Stranded at the drive-in./Stranded a fool./What will they say — Monday at school?

And so I did (with apologies to John Travolta). The good thing is, the monsoon winds were blowing so loudly, no one could hear.

I had my doubts about the drive-in, even though my friend Kathy (she of cupcake baking fame) has been raving about it for years. It’s on the edge of town, technically on the Salt River/Pima Indian reservation (yes, we have bona fide Indian reservations, and that’s what they call them, here in metro Phoenix) and Kathy swears it’s a few degrees cooler.

Damn, she’s right. Maybe it’s the breeze blowing in from the waterpark across the street (that’s a joke, as is the waterpark itself, “Big Surf,” because yes, 40 years ago someone decided we needed to surf in the desert) or the fact it’s a bit removed from the concrete jungle. For whatever reason, though the temperature reached 110 yesterday, by nightfall at the Scottsdale Drive In, it was practically bearable.

Kathy whipped up a whole wheat pasta salad, set out lawn chairs, a small table and blankets, and made a bed for the girls in the back of her SUV. We had a whole posse, which included another large car, several more chairs, two moms and four more kids, a huge cooler and oatmeal cookies with dark chocolate M&Ms. It was a great time.

Ice Age III (what I saw of it, anyway) was not bad. The sound from the car radios was surprisingly good; the only drawback was that several batteries died by night’s end.

The best part: Sophie. This is the movie-going experience for my child! Like the princess with the pea, she tried every lawn chair, the back of each car, the blankets and every lap, before finally demanding she be strapped into her car seat, where she relaxed in luxury. The best part: She didn’t disturb a soul. (Not much, anyway.) I can’t remember the last time I took Sophie to the movies and she didn’t spend the entire time begging to go to the bathroom, then admitting she didn’t have to go once there. The most memorable experience was when we saw Mamma Mia last summer and Sophie ran down to the front of the theater and danced practically on top of the screen. (The staff were not amused.)

She’s got Down syndrome, that’s for sure, but as I filled out the multi-sheet questionaire from the latest psychologist yesterday, I wondered what the paper diagnosis would be, given my answers: Sophie’s got no attention span, she won’t sit still, she doesn’t always interact appropriately with others. Sounds like ADHD to me. Or even autism, and since this shrink is famous for giving that diagnosis to anyone who comes through the door, I better brace myself.

Not that I think Sophie’s autistic. Trust me, she’s not. But if you saw her at the movies — hands over ears, running down aisles, refusing to listen to reason….

As usual, I digress. The drive-in experience was wonderful, and left me sad that it’s a dying breed. Funny, because outdoor movie-going is all the rage, as long as it’s in a hotel pool or at a fancy park. Slate just did a piece on it this week. (To which I’ll say only, lady, you’re lucky if anyone ever invites you anywhere again, let alone a movie, after writing that.) I prefer the old school experience, for sure — a place still untouched by development (bless the Native Americans for moving slowly on such things), rickety and low budget ($6.50 for three of us for a double feature!) and, as Kathy puts it, “a dustbowl by day.”

“But see how it’s transformed into a wonderland at night?!” she asked, relaxing against her poofy comforter, diet cherry limeaid in hand, thrilled she’d finally dragged us all along.

She better watch out. We’ll be back, and we’re taking her with us.