Downtown Disney

 We got up early—because nothing says “vacation” like voluntarily setting an alarm. Breakfast was at the Tiki Bar, same place we got drinks last night, which felt oddly like returning to the scene of a delicious crime. I ordered a Hawaiian croissant stuffed with pulled pork, fancy cheese, bacon, scrambled egg, and pineapple slices. Coffee? $23. For that price, I expected Mickey to serve it with jazz hands and a tap dance. He did not. But that croissant? AMAZING. I was basically back in Hawaii, minus the ocean breeze and the guy playing ukulele in flip-flops.

 The Souvenir Olympics

  After breakfast, we passed through security like seasoned pros—bags open, sunscreen ready, dignity optional. The kids headed for the monorail like it was the Hogwarts Express, and I set off on a noble quest: find a souvenir that wouldn’t end up in the Goodwill pile next spring.

Options? Endless. Tees, hoodies, water bottles, backpacks, toys, Mickey and Minnie on everything short of dental floss. My current backpack looked like it had survived three tornadoes and a toddler with scissors, so I gave it a silent farewell and started browsing.

Three contenders:

• Purple and black: cute, BTS colors that would shout I am ARMY

• Red: adorable, but destined to look like it wrestled a dust bunny under the plane seat.

• Black: roomy, classic, and begging for a Mickey Mouse keychain.

Naturally, I obliged. Then I spotted a journal with Mickey, Goofy, and Donald road-tripping in a van. I travel all the time—this journal practically screamed “Geannii’s next adventure.” Into the cart it went.

And just when I thought I was done, I saw Mickey and Minnie in a little blue cart from a Disney ride. It matched my car. Blue. Clearly, the universe wanted me to have it. Total damage: $108. Worth every penny.

 Hat Compliments & Pretzel Philosophy

The weather? Classic So.Cal perfection. Sunny, breezy, and just smug enough to make you forget you ever owned a winter coat. I was floating on Disney magic and retail therapy when someone pointed at my hat and said, “I love your hat!” That pretty much made me strut all the way to the hotel like I was in a Disney parade.

Back at the room, I kicked off my shoes like a victorious gladiator and ate my gourmet pretzel for lunch. Should I have gone back for a corn dog? Absolutely. Did I think about it? Nope. I was too busy basking in the glory of my purchases and the fact that my feet were no longer negotiating with my sandals.

The family rolled back into the hotel around 2 p.m., buzzing like caffeinated squirrels. Each kid had built a robot, and Michael—bless his sci-fi soul—crafted a lightsaber like he was auditioning for Jedi idol. They were thrilled. I was thrilled not to have gone. They did the big rides, the ones that launch you into orbit and rearrange your organs. Me? I prefer rides where the only risk is mild whiplash from waving too hard at Mickey.

They hit the Star Wars attractions, which meant absolutely nothing to me. I’ve never seen a single movie. I’m the tagalong who made a U-turn at the monorail and ended up in a gift shop trying to justify buying a $40 keychain. No regrets.

    Hot Tub Hijinks & Margarita Math

Later, Brandy, Erin, and I hit the hot tub like we were auditioning for Real Housewives of Disneyland. Erin ordered two pitchers of margaritas. Nearly $200.00  aka one pair of boots, three months of Netflix, or a small island off the coast of reality. I said, “NOPE.” Erin blinked zero times and handed over her credit card like she was buying gum.

Four margaritas later, I was still upright and proud. I gave my last one to Brandy because I don't think my daughter has watched enough K-Dramas to piggyback me to our room. I wanted to walk back to our room on my own two feet, not crawl like a Disney villain in rehab. Meanwhile, those two nuts went back into Disneyland and had more drinks. I saw the videos. It was like watching a buddy comedy directed by tequila.

     Brandy vs. The Kiddie Car

Rob, in a moment of questionable judgment, let Brandy drive the kiddie car. She was hands-free, curb-hopping, and treating the track like it was a Mario Kart shortcut. The ride operator looked at her like she was auditioning for a DMV horror film and said, “You’re supposed to drive the car.” Then he handed her a license anyway. Honestly, I think that’s how DPS works sometimes, "if you don't crash you pass."

   Suitcase Dreams & Couch Acrobatics

 I had my eye on a Disneyland suitcase. It was $200 and looked like it could hold all my hopes, dreams, and at least three pairs of boots shoes. But alas, our rental car is packed tighter than a clown car at rush hour. If anyone changes bags, we’ll have to strap someone to the roof.

Back at the room, Brandy yanked the couch like she was starting a lawnmower and—ta-da!—it turned into a bed. I finally got to sleep on a real mattress. Last night, I was on a couch so narrow my arm kept falling off like it was trying to escape the vacation.

I turned on the nightlight, and the wall lit up with fireworks and music. It was magical. We were in Disneyland. And somehow, despite the chaos, the margaritas, and the curb-hopping, all was well in my world.