Hijacked

by Cathy

This past weekend we attended my daughter's volleyball playoffs. While crammed into uncomfortable bleachers in a humid, smelly school gym, I struck up a conversation with a fellow school dad.

"So, what are your grown up Halloween plans for this weekend?" he asked. "Got any?" 

I was a little baffled as to how to answer this, since I'm not used to being asked what my plans are. But out, the sad truth came a tumblin'. "Nothing," I replied flatly. "Just a bunch of Halloween festivities for the kids. Boring stuff."

He almost leapt out of his seat. "I know, riiiight?!" he said emphatically, venting what was obviously boiling beneath the surface for quite some time now. "We've become so BORING! Everything we ever do is for the kids and nothing for us." With a sweep of his hand through the air, he drove his point home. "Our kids have completely hijacked our lives."

And brotha, ain't that the truth.

We are so exhausted and overrun with all of the kids' activities, that we don't have the time nor the energy to plan something for ourselves. As a matter of fact, it's something that doesn't really enter our minds as an option. And when it does? It's always an afterthought for which a zillion reasons are found to prevent:

It's too cold
It's too far
It's too late
It's too expensive
I'm too tired
I'm already cozy and have a million shows DVR'd
I don't feel like getting dressed up
I'm too lazy
I have nothing to wear
I'm too old
I just want to hang out in my drawers
We just got our new Netflix movie
We can make popcorn!

But like with anything else, you have to make things happen - things like jobs, sex, memorable times, opportunities and friendships. These things are not going to just fall into your lap. Put all of your excuses on the back burner and just DO it. Haven't we all had a time when we forced ourselves to do something that we could potentially have a lot of fun doing, and afterward,  are glad we did it and wondered why it took us so long to decide to feel this happy?

We all know that if something fails to be part of a routine for a long time, it's very difficult to work it back in. The sad part is that often, the most fun activities are the first ones we tend to cut out because we are too stressed, too tired, too worried or feel too guilty to enjoy. We need to get back to the place we were before we got hijacked by kids, spouses, stress, responsibilities and life. We need to ask ourselves, "Who was I before _______? Where has that person gone? What did that person enjoy doing? Why has it changed? How can I find that person I was once?"

We need to take control of our lives and our schedules as best as we can before we get rerouted into a direction from which we can't return. Just because our kids' schedules (or what have you) have a tendency to hijack our lives - doesn't mean we should be held hostage to it.

Gotta hand it to her....

by Patti
 

Last year, S wanted to be a thumb for a Halloween. Yes, a THUMB. Instead, because… THUMB?...she was a spider. And it was adorable.

This year she decided she wanted to be a weather map, which would have been really cool if her MOTHER had gotten her act together and figured out a way to make a weather map. Halloween nearing closer and closer, S dropped the weather map idea and decided to go all out as a hobo. A hobo cannot get more classic in terms of Halloween costumes. I mean, who wasn’t a hobo in the 70’s? I sure was. So easy! Wear some clothes that are too big, rat out the hair, blacken a tooth, carry a stick: Instant hobo!

But a mere few days before Halloween, a co-worker overhead me telling another co-worker how S had wanted to be a thumb, or a weather map, and how she’d had to take it down a few notches to hobo thanks to her MOTHER. That co-worker piped in that her daughter had once been a hand for Halloween – not just a thumb, a whole entire hand - and that she said she was pretty certain she still had the costume stored away somewhere. I didn’t say anything to S in the case that hand was long gone, but the next day, my co-worker walked in with a huge foam hand, complete with jewelry and hot pink nails. Oh, how the kid would flip.

I took the hand home and when S saw it, flip she did. She immediately stripped out of her school clothes and in one second flat became a giant walking hand with a finger-to-finger grin.

I remember her first Halloween when I picked up a tiny black cat suit on clearance days before Halloween (because I will never change). She was just so moldable back then. But now? She has her own ideas and opinions and ways of expressing who she is. And this is why I love my kid. She could be a princess or a gypsy or a witch; instead, she wants to be a thumb, or a weather map, or even a whole, entire hand, and she isn’t afraid to be different. 

