When I was in high school I tried out for the Cheerleading/Pom squad three times. If you are one of my children you know how this ends. I did not make the team. Not the first time. Not the second time. And certainly not the third time where I was laughing so hard at the absurdity of it all I could barely get through the “original routine” part of the tryout.

I guess no one wants to see a short Greek girl hopping around to Huey Lewis’ “Back in Time,” complete with hand motions that included pointing to my wrist where a watch would be in order to illustrate the “time” component.  It was horrible. And awesome. And funny. And I tell this story all the time.  So often, in fact, that when I felt stuck last week and asked my brother what I should write about he said: “Make it about the Pom squad.”  You would think after two years of writing this blog I would have exhausted my embarrassing stories, but I guess not. In my defense, I had to be talked into that third try-out.

Here’s the thing: I am not graceful.  I am not delicate.  I am not even athletic.  Once, several years ago, I tried to hit a baseball during Teddy’s batting practice. I just wanted to see if I could do it.  Someone videoed me, and honestly, it was painful to watch.  And not just the batting. If you are in the least bit clunky, I do not recommend watching yourself run to first base. You can never unsee that image.

Of course, none of these challenges stopped me from entering the Jr. Miss contest senior year of high school. I am laughing just writing this. What business did I have participating in a beauty pageant? (I would imagine in this day and age this contest does not exist anymore or is called something else).  I am not sure if I simply had unwarranted confidence or if I was just “too dumb to doubt,” but there I was, in my formal gown, sashaying to Aquarius by The Fifth Dimension.  We actually had a detachable cape that we used as a prop for our choreographed poise and appearance routine.

Next came the physical fitness routine.  I’m sure you can guess how well I did, so I won’t bother to elaborate. I seem to remember jumping around in a sparkly leotard and tuxedo jacket with tails.  The third category was talent. While the other girls played the piano, sang, or did gymnastics, I chose to dance.  Nope.  Not what you’re thinking. It was GREEK FOLK DANCING. And there is nothing elegant about it. I mean, how much worse can it get than me stomping around in a costume from the 1800s while everyone else is prancing around in sequins and sparkles?  Once again I will ask myself the question I have asked myself almost every time I write a blog.  What were my parents thinking?  Why didn’t someone put me in piano lessons when I was 7 or 8 like the other parents’ did? Why not a tap class here or there?  I wasn’t even in Little League. I did try church basketball once but my contact fell out during my very first game and that was the end of that.

Back to the pageant. So even though I struggled through the dancing and the tumbling and sashaying, the joke ended up being on all the other girls.  And you want to know why? Because the SCHOLARSHIP portion of the contest counted for FIFTY PERCENT of the total score!!  YES!! And everyone knows you can’t be pretty AND smart!!  (Just kidding, just kidding).

While all the cool kids were playing sports and taking dance classes and going to the beach and having friends and generally just having fun at parties, I was at home reading and doing homework.  Well, I’m sure you can guess how that paid off.  (HINT: Not socially).  But I ACED that 50% of the Jr. Miss pageant. Bumped me right up to third runner-up.  I don’t think anyone in my family (let alone me) could believe it.

Side Note: The winner of Clarkston’s Jr. Miss 1987 was my then (and still now) BFF Mary Ellen.  This was not a surprise as Mary Ellen singlehandedly disproves the “you can’t be pretty and smart” theory.  She is also kind and funny and totally deserving of winning blah blah blah. Someday I will write an entire blog on how Mary Ellen Wins at Life but then I will have to let her write a rebuttal probably titled,  “You guys I’m not perfect” so that day is not today.

