This entry is about as well-organized as my life, which is to say, not at all. Joel went down to Florida for a week and Bishop joined him via airplane with Dianne on Thursday. They're driving back today.

Before he left, I cautioned Bishop about the various impediments he would experience during the security check, and also reminded him that on this trip he would not be going to Disneyworld. Before I could get past, "And then they make you take your shoes off," he interrupted me.

"I know."

"What do you know, baby?"

"Everything."

The sad thing is, I think he still thinks he was right.

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While we were at the airport, since Dianne got her worrywart on because she didn't have a printed itinerary, I waited outside with Dave, Angie, their baby boy and the two girls. Until Teeny started running around, at which time I picked her up and dumped her in the backseat of our totally not running with windows all up car because, hey, we'd be leaving in a couple of minutes anyway and she'd be fine. Except that, also hey, I forgot that even though my purse rested securely on my shoulder my keys were still IN THE IGNITION and my baby crawled into the front seat and pressed the master lock.

I tried not to fall on the ground screaming and clutching my chest where my heart had come to an icy halt. Dave and I tried to persuade Teeny to press the "unlock" button, which unfortunately was not nearly as bumpy and interesting as the "lock" side of the thing, while Angie kept Wooster occupied and EJ slept the crisis through.

After about five minutes of failure that felt like five hundred, we flagged down a passing police cruiser and begged for help. They went to the rental car place because they didn't have anything in their car to open a locked door. Weird. They returned ten minutes later with a four-foot-long metal rod thingy that was disconcertingly painted pink. Then they wasted five more minutes arguing about where to insert the stupid thing until at last Dave grabbed his Swiss Army knife, pried the driver's side door open a couple of inches, and said, "Go ahead, I've got it open." Needless to say, in spite of their cheerful nature I wasn't overly impressed with the intellectual calibre of Tri-Cities' finest.

At last my sweaty flushed child was returned to the exterior world, where, knowing who was to thank for her release, she hung onto David and ignored me for a good minute or two. I dumped her in the minivan Dave and Angie were driving and gave her water--she drank half a bottle--then buckled her and her sister in her seats.

Then Dave gave me my keys, which I had again left in the ignition.

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I didn't do anything for Fourth of July except stay home with the girls. Then after they went to bed I bathed the guinea pigs I keep on the weekends (from Teeny's class) and gave the long-haired one a haircut. And before you gasp in horror and shock, NO PEOPLE THEY WILL NOT DIE. For Pete's sake, have you ever known me to undertake a new endeavor without researching it first? Well, other than leaving my kid in the car with the keys in the ignition. In fact, people bathe their guinea pigs all the time! See? See? Okay then.

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Wooster has taken the apparent abandonment of her father, along with the totally unfair trip her brother took to join him, all in stride, with the exception of nighttime prayer. When I start praying before they fall asleep, she juts out her pudgy palm and proclaims, "No! It my turn! Stop talking, Mama!" Once I've complied, she begins, "Deah God. Tank 'ou fo de food. Pwease poh out you bwood on de house and de caws and--and I ANGWY, GOD! I SO MAD! DADDY GO BYE-BYE AND I ANGWY! In Desus' Name, amen."

While I was typing that, she disappeared into her father's closet and came out holding a necktie, which her father hasn't worn since we renewed our vows back in October.

"I gotta go to work," she said to her reflection, then gave a heavy sigh of resignation. "Yeah. I gotta go."

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Now, for your viewing pleasure, I present an Indian guy dancing in front of a huge American flag with a hundred multi-culti extras while lip-syncing to a Hindi song which is a remake of a classic Roy Orbison anthem. Yesssss. American Ish-Style! Happy Independence Day, everyone.

That's what I saw regular gasoline going for at our neighborhood station yesterday as Joel and I drove down to take Bishop and our little ladies to A & W for a celebratory root beer. It was the last day of school and he's made so much progress, we needed a recognition of the fact. Of course, the price of gas sent our jaws to the floor and made us wail and beat our chests, but we toned it down when people started staring from their front porches.

I remember hearing on NPR a few weeks back that gas in the UK is the equivalent of $8 per gallon right now. Yup, you read that correctly. I guess by that standard I should be kissing random Exxon signs in gratitude but for now I am VERY ANGRY that I might be able to eat out one less time per month because! Am AMERICAN! We built this country to run on depleting reserves of fossil fuels because we have the RIGHT! Have complete entitlement to cheap gas in order to pollute atmosphere without it biting my pocketbook! Sidewalks, bike lanes, ha! I spit on them all!

Joel's reaction to the new price was to throw a reference to gas into every conversational gambit from then on for the rest of the trip. A cop sped by with sudden acceleration? "See, he's not paying for his gas. He can afford to do that." An SUV barrelled by? "What a freaking waste of money; twelve miles to the gallon if you're lucky. If I had one of those I'd be on the altar repenting by Sunday." Somebody roared in the opposite direction on their motorcycle? "Now that's the smart way to get around. Fifty miles to the gallon."

When I discovered my pregnancy with Teeny I began petitioning Heaven for a minivan. We never got one. However, God knew exactly what he was doing (wow. What a surprise) because there is no way we could afford the gas now. Far from being a symbol of God's lack of interest in my transportation situation, our two sedans are symbols of his care for our finances. Also they have now led to the sort of smug self-righteousness that only involuntary environmentalism can yield. (Haha, suckers, enjoy that Suburban--in your DRIVEWAY!)

For Musical Chairs Friday, I now present Louis Armstrong, singing "Hello, Dolly" in 1967.