Da Boot

by Cathy & Patti


We've mentioned many times before that, yes, we are mothers and wives, but we are still independent women who like to have fun outside of those roles. Part of this fun is found in spending time with girlfriends. Unfortunately, as most moms know, the logistics and demands of motherhood don't always make that easy or even possible.

So last winter, when all of the stars and our calendars magically aligned, we found ourselves giddily planning a "Holiday Girls Night Out". This was to be a night where we'd don sparkly things and meet up at a friend's house for champagne and appetizers, and then we'd hit a trendy restaurant, and then, then! We'd head to a club where we had VIP entry! We planned it nearly three weeks in advance (because, as mothers, the only form of impulse that still exists in our lives is spending $200 on boots. NOT THAT WE'D KNOW.), and the anticipation joyously ate away at us until the Big Night finally arrived.....

Patti
It was the coldest night in history. That didn't stop me from putting on a sequined tank top and the highest heels I owned. After all, this bitch was hittin' the town and I intended to hit it properly. I picked up Cathy and her sister, Sophia, who met us at Cathy's house, and we headed to our friend Susan's house to meet up with her and our other friend Michelle for pre-cocktails. Susan greeted us at the door, still in her work clothes and entirely un-hooched. She looked tired. "Do you guys mind if we just order in?" I felt the night deflate just a little, but considering I was just about to start a new job the following Monday, and that I had come out of a horrible, rollercoaster of a year, I was actually secretly glad to save money. I could see Cathy, Michelle and Sophia were disappointed. They had been looking forward to seeing and being seen.
"I'm cool with it. Is it okay with you guys?" But Cathy, too, was watching her wallet, and as much as it pained her to let go of this rare opportunity to eat at someplace other than McDonald's, she agreed.

We ordered some Thai food and demolished a bottle of champagne, and I realized our hostess was wilting by the minute. "Go get ready, girl!"
"Um... would you be mad if I didn't go?"
I felt the night deflate a little more. "Really? Oh, come on! Come with us! You'll wake up!"
But I could see she had made up her mind.

Susan (in the middle) looking better than all of us even when she's "tired"

Bellies full and spark on due to the champagne, we left Susan's house and teetered through the ice on our heels to the car to head for downtown. Michelle decided to take her own car, because that night she was operating on borrowed time: The Sitter Was Waiting. Cathy had gotten us VIP entry into a happening club because she knew the DJ, so we were looking forward to cocktails in a cushy corner.

We couldn't believe our luck when I found a surpremely supreme parking spot a mere block from the club. If you know Chicago, and you know Friday nights, you know this is more rare than a lunar eclipse. Or husbands remembering what wives tell them. We scurried arm-in-arm, the three of us, the December wind slicing through us despite our thousands of layers, and finally arrived to the club. Cathy said the DJ's name, the magic password to what would be our Friday night Utopia, and we were "let" in.

Cathy is known as a "bolter", meaning, we could be walking together and I could fall into a black hole, get attacked by a lion, or get swallowed up by quicksand, and she would just keep walking, never looking back. Not because she is thoughtless; she is simply...purposeful. And her purpose this night was to get to the fun, already. My purpose? Was to remove my damned coat. But I couldn't, because the top button, which was closed with an elastic loop, had gotten completely tangled up somehow, and there I was, in the middle of this swanky club, all bent in half, trying to twist myself out of my 289 lb down coat. And Cathy, in her bolter style, had, well, bolted, leaving me bent in half, my coat swallowing up my head as I struggled in vain to GET! IT! OFF! Fortunately, Cathy's sister, Sophia, is not a bolter, and she sensed one of the pack was missing. She came back to me, half laughing, half freaked out. "What are you DOING?"
"I'm shtuck." My words were muffled by down.
"Here, let me help you...Sophia, bless her non-bolter heart, carefully undid the disaster I had created over my head, slid my coat back down onto my body, and masterfully untangled the button.

By this point, Cathy had finally realized her posse was missing,and she came back. "What is going on?"
"I was stuck in my coat!" I yelled through the music.
Cathy laughed. "That is SO Patti."
Unfortunately, she was right.

