Traveling to Disneyland Chaos
Why does packing always feel like preparing for the apocalypse? You’d think after all my traveling, I’d be a pro. Spoiler: I’m not. My suitcase sits half-packed, silently judging me from the corner like, “Really? No Rest For the Wicked?”
Then crunch time hits, and suddenly it’s Survivor: Closet Edition. What stays? What goes? How many white shorts does one human actually need? (Apparently, a lot. My name is Jeanne… I have a white shorts problem.) And the BTS shirts? Non-negotiable. Leave them behind, and how will I ever find another ARMY in the wild?
Next up: writing gear. Journals, colored pens, stickers, washi tape… all essential, naturally. Funny thing is, I only use my Chromebook on vacation. I keep thinking I’ll get bored, but: hasn’t happened yet. Years of packing like a pack mule, rarely using any of it—but hey, better safe than creatively stifled.
Carry-on packed! Essentials: undies (most important), five white shorts, five BTS shirts, three pairs of sandals, one pair of boots (for hiking Yosemite? Maybe. Realistic? Not so much.), and toiletries. I felt proud of my “light packing”—though still unprepared for an actual apocalypse.
Then came reality: $80 for a checked bag. No way am I paying that for a tiny carry-on. Time to drag out the big one—the suitcase the size of a studio apartment. Packed my essentials, left plenty of room for “shopping,” and… promptly realized I can’t lift it.
Cue storage shed treasure hunt. After digging through mountains of forgotten stuff, I unearthed a very old, very traveled black medium suitcase. Dumped the winter clothes out, gave it a salute, and brought it home. Victory? Maybe. Arm workout? Definitely.
Packing: less an art, more a comedy of errors. Apocalypse prep optional.
Ready to Go
Finally I’m packed. Praying the wheels on my old road weary suitcase hold up for one final trip. No time to find a new suitcase.
Once again, I’m on the road again talking on my phone…
The Miles speed by as I head down the highway to start this next adventure.
Anita Toland called, did I get my taxes paid ? Yes I did!
(She got the reminder notice. I get my mail at her house. I had her just read the registered mail, holding my breath hoping it was just the oil check needed a new home, or the company wanting to buy my land offering more money and NOT let it be a court summons. I just forgot to put a second check in the envelope for the other property I own whew. )
She said that she is moving to California. Not just a five-day vacay. Braggart. Chatting with her was entertaining.
I tried to call Buddy and Cyndi they were screening my calls. (That’s my story I’m sticking with it.)
Brandy called, they are home yay. That ended my dream of stopping at Daiso to find cool stuff I do not need.
We were all starving by the time I got to Brandy’s.
“What do we want for dinner?”. Tacos and a Tequila Sunrise. Delicious.) We took our tacos and cocktail to the basement to Watch a movie. The guys were busy with their games. (They are in the same room and talking to one another on a headset. Go figure.)
Brandy headed to bed. I was busy laughing at my own Journal entries.
Rob asked if they should leave. “Nope, I’m fine. I’ve got my own party going on here.”
They kindly shut out the lights when they headed to bed. No arguing with Google or begging on bended knee this time to please turn off the lights and TV.
My grandson Michael turned 18 today. Naturally, I decided to celebrate his milestone with Alice Cooper’s I’m 18. (Because what else would you play, right?) Michael gave me that look—you know, the one that says, Wow, Mema, you’re ancient. Excuse me, sir, this song was the jam when I was 14.
Meanwhile, the cats had their own drama. I accidentally fed the one with food allergies. Not my fault—they bought it, I just opened the can. Same cat once had to show me where the cat food was stashed, so frankly, he’s part of the problem. Now he’s got a little brother, Tigger, who likes to dive into the cupboard like it’s his personal panic room the second I open it.
Then came the Target snack run. Minus Zak. Why? Because Zak thought “packing for Disneyland” meant “packing for school. He was not interested! Someone check that boy’s hearing.
I was minding my own business, getting some old Journal entries loaded into my Blogspot, when Brandy suddenly announced, “Time to go!” No warning, no prep—just chaos. Laptop slammed, bags grabbed, we were out the door like contestants on Survivor the winner gets fire this episode.
We’re nearly into the Airport and Brandy counts bags, she paid for two we have four (I paid for mine) Time to play Stash Zak’s clothes in the remaining suitcases.
Airport security did not disappoint. Rob got held up because apparently a GoPro is now classified as a national threat. Zak’s sweat pants had metal grommets, and his bright idea was to tuck them into his undershorts. They couldn't find what was setting off the Buzzer. ZAK! TSA basically gave him a full spa treatment trying to locate the mystery metal. Brandy and I got the pat-downs too. Lady tells us, “Women’s fashion doesn’t mesh with TSA.” Yeah, no kidding—I had metal design down my leg. They were pat down happy today.
Bathroom break! The sign said, “duo gender,” so Brandy and I wandered into the men’s side. The looks we got. Like we’d just walked into a secret society meeting. Sorry fellas, we just needed a toilet, not a membership card.
At the gate, my phone started dying like it was emotionally exhausted. It was plugged in and still gave up. Glad I brought the super power bank; it will charge my phone 6 times!!
Flight time! We were herded in like cattle, I was only one seat ahead of my family. Close enough to yell, but far enough to pretend I didn’t know them when the cart came by. They brought wine. I became a very happy flier. Fritos and wine—don’t judge, it’s the new charcuterie.
Someone behind me kept slamming the overhead bin like they were trying to summon spirits. Either that or the plane was falling apart. I was mildly concerned, but the wine said, “Shhh, we’re fine.” I considered asking for another bottle. It’s cheaper than a Keith Urban concert and way more therapeutic.
We landed in LA, and the real fun began We finally dragged our bags out to the curb to wait for the shuttle to the rental car place. Easy, right? Nope. Cue the woman parked in the bus only zone. Security guard is blowing his whistle like it’s a high school pep rally, yelling, “You can’t park here!” Just in case she wasn’t humiliated enough, she hits the panic button while opening her trunk. Now the whole world gets to enjoy her car’s screaming alarm while she loads her friend’s luggage. We laughed; we didn't care.
We eventually got our rental car, and the thing immediately tattled on Rob: “You didn’t brake fast enough.” Rob goes, “Great, this car comes with a built-in wife for people who don’t already have one to tell them how to drive.”
The car: a Chevy Trailblazer. The backseat: three broad-shouldered adults crammed in like a family pack of sausages for the next four hours. Did we care? NO, We just wanted to get this over with.
But then came the GPS. Oh boy. It dragged us onto some side road, bumper to bumper, moving about as fast as molasses in January. After three miserable miles, we finally reached a single stoplight that had been holding up the whole universe. I could literally see the freeway—maybe 500 feet away, like a glowing oasis. Rob, however, trusted the GPS and turned left. Suddenly, we were crossing the interstate instead of getting on it. That detour? Another five miles of bumper-to-bumper purgatory.
We rolled into Betty and Fuji's (Rob's parents), and hallelujah, she showed us to our rooms. I’m sharing a king bed with her. No complaints—especially since we scored our own bathroom with two sinks and a sunken tub. This isn’t a guest room; this is a spa retreat.
Then Betty handed me a bag that says, “World’s Greatest Mema.” I almost cried. I mean, forget the TSA pat-down, the rental car chaos, and the world’s longest traffic jam—this moment made it all worth it.
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