Here is where there is usually a “lesson learned” wrap up. And I won’t let you down. Years later, when I was in sales, I used to read a lot of motivational training books.  One of these offered a somewhat novel point of view for the time.  It recommended that you forget about practicing hard on what you’re NOT good at.  Instead, just work harder on what you ARE good at and get GREAT at that.  Reading this book was liberating. Forget about “I think I can I think I can”…maybe just accept I CAN’T! Why should I try to throw a frisbee or toss a ball?  Everyone knows I’m not going to catch it back. Why keep trying to make intricate cakes? Time and experience have shown me I CANNOT decorate a cake! This philosophy gave me permission to quit.  I was DONE trying to iron shirts! Done trying to swim laps and only make it halfway across the pool!  No more guilt over getting that cleaning lady…I can’t help it if I am no good at scrubbing toilets.  From that point on, I started to focus on the things I WAS good at.

So if you need me, I’ll be at Starbucks focusing on getting GREAT at things like telling jokes, making fun of people, speaking impulsively, playing the Yahtzee app, relaxing, scrolling the internet, and curating an entire Twitter feed of dog videos. Wish me luck.

Happy New Year!  It’s been a while. I took some time off but I’m back with a new entry.  And appropriately, this one is about what I learned last year.  Specifically, what I learned last year about the small community I live in.

And what I learned is that a heck of a lot more people in Downers Grove own turtles as pets than I would have guessed.  Yep, that’s it.  You know what else?  I had no idea how often and seemingly quickly these suckers can escape.  Last year there were a bunch of lost tortoises running (very slowly I’m thinking) around town. What on earth could account for this new trend?

I think it all started with the coyotes.  Like many small towns, we have an app/website called Nextdoor. It’s an electronic bulletin board for neighbors to use for communication. You can sell things, buy things, recommend businesses, ask for recommendations, and in some cases, simply complain. At its best, this is a place to buy a second-hand piano or sell your treadmill.  At its worst, it is a place where people who apparently don’t want to go to Target ask an entire community if “anyone has any extra scissors lying around” so they can avoid spending any money. I mean, geez lady, go to Jewel and get the damn scissors!!

So about a year ago people started posting on Nextdoor about the coyotes they were seeing around the neighborhood. I cannot overemphasize the sheer amount of posts about the whereabouts of the coyotes in our town. Did someone have trackers on them that we didn’t know about it?

I’m going to assume that for those who check email incessantly, these notifications may have been helpful. Like a Life360 for wildlife. You could find out, say, if you were walking your dog on 59th and Washington, if there was a coyote snooping around there. But for those of us who don’t read emails at the moment they arrive, these posts seemed silly and pointless. Why do I care that there was a coyote down the street this morning while I was at Starbucks work? It was becoming an epidemic. Not the coyotes, the reporting of them.  No matter how often and commonplace the coyotes became, people kept going on about them as if they were a novel occurrence.  Nevertheless, they persisted. Again, the reporting, not the coyotes.

And then came the comments.  Always the comments.  The same ones.

“We are taking over their habitat, not the other way around!”

“Leave them alone they won’t hurt you!”

“Put your small dogs inside!” (not much of a help when it was posted at 9am and you are checking email at 4:30pm).

“Stare them down, wave your hands and make a loud noise and they will run away!”

“What are they doing out during the day?”

“It’s coyote season!”

“Is it sick? Is it rabid?”

“Don’t feed them!”

“That one’s a male! This one’s a female!”

“I saw some pups!”

“They are looking for food!”

Unless you’re getting this information in real time, at a certain point it seems a bit ridiculous. Finally, it seemed it was over.  The coyotes had raised their pups and moved on.

But no.  Then came the foxes.

At first the reporting didn’t seem much different than the coyote reporting. But it was. This time there were supporters. There are very few coyote fans, but boy do we suburbanites love our foxes. The coyotes had become boring. Residents had a new and interesting animal to muse about. Plus, foxes are much, much cuter and not nearly as scary or threatening. The fox fan club was out in full force.

“Foxes don’t hurt anyone!”

“They eat the mice.”

“They kill those pesky rabbits.”

“They won’t hurt your pets!”

I have to admit. The foxes WERE cute. I may have even stopped once on my way home from school drop off and taken a picture of one myself. He was trotting up someone’s driveway and literally went into their flower garden, dug a little hole, and buried whatever he had been carrying in his mouth. I sat in my car watching him for a while.