Next year she wants to be a picnic. I was a picnic many, many, many Halloweens ago, and the fact that she wants to perpetuate such a preposterity is just the coolest thing ever. Life with that kid? Is a picnic.

"Day Off"

by Cathy and Patti

What do you do on your "day off"?

The coveted day off - whether it's on a weekend or on a rare, indulgent day off of work - is generally an oxymoron for busy moms. What do you end up doing on your "day off"? Do you spend it doing things you love? For yourself? Do you relax and pace yourself, taking in the scenery, a yoga class or shopping - without kids in tow?

What's your "day off" really like? Well, let us tell you about some of our "days off".

Cathy:
Last Friday, I had a "day off" of work which went something like this:
I woke up and went through the usual routine of making breakfast, lunch and snacks for both girls within 20 minutes. Once they were out the door, I had my raggedy clothes on, plastic tarped the kitchen and repainted two twin-sized headboards for the girls' room. Once those were done and set to dry, I made some calls, sent some emails, tidied up my disaster of a house and I was off to Costco. I had ten minutes to spare on the way home so I stopped in to see my parents. Dad was still at work so I was enlisted by mom to hold up a 496 lb. bed mattress while she ever so meticulously draped a bedskirt on the boxspring underneath it for what felt like an eternity. I cut my visit short to give me enough time to do the Costco shuffle with all of the boxes I still had to lug from my car up three flights of stairs (which took six trips), pack away, break down boxes for recycling, and cut up and package bulk groceries into a zillion freezer baggies.

Just before I did that last task, my husband unexpectedly came home early from a meeting. Relieved, I asked him if he could please go and pick up the girls from school as I was already five minutes late in doing so and it would really help me out.

"Oh man," he said. "I just got home and I've been waiting to use the bathroom for the last couple of hours. Do you mind if you go?"

Yes, I do mind. But what's one more dizzying, rushed task on to my day of dizzying, rushed tasks? I knew he would have gone otherwise, since he does help out with a lot at home when he can.

"Fine," I said, "but can you at least cut up the [Costco-sized] pizza and put the separate slices in freezer ziplocs?" I said,  hoping he would see the salmon, Italian sausages and chicken breasts that also needed the same attention. He half-heartedly groaned a 'yes' and I was already out the door. Back home with the girls, the pizza was put away but the other monster-sized food items awaiting my attention were mockingly still sitting on the kitchen table. And I still had to whip up dinner because the girls were starving. And we had a volleyball game of Bella's to go to in two hours. That was my "day off."

Last Sunday, I left Ari home with Joe during Bella's lengthy Nutcracker rehearsal at the ballet studio. After killing two hours shopping, I called home and confirmed with my husband that Bella indeed had to stay the full four hours and asked how he was getting along with Ari. "She's not here," he said. "I called my mom right after you left and my parents took her to the park and to IHOP."

Must. Be. Nice. Of course, silly me. It's his "day off" and dang it, he was having it. When do I get mine?


Patti:
I know I am lucky that M is a pretty hands-on dad who also cooks and cleans and does groceries and laundry, and let me tell you: after marriage and kids and a million years together, your whole idea of foreplay changes. A man who cooks and cleans and does groceries? Hot. BUT. This does not in any way mean that all is equal in the land of "days off". You see, on M's days off, he truly gets days off. Why? Simple: He's a man.

You see, it's no secret that women, especially mothers, do not get days off. In fact, the only real way a mom can get a day is to actually physically remove herself from her family. And if a mother actually does get a day off - perhaps a fun night out with friends - do you think she gets to sleep in the next day? No. Kids will wake up regardless of what occurred the night before, and they will be hungry, and they will ALWAYS come to your side of the bed. And if your husband was out with you on that same crazy night out, he will somehow find a way to take a nap the next day while you flip pancakes as your own stomach flips, or struggle to stay awake through Dora the Explorer, or play a 9th mindless game of Chutes and Ladders. ALL WHILE HE SNORES and you contemplate smothering him with a pillow. Instead, you complain, and when you do, he will retort, "It's my day off."

