After breezing through baggage check-in, we approached the next checkpoint (the one preceding the 50-mile trek to Gate A-5), and that's when our troubles began. I yelled at Parker to stop playing leapfrog with the crowd control barriers, and then handed over my picture I.D. to stoic Security Agent Charleeka Chakenda.

"This driver's license expired in February," she deadpanned.

"Nobody reminded me," I argued.

"You must be from Georgia." As sure as I am of my February birth date, that woman had to be thinking: 'Lord, help us all.'

Homeland Security thought my little senior moment deserved special attention, so the contents of my over-stuffed pocketbook were removed and scrutinized by a machine resembling a blowtorch. I was then ordered into a stall that was smaller than a phone booth and filled with small torpedo-shaped projectiles.

"Stand there and don't move till I return," commanded Checkpoint Charleeka, sounding a whole lot like General MacArthur.

Warm air began to blow out of the midget torpedoes, poofing and poofing until my body was covered in poofs. A bit of a turn-on in a funky kinda way.

"What on earth is the purpose of this exercise in humiliation," I asked.

"Explosives," Checkpoint Charleeka said, much too seriously. "You're looking for a bomb tucked inside my Wonderbra? I'm not a bra-bomber, just your normal, every day freaked-out grandmother."

She rolled her eyes and waved us through. We arrived in Philadelphia but the airport shuttle to the hotel did not. We waited for an hour before forking over the equivalent of Parker's college tuition for a cab ride into town. The City of Brotherly Love was starting to make me feel like a stepsister.

Parker was fixing to go into chocolate withdrawal, and I was hungry for something other than airline pretzels. Clutching a handful of "Kids Eat Free" vouchers, we high-tailed it to the Holiday Inn dining room. The "Kids Eat Free" program was the only reason I'd booked a $200 a day room.

The kid's menu was the biggest farce since Homeland Security poofed me for explosives. Parker took one incredulous look at what was offered, visibly shuddered, and then promptly ordered starchy fettuccini for twenty bucks.

Our plans for an early morning tour trail didn't pan out, either. We were wiped out and didn't make it to Independence Hall until noon where we bought tickets and hoped we wouldn't fall asleep while riding through history.

I didn't want to complain, but forced to sit atop a double-decker bus in 200-degree heat while every two minutes an out-of-work actor/tour guide dropped Ben Franklin's name, literally screamed out for equal whine time.

Next we rode the Duck, a WW2 amphibious vehicle that promised an exciting one-of-a-kind, 70-minute ride around Philadelphia. It concluded with a dunk in the Delaware River where the actor on welfare was obliged to drop Franklin's name fifty more times. Unless it's linked to a hundred-dollar bill, I hope to never hear it again.

"Did Franklin go with General Washington when he crossed the Delaware, Mammy," Parker asked. "Let's ask our tour guide." I grabbed his hand in mid-wave. "If you say the F-name out loud, Parker, I'm gonna rip your lips off."

Since our early flight home held the possibility of more jet-poofing, we returned to the hotel and left a pre-dawn wake-up call. After all we'd been through, we should have expected a fire alarm to go off in the middle of the night, including evacuation orders. But we were tired and we are from Georgia.

Parker go so excited I thought he would wet his boxers. "We're on FIRE, Mammy! Suuu-weeeeet!"

I grabbed my laptop, cell phone and my pocketbook containing the expired Driver's License. In emergency situations, it's all about priorities. As it turned out, nothing was burning up except disgruntled hotel guests standing in the street sweating like packhorses.

At the airport, no torpedo poofers searched for any sweet little grannies who might be packing explosives. I was treated instead to a personal pat down. Discovering no incendiary devices inside my bra or my shoes, Homeland Security opted to pat down Parker just to make sure good ol' Granny didn't plan on blasting him into the middle of next week.

Parker grinned wildly during his body search, his creative mind busy embellishing his adventures for when school would start and it was time for him to write, "What I Did On My Summer Vacation."

Genes don't lie. Lord, help us all.