But I digress. 

Which leads us to the turtles. Or tortoises. I’m not sure what they were quite honestly. (For the purposes of this blog I will use the words interchangeably.) The tortoise notices started getting posted mid-summer. And they were of another realm altogether. These people could have saved the world the way they worked together and supported each other. Once in a while there was the random angry person who needed to remind the others that this turtle you rescued was NOT in fact a lost turtle but a SNAPPING turtle and put that poor thing back in the creek before it dies or bites someone’s finger off! But in general, they were happy, helpful folks.

It would start with someone saying they lost their tortoise. Now how on earth someone can lose an animal that moves .13 mph (I googled it) is really the million-dollar question. But it can happen. And apparently it can happen often.

Now for the second dilemma. How do you know if it’s YOUR turtle that has been found? I mean, it’s not like they wear collars. I don’t want to offend turtle owners, but there is no way I could pick a turtle out of a lineup. A turtle is a turtle.  Not to mention the fact that there are WILD turtles just walking around the earth too, so what if you accidentally “rescued” one of them instead? And when you are reunited does your turtle recognize you and then run (slowly) to you and snuggle you like your dog might? Who knows? All good questions I would like to find out some day.

There was this lady who described her lost turtle to a potential rescuer.  It wasn’t him, but luckily, she had an offer from a guy who was more than willing to give up his own turtle that looked similar enough.  Can you imagine?  “I’m sorry you lost your schnauzer, but we have one we are tired of that looks a lot like yours. He’s had all his shots but we find him boring. You can have him.”

One lady found a lost turtle but the consensus was that it was just a snapping turtle. Someone recommended she put it back the way it was “originally headed.” Another woman saw one “headed north.”  There was a suggestion that in the future owners tape a balloon to the backs of their turtles in case they escape. I think this is a terrific idea and I would LOVE to find what I thought was a loose balloon only to find it attached to a tortoise.  One person chimed in that all these lost tortoises are bordering on negligence. Fair point. I mean, honestly, how long do you have to be gone for your tortoise to get lost? Going .13 miles per hour that’s like only 686 feet. How long did you look away?  Plus, how are these guys getting out of their houses/crates/cages/hutches?

It had all died down by September.  I was a little sad to see the entertainment end.  There is a silver lining though.  Thanks to the internet and Siri and Alexa and Google and Facebook and everyone else out there tracking my every word and thought and listening to everything I say and possibly being aware of everything I’m even thinking, this popped up in my twitter feed just days after I started writing this blog.  What a great solution.   

I have never met a woman who looked forward to trying on bras.

Now let me stop you right here. To all the females reading: This post is going to be pretty much what you’re expecting.  You will probably relate to what I’m saying and laugh. To all the men reading:  This post is nothing like you are hoping or expecting. So if I haven’t already lost you by the title alone, I encourage you to keep reading so you can understand one of the horrors we have to go through.  But be forewarned: it very well could change your fantasy about women and lingerie.  And a special shout-out goes to my husband. I know you’re probably going to be mad I wrote this and remind me that someday our kids might read my blog, but too bad. I get to write about what I want.

So let me walk you through the inevitable process that is shopping for a new bra.

First, you make the decision that you need a new bra. Yes, I know, you already own 32 bras. But admit it, you really only wear two or three of them. If you’ve been married a while, chances are the pretty, lacy ones are at the bottom of the drawer and rarely resurface.  The “good” ones are too tight and show a LOT of back fat.  The comfortable ones are worn out and barely give support anymore. The sports bra (which you have been known to leave on all day) gives you a uni-boob.   That leaves the old beige standby.  And this one is long beyond stretched out and threadbare. Let’s face it, you are about six months past needing a new one.

So when you finally make the decision to go buy a new bra, the next step is where to go.  If you are a regular-type lady, you might go to Victoria’s Secret to get your bras.  If you are the full-figured type, you are headed to a Department Store.