Just last Sunday, my one "day off" of work of only 2 during the week, I did the shuffle from morning to night. And it was SUNDAY. You know? The day of REST? So, that Sunday I woke up, made some pancakes for the kid, and then hustled off to the gym. Okay, yes, I did something for myself (how dare I), but I have to squeeze in some sweat-time at least a few days a week or not only will my pants not fit, I will become an even bigger bitch than I already am. M stayed home with the kid to ensure her survival (He's really good at ensuring survival from the couch. Amazing, actually.), but since he had an appointment to play tennis (day off!) and S had a birthday party to attend, I couldn't afford to waffle at the gym. Instead, I had to make sure my workout was efficient, efficient, efficient! I have places to be! So what is supposed to be a stress killer ends up only adding to my stress.

After the gym, I raced home, jumped in the shower, and with sopping wet hair, drove S to a birthday party. But first! I had to stop at CVS because S remembered we had forgotten to buy a part of the birthday gift. So I screech-detoured, lurched into a parking spot, sprinted through CVS with S in tow, threw money at the cashier, and screeched back to the party. While she was at the party, I drove to the grocery store and sped-shopped through the aisles, throwing in all of the snacks S would need for school while calculating dinners that needed to be cooked while making sure our butts stay clean with a jumbo-pack of toilet paper. My cart was teetering with frozen foods, fruits and vegetables, packets of bread, meats and cheeses.... I bionic-packed it all into my car, and then sped home to unpack it all and put it away. Our garage was otherwise occupied this day, so I had to park my car outside the garage behind the house, lug everything in no less than five trips by myself since M was at tennis (day off!), move the car around to the front of the house, run back into the house, put everything away, and bolt out the door with 2 minutes to spare to pick up S from the birthday party. As I was running out the door, I remembered that I forgot to grab S's ballet bag since she had rehearsal, so I ran back in, navigated the land mines of her room, and then headed out once again. By the time I sat in my car, I was sweating. I picked up S, drove her to the ballet studio and dumped her there, and finally - FINALLY, I took a breath.

.........................

We need a day off from our "day off".

The Hunchback of Bally Total Fitness

by Patti

The other day I was at the gym and when I was done with my cardio, I headed for the floor mats to stretch and do my sit-ups. As I waved my legs around in the air, feeling more ancient than ever, I noticed in the wall mirror that a man exercising on the stationary bike was staring at me. Immediately self-conscious, I lowered my legs and discreetly peeked at my crotch to make sure I wasn't giving some sort of free show. Nope. No holes. For once. I carried on with my stretching and leg-waving, when suddenly the man that had been staring at me was next to me. I told myself he had the right to stretch, but I still felt annoyed and uncomfortable, and I got up from the mat and headed for the weights.

No less than 3 minutes into my first set of weights, that man appeared on the machine next to me. I purposely cut my set short and wandered to another machine. He followed me. I did it again; he followed me again. Now I KNEW he was following me, and I couldn't for the life of me figure out why. After all, there I was, make-up-less, sweaty, lopsided bun.... I mean, seriously? WHY? After a good 20 minutes of feeling stalked, but not enough gumption to ask him why the hell he was doing it, I left. I ran to my car, convinced he was going to follow me out and chase me into some seedy ally.

When I got home, I told M all about it, trying to get a male's perspective. DO guys stalk ugly, sweaty, old bitches at the gym? Are they THAT desperate?

A couple of days later, I went to the gym again. I was relieved that Stalker Guy didn't seem to be there that day, and I happily worked out in complete, un-stalked oblivion. When I got home, M was sitting at the kitchen counter with S, and I threw down my gym bag and headed to the fridge for some juice.  "What is wrong with your BACK?" M practically shouted.
S laughed, "MOM! Your back looks so WEIRD!"

