (that I can only assume contained some sort of medieval bear trap based on the difficulty this maneuver appeared to be), I asked the obvious, "What happens when a cop gets pulled over for drunk driving?" His slurred response, "Same as a civilian, get out and run." I'm not endorsing this advice, but it might work. Let me know. My cousin gets stuck chatting with Officer Feel Good who happened to be married. It is men like this who reaffirm my belief that being a spinster is choice and not an unfortunate outcome. I asked him what his wife would think if she knew he was hanging all over a 25 year old. His ingenious response was to whip out his cell phone and give her a call. Not only to tell her what he was doing but to have my cousin speak with her. In what alternate universe would this result in anything other than divorce papers? Needless to say Officer Feel Goods bravado quickly dissipated after the phone was handed back to him and he got to hear first hand what his wife thought of the situation. As this little predicament unfolded another officer joined us and was actually quite charming and better yet, decidedly sober! When we left I asked him to pretend to arrest me because a) it seemed exhilarating and b) who doesn't like being slammed against a wall? Face jammed into the adjoining building without the mobility of my arms I was really on cloud nine until a good Samaritan stopped and asked if I was alright. "Oh yeah, I'm fine. Just practicing for my future crime sprees. Don't worry, my cousin is keeping an eye on me." This is when I turned around and noticed my witness eating pizza off the back of her trunk, eyes closed, completely oblivious to my false arrest. We made it home safely, stuffed our faces with the remaining trunk pizza and went to bed fantasizing about future altercations with drunken law enforcement. This my friends, is the stuff little girls' dreams are made of.