Now let me start by saying to those of you with smaller chests: SHUT UP.  Stop thinking we ample ladies are humble-bragging.  We are not. We are uncomfortable. Our backs hurt.  We can’t wear spaghetti straps or halter tops unless we want to be pulling up our strapless bra 238 times a day.  We can’t find our sizes easily in stores.  Very few colors are in stock for us.  Our bras cost a fortune. (Why is that?  All the extra material?) And going braless? Forget it.  I mean honestly, if there were a fire in the middle of the night and we had to run out in our pajamas (braless) to save ourselves, the flames wouldn’t be the primary emergency.  So what I am saying is, it isn’t as great as you think it is.  I guarantee, trying on bras is much worse for us than for you.

So the other day I head to Nordstrom and start browsing. As I am trying to inconspicuously look for my size, a saleslady approaches me. Michelle, it seems, was just leaving for her lunch break, but she is the rep for this brand so she will stay and help me.  She is carrying her purse and does not have on a name tag and the thought does cross my mind that this lady with her bag slung over her shoulder the whole time she is measuring me is not really a rep at all and is just some weirdo trying to get in the dressing rooms. But I just go with it.  Did I mention she also has a coat on? Yes. She does. But I figure a lady with no name tag carrying a purse while helping you is not the worst thing that could happen while trying on bras.

Now at this point, she asks me if I want to be measured. They always do. You may or may not agree to this humiliation depending on your confidence level and modesty level. Note: your bra size will change based on who sizes you. You will think that you have finally solved the problem only to find out the next time you go shopping for bras or the next time you watch Oprah that you have been wearing the wrong size all along.  

For the men still reading, here is what ACTUALLY happens in that dressing room. Not what you think or hope. (Well actually I don’t know. Maybe it IS what you think and hope. Who knows? When it comes to boobs, boys get weird).

The bra expert/stranger takes a freezing cold measuring tape and wraps it around your chest over the boobs. She then disappears and returns with the bras. I would imagine at this point if you are a C or under she brings in a plethora of different styles of bras in a variety of colors and price points. If you are me, she brings in three beige or black bras that look like life preservers and cost more than the Kate Spade handbag you would rather be buying.

And by the way, did you know there is a size beyond DD? And DDD? And E???!!! Oh yes, sizes go up to H as far as I am aware.  Who knows, it might be higher, but they do not carry that size at your average department store.

Now she helps clasp it. I don’t know why this happens only with bras. I have never had a salesperson help zip up a pair of pants for me or button a blouse for me. This is embarrassing and humiliating but this is the way that it works.  I do not know who invented this.  If you are less voluptuous I imagine you can snap your own bra with ease, or at least do that junior high thing where you snap it in front first and then slide it around to the back.  But if you are big-chested, you are going to have a three-inch band that is reminiscent of a powerlifting belt and you might need help hooking that sucker up.  (Now you can always just take the bras from the saleslady and close the door, but that wouldn’t make for a funny blog.)

Then she asks me what I think. This is one of those times where it feels like there is a right or wrong answer. Like when you take an eye test and they ask you “Which looks better, one or two?” and switch back and forth. Do I like this bra or not? Does it fit me? I don’t know, does it? How do I know? You just said I have been wearing the wrong size for three years!!

“It feels a little loose and big,” I say.

“No,” she says. “You can’t go smaller,” and she proceeds to cinch me tight to show me how a smaller size would feel.

I knew it. Wrong answer.

“Do you have this in any other colors?”

“Not in your size. Just nude and black.”

Every time.

The Layman’s Guide to Bras:

Push-up: So this is for when you want to be sexy.  Not a lot of need for this one for moms in the carpool lane. Not that it can’t be used in private; but in public, this bra isn’t too useful for you after a certain age without getting stares.  However, if you are wearing this bra, that tells me you are looking for some stares, so this is the one to go for.  Now we big-bosomed ladies tend to spill over already, so push-up bras don’t really make sense for us.  Plus, there just isn’t a lot of space for them to go.  If we WERE to attempt to push our boobs up, they would be hitting us somewhere under our chin.  So I say no to this one personally.