I craned my neck, stretching awkwardly to attempt to see what was freaking them out. S came around the counter and started lifting my shirt. She shoved her hand up my back and into my sports bra, did a little shuffling around back there, and, like a magician pulling scarves from his frilly sleeve, slowly pulled out the longest, thickest sock pretty much ever. Both M and S burst into laughter, while I stood there, completely shocked and bewildered, wondering how on earth I had possibly rocked the stair climber and weights and crunches as a complete and total hunchback.

M jumped from the bar stool and gleefully leapt into the family room, where he grabbed a couch cushion and shoved it up the back of his shirt.  Mimicking me, he puzzled out loud, "I wonder why that man was staring at me?" Then, his back deformed and protruding, he began to mime lifting weights and doing lunges. "I just don't get why that man was staring at me!" S and I were screaming with laughter.

The stalker's motives were finally explained. Let's face it: I'm the hottest hunchback at the gym.

No Bathroom Break Yet? Oh, Poop!

by Cathy

I've written here before about how we moms tend use the bathroom as a place of solace and solitude; we ALL could all use a Bathroom Break every now and then. But sometimes, even when you are actually using the bathroom for the services it was actually meant to provide - your basic hygienic upkeep and the relieving of your intestines, we still can't cut a break.

Mom friends of mine have shared stories with me about the shenanigans that ensue when they are using the toilet - how their toddlers sit on their laps while they read them books and sing songs or how they're crouching over and playing Legos or Barbies with them on the bathroom rug.

Now that my five-year old realizes that we all need privacy when we use the bathroom, she is willing to give me that from time to time. However, one night after her bath, she insisted on being a part of my bathroom time. Perhaps she wanted to upkeep the attention she received during the bath?

I am always taking advantage of my bathroom "alone" time by reading or checking email on my phone, and as luck would have it, I captured Ari's latest tactic of 'door measuring' on the video below. This is yet another clever way of how she is using her creative ways to invade my Bathroom Break.  (Turn up the volume.)

I had to laugh and even marvel at her determination and creativity. She will try anything to get my attention (which I am always giving her, by the way), even if it's through a locked door - the ultimate sign of KEEP OUT.

After observing this shenanigan of my own, I can comfortably say that even when I turn my young child away by requesting privacy, not only is she beginning to realize the concept of what that means, but at the same time, she finds ways to utilize her resourcefulness to still get what she wants. Kudos to her. Although she doesn't realize it now, this is surely yet another lesson that will come in handy for her later on in life.

But in the meantime? I can flush my "alone time" down the toilet.

Jesus to the Rescue

by Patti

S was four years old and had just finished her first year of preschool. She was attending a little Lutheran school in our neighborhood, and her favorite times during the school day were “Jesus Time”, during which they would sing fun songs about Jesus and recite sweet prayers.

Father’s Day was around the corner, and, because M had been particularly cranky of late, I thought it would cheer him up to receive a hand-picked card from S. I took her to Walgreen's, and she loved looking at all of options and taking her time to choose just the right one. She browsed for a bit, occasionally holding up one that caught her eye. Then she squealed in delight; apparently she’d found “the one”. I took it from her and saw that it was a glittery baptism card, covered with crosses and doves, and other religious symbols. “Oh honey, this is not for Father’s Day; this is for a baptism.”

“What is baptism?” she asked.

Struggling to find the answer she would understand, I told her, “Well, it’s when you go to church and get blessed by holy water so you can take Jesus into your heart.”

"Does it hurt?"

"Oh, no!" I reassured her, "It makes you happy!"

S looked at the card and then looked back up at me. "Let's get it. Papi's been really grouchy lately. He really needs some Jesus in his heart!"

Surprise Party

by Patti

When I first found out I was pregnant, I took 7 tests to make sure it was real. Because, you know, the missed period and boulder boobs were not enough proof. Once I was thoroughly convinced, I shared the news with M. And then M had a nervous breakdown. No, literally. As in, he got slurring-and-stumbling-drunk, leapt out of a moving car while we were driving in the middle-of-nowhere and ran/stumbled/ran/fell/ran/stumbled into the night, invaded a stranger’s yard and squatted in his garden, turned on said stranger’s garden hose, and dangled it over his head as he sobbed through the spraying water about how it was all moving too fast. 

