From Dukes of Hazzard to Pixie Dust Cocktails

 Chaos on the Highway: Dukes of Hazzard, LA Edition

Back on the road, cruising along, when suddenly—brake lights! Dust clouds! Cars lunging into the left lane like it was the last lifeboat on the Titanic. We slowed to a crawl and passed a car tipped on its side, surrounded by people scavenging like it was a post-apocalyptic yard sale. I swear that car auditioned for Dukes of Hazzard and nailed the stunt. Scary? Absolutely. Slightly hilarious in its absurdity? Also yes.

🌴 Palm trees and ocean breeze—we’ve officially landed in California.

We told the security guard we were staying at the Disneyland Resort. He gave us a look, then waved us through like we were royalty. I read the sign: $40 a day for parking. Are they charging us to breathe the pixie-dusted air too? Yes. Yes, they are.

🧳 We dragged our luggage out of the car like we were starring in a slow-motion drama. I watched my suitcase wheels wobble like they were auditioning for retirement. “Hang in there, little guys,” I whispered. “Just make it home.”

👫 People. Oh my gosh, the people! The lobby carpet was a full-on Disney welcome mat—Tinkerbell, Cinderella’s Castle, and a thousand photo ops. We photobombed like it was our job, barging through the doors mid-snap while others tried to capture their magical entrance. Sorry, not sorry.

🏨 Brandy got us checked in. Fifth floor, Adventure Tower. We took the scenic route. Don’t ask. Just know it didn't involve a hallway, a wrong elevator, and possibly a janitor closet.

✨ The doors to Adventure Tower slid open like we’d just cracked open a treasure chest. The smell? Pure magic. Like excitement mixed with pixie dust and maybe a hint of  sweetness. Sofas, outlets, elevators, glass doors—basically, if you needed it, it was there. Except a map. We could’ve used a map. (oh, wait we had a map, we just needed to know how to read it.)

🛏️ Our room had two queen beds and a sofa. I checked to see if it pulled out. It didn’t. So I mentally prepared for a night of balancing like a Cirque du Soleil act. (Spoiler: the next day, Brandy gave it a hearty yank and it transformed into a bed like it was auditioning for a magic show.)

🌆 We opened the curtains and—bam!—a full glass wall with views of other hotels, pools, and hot tubs. Erin and the boys were already staking their claim on pool chairs like seasoned warriors.

👙 We threw on swimsuits and headed down. First priority: fancy cocktail. Some folks were trying to get into the pool area. We were trying to get out. We opened the gate for them like benevolent cocktail-sipping heroes. Their card didn’t work, but ours did. Win-win.

🍹 The Tiki Bar had everything: palm trees, bar stools, sofas, tables, and drink prices that made me think we’d time-traveled back to Hawaii. $23 for a drink that vanished in three sips. I considered licking the glass.

👨‍👩‍👦 Erin showed up with the boys. Hugs all around. I’m their honorary Mema. They’ve got a grandma, but no Mema. I fill that role with sass and snacks.

🏊‍♂️ Rob and the boys hit the water slide. Not quite as cold as the Titanic water- close., and the slide ended in a splash of Why did I do this?” But they were committed.

🚫 Five minutes into pool time—we got kicked out. Apparently, you have to be four feet from the pool with a drink. Like one spill and the toddlers will be tipsy. “Watch out for the winos,” they said. Cue flashbacks to Hawaii. Yep, got tossed out of that pool too. 

👮‍♂️ Poor Eric. He’s maybe five feet tall on tiptoes, and it took three burly men to drag him out of the pool. Was he resisting? Nope. He just didn’t have his hearing aids in and couldn’t hear them yelling. Will we let him live it down? Absolutely not. “Eric the Legend. Took three men to remove you. Respect.” We wore our wrist bands for months after we left Hawaii.

🫣 We snuck our drinks into the hot tub. Some guy whispered, “Get the ones from the connoisseur—they’re the best.” It felt like a speakeasy for tired moms.

🍸 The next night Erin bought two pitchers of margaritas. Nearly $200. Apparently, a pitcher counts as one drink. Disneyland math is wild. They brought out three tiny glasses with spicy rim salt that tasted like regret. Erin filled mine four times. I was losing the drinking game. Brandy was keeping up. I was considering crawling back to the room. I didn’t think she’d watched enough K-Dramas to piggyback me, so I opted for the “dignified stagger.”

❄️ While they finished the last pitcher, a little girl nearby chanted, “I’m so cold. I’m so cold.” Her mom tried to get her into dry clothes. She refused. Dad finally snapped:

“We know you’re cold. The lifeguards know you’re cold. Mickey and Minnie know you’re cold. The entire resort knows you’re cold—you’ve told us 42 times!”

I was giggling so hard I tried to hide the tipsy snorts. I failed. Gloriously.

We set off in search of dinner, which quickly turned into a mini security adventure. Bag check at the entrance to Downtown Disneyland—because apparently even overpriced burgers require TSA-level clearance. Thankfully, I had my trusty little bag with just the essentials: phone, wallet, and a healthy dose of sarcasm.

Brandy and I split a Wagyu burger with fries and a drink. The damage? $80. I didn’t even flinch. Honestly, I expected it to cost more than my first car. I picked up the tab—because hey, they brought me along, and I didn’t want to be that freeloader Mema who only contributes witty commentary and pocket lint.

We kept strolling, snapping group photos like we were auditioning for a travel magazine called Chaos & Pretzels. Erin and the boys scored a pretzel so good it probably had its own theme song. I trailed behind her like a loyal duckling while my kids made a beeline for the Star Wars store—because nothing says family bonding like lightsabers and overpriced Yoda merch.

Eventually, the kids tapped out and headed back to the room. I went with them, fully intending to watch a K-Drama. Instead, I fell asleep somewhere between the opening credits and the first dramatic gasp. Rob and Brandy came in later, probably tiptoeing like ninjas. I was so tired, they could’ve marched in with a brass band and I still wouldn’t have stirred.

Moral of the night? Disneyland may drain your wallet, but it fills your Phone Camera—and your heart—with moments worth every penny.