Sports: Good for running or exercising. Not great if you leave on all day due to laziness or thinking you will work out but then not actually ever getting around to it. Could cause back or neck pain. Causes uni-boob.

Strapless: Cuts into your skin. Lots of spillover, possibly leading the dreaded “four-boob illusion,” where half the boob is over the cup and half is inside the cup.  May not be able to withstand your boob weight for an entire evening.

Front-clasp: Front clasp = collapses under the pressure like an empty paper bag.

Minimizer: This is a busty gal’s best friend.  It flattens you a bit so that you can finally see your feet. You also tend to look slimmer since you are not so top-heavy.  Negatives are if it pushes down too much and you are slightly voluptuous (which you are or you wouldn’t be wearing this bra) you will have square boob, which is a variation of uni-boob but wider and flatter.

Full-coverage: Pros: Full coverage = Support = Curvy girl’s favorite. Cons: Lots of material. Might feel like you are wearing an all-time-built-in camisole or tank top.

The padded push-up: WHAT. THE. HECK.  If you have reached a status with a D in it you do not need padding.  Nor do you need push-up. (See above). Push-up plus padding?  Why do they even make this in sizes above B or C? Where is the boob going to go?  Right outside the cup that’s where. I don’t need extra padding on my own extra padding.

Bralette: Just break down the word.  Bra-lette. Little bra.  Nuff said. Let’s move on.

Demi-bra: Half-bra. See above. No thank you. I am not paying $74 for half a bra.

Underwire: Lift and support. Hello angel! (Warning: may also cause digging into the skin. And watch out if one of those wires breaks free of its casing. YOWZA!!)

PS: I could not find a friend who was willing to pose for a picture for this blog. I even offered to blur out their faces, but there were no takers. That is why you will have to just suffer through with some stock photos of quotes about bras. Sorry about that. Blame my friends.

I was only 6 years old, but I can still remember my mother sitting in the brown wingback chair in our living room, announcing to my extended family that she was going to have a baby.  This was met with excited cheers, but also shock. My mother was 40 and pregnant…not common back then.

And then he was born. The Golden Boy. The first grandson after NINE girls. In a GREEK family.  Born at 10 1/2 pounds with a unibrow that would make Bert from Sesame Street jealous. The christening was a spectacle even for Greek standards, complete with banquet hall and band.

This boy became the bane of my existence.  A boy who anytime I would bring a boyfriend home would bring out my 6th-grade picture to humiliate me. A boy who would throw cups of freezing cold water over the curtain while I was showering. A boy who would put soaking wet towels in my bed so that I had to sleep on the floor for two days until my mattress would dry.

I’ve sprinkled some screenshots throughout of our texts to give you some insight into our relationship.

This is not the aforementioned picture. Believe it or not, this is BETTER than that one. (If you click on a previous post titled “Looking at life through rose-colored glasses,” you will see that picture)  This feathered-hair stunner is from 5th grade.  I recently found it along with the drawing, which is worse than a sideshow carnival caricature. We have come to the conclusion that my cousin, who is an artist for Sony Animation, is the culprit. Let it be known I am taking credit for giving him his start in the business. 

Let’s face it, this boy was doing his best while surrounded by a lot of estrogen. My brother was raised by four women, which was probably three women too many.  Each one more loud and outgoing than the next, a gaggle of girls who “talk too much and ask too many questions.” (Or so I’ve been told.) Growing up in my family is not for the faint of heart.  Or the quiet and introverted.  It can be overwhelming.

By the time he was two, my oldest sister Chris was able to drive. (If you have kids, you know that by the time your oldest child can drive, you are READY to pass over that responsibility.) Two years later, Melissa was driving as well. One of our “family stories” is that when either one of them would be alone with Abe, strangers would occasionally think he was their child.  This would elicit opposite reactions from the girls.  Chris would be annoyed and insulted, Melissa would be thrilled and honored.  Which also tells you something about the personalities and temperaments of my sisters.