This was not the way I had pictured it would be.

S was a total surprise party. I was not expecting the 2 red lines that screamed “PREGNANT! OMG YOU ARE SOOOO PREGNANT!” when I took the test. I mean, I wanted a baby, but that was supposed to be “someday”; not right now, not like this.  I’ll admit: My first reaction? Tears. Lots and lots of “What the hell am I going to do?” tears. Part of my reaction was my own fear and shock; the other was worry about how M would react. You see, M has never been good at handling stress. He is definitely not a curveball kind of guy. He likes things organized and planned and neatly lined up. I, on the other hand, am not only a curveball catcher, I am a curveball thrower. And this? Was most definitely a curveball.

And just as I suspected, he did not catch that curveball. Instead, it cracked him on the head and knocked him out cold.

At first, before the Big Breakdown, he was mad. And that made ME mad.  I mean, we had been together at this point for 11 years!  We were married! We loved each other! For crying out loud, grow up! But apparently he was not in the mood for me to be pregnant. This was, after all, in clear violation of The Plan.

Over the next few weeks, this new knowledge tucked deeply in our pockets, we lived our life, but we lived it on the outskirts. We were ever so careful not to make waves, not to get too heavy. I could see that M was trying to act all casual and normal; as if what was happening wasn’t really happening at all. As if we could just sit together in the living room and watch TV, or go out with friends, or eat dinner at our little dining room table, just as we always did, it would all just go away.

And then came that night. We had gone to a party and traded places: He drank, I didn’t. And he drank. And drank. And drank. So much so, that by the time we left, he zigzagged his way to the car. I took the keys from him, jammed his jacked-up self into the car, and started the long drive home. The party had been at somebody’s farm; we were literally driving in the pitch-black of nothingness. He was incoherently yammering on about a kid he had seen at the party – a little boy dressed up like a traditional Argentine gaucho - and how it had reminded him of himself when he was a boy, when suddenly, he started laughing. It was the crazy, shake-your-shoulders silent kind of laugh, and I was happy to see him laughing again, so I laughed, too. Maybe everything would be alright, after all! But then I realized: he wasn’t laughing; he was crying. That’s when he demanded that I pull over, and before I could even navigate to the side of the road, he was opening the door and jumping out and running into the darkness.

Mid-breakdown, as M sat there swaying from side to side in a squatting position with some stranger’s hose spraying water over his head, the porch light of the hose’s owner flicked on. I heard the door creak open, and I braced myself for shotguns in the air and a menacing “Get off my property!” Instead, a man appeared, the porch light framing him like a glowing ring. He came softly toward us; M just sat there, choking on the water that sprayed down his face. “Hey buddy, are you alright?”

M looked up at him, ashamed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…” he sputtered out into the water.

The man leaned gently into M and put his hand on M’s soaking wet head; a balm. “You take all the time you need, okay?”
 
After that night, we didn’t really talk about what had happened; we didn’t need to. I knew him well enough to know that something inside of him had shifted. It was as if that water had washed away the awful beginning, and we were starting clean.  A few weeks later, he came home from work with a little bag in his hands. He handed it to me, and inside was a tiny onesie with a cheerful yellow duck on the front. I held it out in front of me, imagining it filled up. I was smiling so big it hurt.

First Impressions

by Cathy

By now you must have read what prompted this baby of ours - this blog. The Uncorking of a Friendship explained how Patti and I met and how this all came to fruition.

Granted, I couldn't really stand her when I first met her back in January of 2006 - me, all pregnant and hormonal and she, all skinny and chirpy. But as Patti pointed out in that first blog post, as my belly expanded, so did our friendship and that of our daughters.

In every new friendship, there is always the memorable point in time when the relationship takes on a new form - a new meaning. Most notably, this is when one friend is invited/invites the other to enter their humble abode, their personal living space - their house.  The first time this happened for us was when Patti came over to see my new real baby - my second daughter, Ari - the one I had been hormonally pregnant with the entire duration of our friendship thus far. And what's shocking to me now as I think back on it, is that this happened a mind-boggling seven months after Patti and I met.

