Don't tell a FIB
There are a lot of things about Wisconsin that I kid Gretchen about, but the fact of the matter is you'd be hard-pressed to find friendlier people anywhere. Where else will the mailman, who doesn't know you from Adam, pull over and announce to you unprompted that he's very excited that his wife is expecting a baby but they're not telling anyone they know yet (as happened to Gretchen the other day, presumably because she had Baby with her)? It can actually be disarming coming from the East Coast, because people in Wisconsin won't hesitate to strike up a conversation with you (or give you a picture of deer) at any given time. It's difficult not to get into the spirit of things; a few nights before our wedding we went out with a group of friends (mostly jaded East and West Coasters) to a local German tavern and before long everyone was drinking beer from a gigantic boot, eating fried cheese curds and clapping along to polka music. It simply can't be helped.
But friendliness has its limits in the Dairy State...and it ends at the southern border. See, something about Illinois just gets under Wisconsinites' skin. Not Minnesota. Not Iowa. Not Michigan (although they do seem to enjoy having a laugh at the expense of the Yoopers). Their venom--to the extent that they really have venom--is reserved for people from Illinois. Or should I say, FIBs (the F is a vulgar gerund, I is for Illinois, and B refers to a fatherless child). I get the sense that there's nothing that can't be blamed on the FIBs. I was driving back to the airport and one of the Milwaukee radio stations even had a feature called "News of the FIBs" where they reported on strange happenings to the south. (By the way, I imagine folks from Chicago--go ahead, TBF--find this to be simultaneously perplexing and quaint.)
Why does any of this matter? Because it seems that every time we fly to Milwaukee and rent a car, this is what we get:
And why does that matter? Because the whole time you're there, you feel like you have a target painted on your back...not that anyone is going to hurt you or anything (people are much too nice for that, although we did get a few comments from Gretchen's friends about the plates), but that pretty much every state trooper with a radar gun is going to be on the lookout for you. When you're making the long drive up north sometimes you just want to see how fast you can go but there's a little voice in your head that reminds you that it doesn't matter if everyone else is driving 80 and you're driving 75...with those plates, guess who's going to get pulled over?
Truth be told, I've been lucky enough never to get stopped despite some very close calls, but one of these days I'm hoping to rent a car with real Wisconsin plates so I can see how fast I can get up north (and laugh at the Illinois cars I see pulled over along the way)...
But friendliness has its limits in the Dairy State...and it ends at the southern border. See, something about Illinois just gets under Wisconsinites' skin. Not Minnesota. Not Iowa. Not Michigan (although they do seem to enjoy having a laugh at the expense of the Yoopers). Their venom--to the extent that they really have venom--is reserved for people from Illinois. Or should I say, FIBs (the F is a vulgar gerund, I is for Illinois, and B refers to a fatherless child). I get the sense that there's nothing that can't be blamed on the FIBs. I was driving back to the airport and one of the Milwaukee radio stations even had a feature called "News of the FIBs" where they reported on strange happenings to the south. (By the way, I imagine folks from Chicago--go ahead, TBF--find this to be simultaneously perplexing and quaint.)
Why does any of this matter? Because it seems that every time we fly to Milwaukee and rent a car, this is what we get:
And why does that matter? Because the whole time you're there, you feel like you have a target painted on your back...not that anyone is going to hurt you or anything (people are much too nice for that, although we did get a few comments from Gretchen's friends about the plates), but that pretty much every state trooper with a radar gun is going to be on the lookout for you. When you're making the long drive up north sometimes you just want to see how fast you can go but there's a little voice in your head that reminds you that it doesn't matter if everyone else is driving 80 and you're driving 75...with those plates, guess who's going to get pulled over?
Truth be told, I've been lucky enough never to get stopped despite some very close calls, but one of these days I'm hoping to rent a car with real Wisconsin plates so I can see how fast I can get up north (and laugh at the Illinois cars I see pulled over along the way)...
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