He and I had a different relationship though. We were too close in age for me to have that maternal instinct toward him.  Yet too far apart to have a close sibling relationship in our youth. He was the annoying brother and I was the mean older sister.

It took many years for us to forge a friendship. But now I can honestly say that he is one of my go-to people when I need to talk. Men have a reputation for being terrible listeners, always wanting to “fix things.” But not him. He has figured out the difficult balance between knowing when to talk, when to listen, when to advise, and when to simply commiserate. I always feel better after our conversations.

I will also begrudgingly acknowledge that he is one of the funniest people I know. Which if you know me is hard to admit because I would like to think that I am also one of the funniest people I know.  This is particularly challenging for me because he usually won’t give me the satisfaction of a laugh even though I know secretly he thinks I’m hilarious.  In this, way he reminds me of my dad. (Well, that and the way he has the exact same body and face as my dad). It once took me three days of trying to get him to laugh until he finally caved.

Yet I will guffaw with abandon at his quick wit, his recapping of stories, his one-liners, and even his dad jokes.  Which is why I am the person he will text when something funny happens. When it comes to humor, he and I have a connection that no one else understands.

But even though when I think of him my first thought is FUNNY, his other traits are what make him a wonderful brother. He is kind, which is not a trait that you find easily anymore. He is thoughtful.  He is smart AND talented. He is artistic. He has extensive knowledge of music. He can write a play, compose a song, and play any instrument. He loves the Golden Girls and The Beatles. He can, and will, beat you at Scrabble. He makes a mean chili. He has his own cartoon about a mouse that lives in a cup titled “Cupmouse” because why not? In fact, for all intents and purposes, he is the real deal.

Left: An example of his “Dad humor.”            Right: His insane knowledge of music.

You might be wondering how he will feel after reading this post. Will he be embarrassed? Proud? Sentimental even?  Well, here’s the thing:  There is a pretty, pretty, good chance he won’t even see it.  I mean, it took me several months to get him to even sign up for my blog. (“I don’t really like to subscribe to things because they just send me stuff all the time. “Umm.  But this is not spam, it’s actually ME you dork. I am the one who is doing the sending of the blog so I think you will be ok. Sign up NOW!”)

And let’s say he does read this. Well, there is a VERY good chance that I won’t know it anyway because he won’t comment on it. Unless he argues about the accuracy of something I wrote, I may never know what he thinks. Which can be very frustrating for a person like me. Which might just cause me to call him up and talk too much and ask him too many questions…

Guess what he’s doing?

This is the true story of four family members who chose to get on a plane, rent a car, drive down the California coast and have their vacation documented.  Find out what happens when people stop being polite, and start getting real.

The Real World: Pacific Coast Highway

Day Seven: 

9:00am: Wake up and make the drive to Los Angeles. Do the obligatory Hollywood
Walk of Fame and take pictures outside Grauman’s Chinese Theater.  Text my cousin whom we will be staying with that night.  Recieve offer to go see his place of work.  Decide, YES!  We WILL go see his place of work as he is in the Movie Business and works for Sony and worked on the latest Spiderman movie and who knows who might be walking around his office probably Ethan Hawke or maybe even Chris Hemsworth and there is a good chance once they see me I will be Discovered.

3:00pm: Get directions to my cousin’s place of work.  He is a man of few words and even fewer instructions.  Get an address but not much more.  Drive to the address and ask parking attendant, “Is this Sony?”

“No, this is Netflix.”

Wonder if he is kidding or if you are going to miss your chance of becoming the next Mrs. Hugh Jackman.  Check address again.  After much confusion and name dropping, attendants let you through. Find out later cousin has switched jobs and no longer works for Sony and now works for Netflix Animation.  Wonder if asking Netflix people if you are at Sony is comparable to ordering a Big Mac at Burger King.

3:30pm: Enter offices and feel extremely important as you sign a disclosure. Tour the building. Look around for famous people everywhere you go but mostly just see people drawing.  Annoy family by asking animators lots of questions. Say no to all the snacks offered even though secretly you are hungry.  See no one famous.