I had only been back from the hospital a few weeks when Patti and her daughter S came over to see the baby. I was appropriately sleep deprived and still sporting the tell-tale jelly belly. Wobbling around in my stretched out maternity gauchos and flowy top, I was eyeball-deep in new mommy mode. The kitchen was a nursery military zone - hardly a spot of counter or table was visible through all of the burp cloths, bottles, cans of formula, pacifiers, warming pots, bibs, blankets, napkins, towels, plates and utensils. Even the comfy loveseat in our kitchen was strewn with quilts, cloths and a giant boppy pillow. The floor in front of the couch was properly booby trapped with a bouncy seat.

When Patti first arrived, the baby was asleep so we had some time to sit out on my deck and enjoy the warm August night. We had no adult food or drink readily available in the house, which I didn't realize until we were chatting it up on the deck. Since I wasn't thinking straight, my husband was rummaging around our kitchen trying to find something to offer our new guest. Upon offering her a drink of cranberry/vodka, he quickly realized, after scraping around our freezer for a while, that we didn't even have a speck of ice. So Patti courteously sat there and drank her stacked, warm cocktail.

A few minutes went by and Joe slides the screen door open and pops his head out.

"Do you want a hard-boiled egg?"

Trying to keep her cheeks from exploding from laughter, Patti politely declined the tempting offer as I sat there with my eyes bulged out of my head, horrified. Of course if I were of sound body and mind, the Greek in me would have come out and I would have whipped up something from nothing. But for now, we had to contend with my sweet husband, (God love him) trying so hard to be a proper, respectable host. And he was doing the best he could considering the circumstances.

A few more minutes went by and out comes Joe. He plops a tub of industrial-sized hummus on the table and a plate of pita chips that were collected from the bottom 1/4 of the bag. Surprisingly, Patti didn't flinch. She happily sipped her flat cocktail and munched on the crumbs that she dipped into the big tub o' hummo. As if that weren't enough, considering how I looked and felt, she actually complimented me on how great I was rocking my mommy cleavage and how my hair looked like a lion's mane - all full, healthy and shiny. And that made me see myself in a whole, new, much-needed light.

I said to myself that night, that if a friend puts up with all of that and compliments me to boot, that is a friend well worth keeping. And I'm so glad I did.

Good Intentions

by Cathy

I vowed, when I had kids, that I would never be an embarrassing mom; I would never knowingly or purposefully embarrass my kids in front of their friends, peers, colleagues, or even...ahem...boys - unless of course they pushed me to the edge and really, in fact, deserved it. :)

Yesterday, my ten-year old daughter came home from school with her snack barely touched. I asked her why she didn't eat her snack of apples, cheese and pretzels and could it have anything to do with the fact that her snack was APPLES? Because it would take an army to get her to eat all of the five crispy cut slices of the apple or any basically any kind of fruit. But, no. She claims she didn't eat it because she was embarrassed to pull out the pre-packaged snack in front of her friends.

Of course she didn't tell me this right away, and tried very politely (God love her) to imply that she felt embarrassed to tell me that she was embarrassed because of something I had done.

To be fair to her, I am willing to post a picture of what said snack looked like:

Laugh if you must, but when I saw these at the store, I thought they were an ingeniously packaged way for my kids to eat fruit. I bought one for my five-year old, and since I have to always be fair and buy them each the same (or similar) thing, I instinctively bought one for Bella too. Packaged with pretzels and cheese, I thought this would definitely aid in digesting the apparently offensive fruit.

It didn't occur to me that the Mickey Mouse shaped packaging and a picture of a quacking Donald Duck would, like, totally embarrass my ten-year old.

Mysteriously, however, the pretzels had all been eaten as had some of the cheese. Because of this, I finally got her to admit that the packaging wasn't the real reason she didn't eat the apples - it was just the plain fact that she didn't like APPLES. Okaay? "But still mom," she quickly retorted, "I didn't want to pull out the snack in front of my friends."