We found a booth, and were a little disappointed at how empty the club was. Plus, the music? Kind of sucked. There was a table next to us teeming with girls in barely-there-dresses being plied with drinks from their Russian sugar daddies. I looked at Cathy. "Should we get a drink?"
"I wonder how much they are?"
"Probably alot."
Being broke was so inconvenient.
Sophia sunk into the booth next to us. "This music sucks." Cathy and I nodded in agreement.
I felt the night deflating even more.

Aren't we good fake having-funners?

Michelle finally showed up, but stayed for less than an hour. I was actually a little jealous she had an excuse to leave because we stayed for two hours, and honestly? Only because we felt we "should". After all, there we were, free on the same night, kids being taken care of, in what was supposed to be a trendy club that we'd probably not get the opportunity to come back to again. Yet - we were bored. And because we felt we shouldn't be, we forced ourselves to stay and listen to lame music, and watch girls in hooker dresses shimmy their way into various VIP booths. The most entertaining part of the night had been the girl who sobbed next to the DJ booth, heartbroken at his refusal to acknowledge her existence.

We finally decided to call it a night and headed back out into the arctic, and as we got closer to my car, I saw a flash of orange. On my tire. And as we got even closer, that flash of orange became more and more clear, until I realized.... I had gotten "Da Boot"! "Da Boot" is a classic Chicago neon sign that screams, "LOSER! LOSER!", and there it was, on my car, opening its big, fat, orange mouth to the entire world.
"I don't get it..." Sophia wondered. "Isn't that only for people who have, like, tons of tickets?" I was confused, too. I knew I didn't have "tons of tickets", and I didn't understand how I ended up with the "Da Boot".

Collective teeth chattering, we got into my car and turned it on to warm ourselves up, and then we sat there, wondering what the fuck to do next. "Da Boot" place was closed, and the ticket that had been slapped on my car informed me that I could go to the "Da Boot" place tomorrow. But I needed my car NOT tomorrow; I needed my car right now. I started to cry as the night deflated into itself for good.

Cathy:

Not our boot, but a boot nonetheless

I didn't think that night could get any more interesting than when I saw Patti try to heave her sleeping bag of a coat over her head...in da cluuub. Or when that girl. who looked like a Bachelor reject, the wall holding her up next to the DJ booth, sobbed shamelessly into her hands. So when we decided to call our mentally-hyped yet big droopy letdown of a night to an end, I never expected it would end with a bang...I mean, a Boot.

Here we were, 1:30 in da mornin' outside da club with da boot. After much bitching, high-pitched disbelief and finally, the sobering conclusion that we would have to leave Patti's car on the street and she would take care of it tomorrow, we resolved to take a cab to my house, where thankfully, my sister had parked her car and wouldn't you know it? Had to drive towards Patti's house to hop on the Edens to go home.

But Patti was so broken by seeing this Scarlet Letter on her precious car, she couldn't find the silver lining in the situation, no matter how much we tried to comfort her. Shoulders hunched, ego battered, hope gone, she dragged herself to the trunk of her car.

"What are you doing?" I asked, half hoping she would have a Boot Buster in her trunk to appease her Bolter friend.

"I can't leave these Christmas gifts in my trunk out here. I'm taking them with me," she mumbled sadly, pulling out industrial-sized plastic bags that rumbled with board games and other goodies.

My sister, in the meantime, hailed down a cab and in we shuffled.

The entire cab ride home, Patti was near tears. Stuffed into the corner of the cab's back seat, the crumpled, crinkly bags laid across her lap, she was super quiet - and if you know Patti, this is also as rare as a lunar eclipse. Her expressions, coupled by the few sentences she did blurt out, expressed her frustration and anger at herself. Why is this happening? How could this happen? Why tonight? Why now? How was she going to explain this to M? How much would she have to dish out to get her car back? How could she let this happen?

We finally pulled up to my house and while my sister warmed up her car, I gave Patti a huge, comforting hug and told her that tomorrow was another day and tomorrow, she would get her car back. And that she did. Turns out she had ONE outstanding parking ticket that she had gotten years ago and hadn't received any reminder notices to pay it. 'Cuz that's how the city of Chicago works, folks.

Even though the night began as a bright, shiny and plump balloon that was determined to fizzle down to a floppy, wrinkled heap of pruney latex, it allowed us yet another oh SO Patti! story we could always look back on and laugh about. And those? You'll never catch me bolting away from.