Green: Forget the Griswolds, ‘Let’s go Greens!’

When we travel, my family doesn’t mess around.

Every decision — from the coffee (Dunkin’ Donuts) to the airline (my dad has an unwavering loyalty to U.S. Airways) — is crucial and therefore carefully planned. This comes from a combination of anal retentiveness, a collective competitive streak and watching way too many episodes of “The Amazing Race.”

Needless to say, when we traveled to the Caribbean this summer, the family was at the top of its game.

Wake-up time was 4 a.m. The sky was still dark and the night air was chilly — cold like the determination in my father’s eyes. He wore his fanny pack, so we all knew he meant business.

“Let’s go, Greens!” he hollered. This would become his catchphrase of the trip, which he periodically used to round us up and herd us along like a line of baby ducklings — but don’t be fooled by this happy children’s book simile. This is an “Ugly Duckling” style line, where the weakest duckling not only gets left behind, but fed to the others to increase the strength of the rest of the “family.”I knew I had no choice but to play my part in this

cutthroat race to takeoff.

Things started off well. The car ride to the airport went smoothly, just like we planned it. Driving 60 down the highway with Elton J. playing full blast, we made it known that if any car tried to cut us off, slow us down or pull any other funny business, they would end up just like Thelma and Louise — dead at the bottom of a cliff. Luckily (for them), no one got in our way, probably because they were so intimidated by our Plymouth minivan.

Unfortunately, the airport proved more problematic. The check-in line for our airline was not only full, it snaked outside the roped-off perimeter and spilled into the general airport like an overflowing Dumpster. We were not pleased.

“Our flight is in an hour,” rasped my little sister, her voice like a 60-year-old chain smoker. “I’d rather rush the crowd and force my way to the front.”

These people clearly had no idea who they were dealing with. My youngest sister’s banshee voice was just one of many weapons in our arsenal.

Yet for some reason, our usual form of intimidation (empty threats) wasn’t working. The flight was now in 45 minutes. According to my dad, we had to be at least one half-hour early just in case there was an earthquake at security or a fire at the terminal or aliens or something — The Greens are prepared for anything. Action had to be taken.

It was then that my dad, fueled by anxiety and Morningstar Farms breakfast links, remembered that we could check our bags outside. This realization was an MVP moment for sure, and I had to wonder just how many other tricks he had tucked away in that fanny pack of his.

We sent my little sister, who trotted full speed like a trained army scout, to verify the account and 10 minutes later, our bags were checked and the people who had been in line ahead of us, dressed in white linen like the horrible tourists they were, still hadn’t moved an inch — just like the rest of the travel-illiterate masses. Suckers.

Now we were on our way to security and feeling pretty good about ourselves, considering our latest success. Just another ant in a long line of insects to be crushed, we chuckled to ourselves.

The airport “security,” despite its attempts to be bureaucratic and lame, proved to be of little challenge.

We separated ourselves, as trained, across two different security guards to improve our efficiency. Also, no one had to be strip searched, which was also a big plus. My father did, however, have to begrudgingly surrender the boarding passes for a few minutes, which, for him, was kind of like lending us his vital organs.

“Do you still have your boarding passes?” he asked us anxiously after we were through security, as if we might have lost them or torn them up in the five-minute span they were out of his possession.

“Yes, Dad.”

“Give them to me, give them to me.”

Once the passes were safely back in the fanny pack and several “Let’s go, Greens!” later, we had finally reached the terminal.

The end was almost in sight and things were going great. This was even better than the Canada 2005 trip, when an airport official gave us preferential treatment because he thought I was being abused or smuggled into the country.

We celebrated this by buying ourselves coffee. I downed my cup — medium, hazelnut, no cream, no sugar — in less than 10 minutes so as to keep at the top of my game. Without caffeine pills or 5-Hour Energy Shots, it would have to do.

But then — as happens in most truly great teams (The Beatles, ’N Sync, Dubya’s cabinet), someone got greedy.

“I want food,” croaked the raspy voice — the sound of betrayal.

“No time. Let’s go, Greens!” said my father, clearly nonplussed by the threat of continous

“Hannah Montana” marathons for the rest of his days. It had taken a lot of ingenuity and Elton John to get as far as he did, and damn it if someone’s appetite was going to ruin this for him.

It was Green vs. Green now.

My sister, who was frankly always a little power-hungry and apparently didn’t seem to care who else got hurt along the way, made the first move.

“Mommy, I’m hungry!”

A bold move, to be sure, since she’s had our mother wrapped around her malicious little finger for some time now.

This sent my dad into a series of watch-checking, frowning and “Let’s go, Greens!” as he desperately searched for the right way to counteract the “Mom” card, pacing the terminal while a nearby flight attendant cheerfully announced, “Now boarding all passengers,” to his complete horror.

“No, no, no time!” said my dad. He wore the fanny pack in this family, damnit.

The rest of us could only watch on, as Europe’s “The Final Countdown” played in my head.

“Mike, she’s only going to whine more on the plane,” said my mother.

And then something happened I’d never seen happen before. My father acquiesced. At that moment I realized that a new era had risen.

My sister boarded the plane, pizza in hand, with a smug smile. And I, still just a mere pawn, quietly acknowledged that this was now the age of the 14-year-old.

E-mail Molly for more Green family adventures at mog4@pitt.edu, because this happens all the time.