Boy, did I learn my lesson. What I think may be cute and appropriate for my five-year old may not necessarily be the same for my ten-year old. They DO have a five-year difference that includes varying stages of behavioral development. As an intuitive, supportive parent, I have to put myself in each one of their shoes equally and think how I would feel if [enter potentially embarrassing situation here] happened.

Their needs and life stages are so different and I can't assume they aren't or even compare them to each other. That would be like comparing apples to oranges.

Disco Cab

by Patti

I have this annual gig in Chinatown where I sing for a company holiday party. The man that hires me is Asian, and he hires me to sing all of the "American Pop" music, and also hires this beautiful Chinese singer, Li, to perform the traditional music.

The host of the party always insists that I bring along a friend to partake in the festivities, and a couple of years ago I dragged along Cathy to do just that. After the gig was over, Cathy and I stepped out into the frozen December air and briskly walked to my car. We were full and happy and I had a nice chunk of change in my pocket for the job just done. But when we got to my car, it wasn't there. We both just stood there and stared at the empty spot, as if by staring at it the car would magically reappear. But it didn't. Instead, the sign I had not seen before suddenly appeared: "NO PARKING. WILL BE TOWED AT OWNER'S EXPENSE."

It was 478305 degrees below zero outside, and we were screwed. Well, I was screwed; Cathy was screwed by association. Once I realized that staring at the now empty parking spot was never going to bring my car back, I snapped to attention. It was after midnight. We were in Chinatown.  It was fuhREEZING. Teeth chattering, we ran back to the restaurant to do what, I don't know, but it felt like progress, however delusional. On the way in, we ran into Li, who was bundled up and ready to bolt.  She must have seen our "screwed" expressions, because she caught my arm and asked me what was wrong. I explained to her that my car had been towed.

She clucked sympathetically. "What you going to do? No cabs now."

"I don't know." And I didn't. The only thing I could think to do was cry. But that wouldn't get us home, either, so I was out of ideas. The el rumbled in the distance. "I know! We will just take the train home, and then I can go and pick up my car tomorrow."

Li looked at me very seriously and leaned forward, her finger wagging. "Oh, no, no. You too pretty for train."

I'd never been told I was too pretty for anything, much less a train.

Li continued. "You too pretty for train. You get kill on train."

Man, pretty people have it rough, don't they? Li must have seen my desperation and offered, "Okay, I drive you, but not all the way home. I drive you to where I live in downtown, then you take cab to tow place."
Cathy and I looked at each other, relieved. We wouldn't be stranded in Chinatown, after all, AND we were saved from having to take that train that we were too pretty for. We hopped in Li's car and she drove us to her building, and then we hopped in a cab to the tow lot.

The ride to the tow lot took about 392 years, and at first, we were quiet, wrapped sullenly in our bad fortune, but then the cab driver turned on the music and suddenly the cab was transformed from a plain ol' boring taxi to a full-on Disco Cab! We were jamming to the extended dance mix of Lady Gaga and I could swear a disco ball descended from the cab's ceiling. We did some top-notch seat dancing and sang out loud to each other and snapped self-portraits on our phones, and laughed about how we were "too pretty for train", and for a while, I totally forgot that my car had been towed and that we were actually on our way to the Scariest Part of the Universe to pick it up. Instead, we were in our very own private club, glamorous and free and clicking pretend champagne glasses while glitter rained down on our heads.

By the time we got there, we were high on life again and all was good in the world. We paid the driver and then I turned to find myself facing a small shack with a little window covered in prison-like bars. I approached the window and shelled out a large chunk of the money I had just earned to get my car back. As I handed the man holding my car hostage the money, I realized then that even when the ride of life gets bumpy and goes off course, as long as you have good friends, a sense of humor, and some change in your pocket, you can still sing out loud to the music, dance in your seats, and enjoy the ride in your very own Disco Cab. And that? Is what makes it all worth it.