Vacation, Part 1

We're back. I have eaten my weight in pizza and cookies and baked goods, as well as drunk my weight in beer I can't procure in The Green Mountain State.

When we got to Flint, Michigan I was still wide awake. In fact, even at Lansing I felt fine. I imagine that part of it was the leftover adrenaline from driving in a near whiteout just after London, Ontario for about half an hour. Either way, we had crossed into Canada and back, and 180 miles from Chicago I realized that I could in fact make the entire drive in one day. So I called my parents to ask if they might leave a light on, only to be told that we were half an hour from hitting a wall that we would be stupid to try and drive through. The Lake effect Snow that Northwest Indiana and Southern Michigan are famous for was pouring down just past Kalamazoo, five inches in two hours, and where cars had attempted to get through they were piling up. Good that I called, then.
The b.h. and I stopped at a Mot3l Six, where dogs are welcome. He checked us in while I walked the parking lot with the boys. Our room was warm and set apart from other occupied rooms by our request. I took a quick shower and popped open an Old Rasputin Russian Imperial Stout that I had brought along for just such an occasion. At ten and a half percent alcohol, I have oft referred to it as "Mommy's Night Cap". On the television, which was static-ey and broken, every channel featured a map of the state in the corner with the words "Winter Storm Warning" and large red spots beginning at the border of the next county. All anyone could talk about was the massive amount of snowfall. We turned the TV off and tried to sleep.
There were two beds, and since both dogs were nervous (they don't like hotels because they have no idea where they are and there are weird noises in every direction all night long) I suggested we each sleep in a bed with a dog. The b.h. said he would rather sleep with me, so first he and I got in the Left Bed together. Wyatt jumped up after us, and Kilgore wandered around the room whining nervously until I got in the Right Bed with him. Then Wyatt moved over to the Right Red and soon we were all asleep. At some point they managed to crowd me so much that I was overheated, so I climbed carefully out from under the covers and moved back to the Left Bed with the b.h. The next thing I knew Wyatt was back with me, and I was spooned on either side by him and the b.h. I fell back asleep. I woke up again when Kilgore started crying, but before I could register what was happening he stopped. I awoke again, still in the Left Bed, now with Wyatt and the b.h. was in the Right Bed with Kilgore, who was now quiet. When I finally woke in the morning, Kilgore and Wyatt and I were all in the Left Bed, and the b.h. was by himself in the Right. I have no idea how or when that happened. So, a good night's sleep for everybody then.
Despite all that activity, I felt totally refreshed when I woke up, and we were soon back on the road to Chicago. Though we were moving along very quickly, the roads were still quite messy in places and I was glad we had stopped for the night when I saw how many cars were stranded along the way. We reached my parents' house in just over two hours, and were soon enjoying another cup of coffee and some homemade chili for lunch.
For dinner, we went out to Louisa's pizza. This is a tradition whenever we go home, since for some reason there is nothing resembling Chicago pizza anywhere else in the country and since I was raised on it I miss it all the time. Louisa is 87 years old, and she used to work for the guys at Pizzeria Uno and Due (not sure if I spelled that right but I don't like their pizza much so I'm not worried about giving them proper credit) way back in the day. Her restaurant is run by her and her family, and it is full of over-sized photos of her children and grandchildren, and often features Sinatra blaring loudly from the speakers.
Louisa was in attendance that night, and when my mom told her that the b.h. and I were visiting and that we had had her pizza for Christmas dinner, she brought out a plate of shortbread cookies for the table.
"These were made by my Irish friend, but they're pretty good. I cut my hand so I didn't bake my Italian cookies for Christmas, but I'm making some tomorrow so if you come back later in the week make sure you call ahead and I'll put some aside for you. These here are Irish, but they're very good anyway."
And so we were home.