Monkey Toes and Footie Pajamas

A blustery, early-November evening in Ann Arbor town...

“We’re going to drink Monkey Toes!” my friend Kelly blurted out. Bill the driver cocked his head toward the back of the cab, and he and I both said simultaneously, “did you just say ‘Monkey Toes’?!”

Kelly was visiting from Chatanooga, and we had called Amazing Blue Taxi to transport us to the first stop on our Girls’ Night Out, Café Habana. “You mean Mojitos, right?” I laughed. “Yeah, of course,” Kelly said, “what did you think I said?”

And that’s pretty much the way things go with us. Our outings are legend (at least in our own minds), with antics not limited to Ann Arbor – we’ve cut a swath across a good chunk of the U.S., and ventured as far afield as England, making friends with dozens of cab drivers, waitstaff, and miscellaneous barflies along the way. Our London expedition was most memorable for the fact that we went two straight days without sleep, in a marathon of pub crawling interspersed with the occasional double-decker bus ride.

Joined by our faithful partner in crime Sherry (sadly, BFF Rachel was MIA, volunteering at the A.R.K.), we did in fact start with Mojitos and appetizers at Ann Arbor’s newest entrant to the restaurant scene. The mariquitas (fried plaintain strips) were EXTREMELY garlicy, and the chicken croquetas were odd little ground chicken nuggets, but the dipping oil was yummy. We shared with a gentleman named Mark, who took a seat next to us at the bar entirely unwitting of the vortex of booze and girly conversation he would be sucked into.

Mojitos a blurry memory and two bottles of pinot grigio dead soldiers, we made our way across the street to Arbor Brewing. Settling in, Sherry tugged my sleeve and pointed across the bar. “Is that guy wearing pajamas?” she asked incredulously. “Mandy, you have to go talk to him,” Kelly exclaimed, “that’s a blog post waiting to happen!”

If your average foreign correspondent posted to the world’s armpit is even half as liquored up as I was that night, I can tell you that the fact checkers earn their paychecks. Cause the most intelligible thing written in my little notebook is where Stasek and Sara themselves wrote their email addresses. I think the story was that Stasek lost a bet, and was on Day 6 of a full week of wearing pajamas. Everywhere. Even class at law school. As if having a dish like Sara on his arm weren’t evidence enough, Stasek must be a pretty extraordinary guy to have the cojones to follow through on a wager like that.

Blogging duty served, I had to call it a night. My cell phone rang and it was Rick, owner and driver of my Amazing Blue chariot, waiting outside to carry me home. Mark and I promised to meet for lunch next week (Vinology, natch), and Kelly and Sherry progressed to Old Town to indulge in some good, greasy food in a hopeless attempt to soak up the alcohol. At home, snuggled under my poofy down comforter, I dreamed of monkey toes, rubber duckies, and footie pajamas.