4:30pm: Head to cousin’s house in Santa Clarita.

6:00pm: Reach cousin’s house.  Get dropped off while Ted goes back out to find a vision center to have a professional fix his glasses.  An hour later learn that it seems all vision centers in the tri-county area are closed for the evening.  Enjoy great night eating, swimming, and playing with nephews.

10:00pm: Go to bed.

Final Day!!  DISNEY!!

8:00: Get up and make the long trek to Disneyland.

11:00: Enter the park.  Look over and see that Ted is literally carrying his glasses with two hands out in front of him open-palmed like a treasured bar of gold.   Wish he had this much determination and persistence when it came to hanging up his coat and turning his socks right-side in before he throws them in the laundry.  Lose patience.  “Are you going to carry those around the entire day?  It’s going to be hard to go on rides like that.  Please put those AWAY!!”

Above: In line for a ride but still plugging away.

12:00pm: Stop and watch parade.  Notice this is a scaled-down parade consisting of random Disney characters walking down Main Steet waving and saying hello.  Cringe as you see Ted waving and trying to dance along with Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum in an attempt to be funny and embarrass us.  Take a few steps back so bystanders don’t think you are together.  Suddenly hear Ted calling to the Evil Queen, “Hey Queen, got any apples?” Mortified, look around for a hole to crawl into.  Watch teenage son move back toward you.  Listen as Evil Queen’s retorts, “I don’t give apples to peasants like you.” Hear crowd around you roar with laughter.

2:00pm: Notice that your kids are not interested in taking pictures with any characters anymore because they are too old, not even when you see Boba Fett.   When Fairy Godmother rounds the corner say, “Cool!  She must be a rare one!” Push your kids to go get a picture and start to walk toward the line that has formed to see her.  Feel elation quickly turn into confusion and panic as you see Ted barge his way through the line and shout, “Fairy Godmother!  These are the two wishes you granted for ME!!” pointing to kids.  Wonder how he has survived so far in the real normal world and almost die of embarrassment.  “Ted! GET IN LINE!” you say with clenched teeth and horror as you pull him away.  Realize Fairy Godmother must be a saint used to inappropriate impulsive dads accosting her as she finishes talking to someone and steps out of line to speak to your family.  Assume there is some sort of underground “Code Yellow” happening RIGHT NOW where characters have to follow secret protocol to usher the weirdos away.  Snap quick picture and RUN out of Fantasyland.

3:00pm: Stumble into Star Wars land. Walk into a droid making factory and realize that YOU CAN MAKE YOUR OWN DROID!!  Ummmm, YES kids, you CAN each make an R2 unit!!  Lead them over to the conveyer belt to pick their parts.  Look behind you for Ted and blink hard, not believing your eyes.  Apparently, because this is a droid factory (FAKE–FROM THE MOVIES BY THE WAY) someone thinks there should be lots of tools here and has approached Mustached Humanoid for help.  Notice with horror that HE IS TRYING TO USE A MOTORIZED DROID TOOL TO FIX HIS GLASSES.  Watch as he and the poor Galactic Republic Engineer walk together to the fictional memory flush station (I’m just guessing here) to assess the damage.  Alas, it seems even using the Tatoonie manufactured hydraulic protocol arm and spark projector could not do the trick.  Assist kids in their Highlight of Vacation 2019 while their dad attends to the Lowlight of Vacation 2019.

11:00pm: Leave Disneyland.

Above: Ted and the engineer work on his glasses with a motorized drill of some sort clearly too big for a prescription sunglasses screw.  

Below: After realizing the tool is not going to work they move to another station. 

Wake up the next day and fly home…

Where are they now??

Teddy and Franny got home and never played with their $100 droids again.

Ted left California with his glasses still broken. He finally managed to get them repaired when he got back to Illinois.  Even blurry, he enjoyed his vacation.

Samantha returned home and realized there really WAS enough material to write a blog.  Maybe even four blogs.