Earlier this evening, after a skull-stabbing hour of long division, Eleven-Year-Old Tony and I engaged in a fascinating conversation about his summer vacation plans.
Me: "You must be stoked for summer vacation, Eleven-Year-Old Tony."
Eleven-Year-Old Tony: "Not really."
Me: "What? Are you kidding me? I would literally chew shards of glass soaked in roadkill juice if it meant I could do absolutely nothing for one whole summer."
Eleven-Year-Old Tony: "Yeah, but you don't have to spend three months in Las Vegas at my grandparent's house."
Me: "What's wrong with Las Vegas? It's a great city."
Eleven-Year-Old Tony: "It would be if it didn't rain all the time."
Me: "Umm, Eleven-Year-Old Tony, are you sure you're thinking of the right place? Granted it's been a while, but the last time I was in Las Vegas it was 111° and drier than a nun's vagi…"
Eleven-Year-Old Tony (interrupting): "Oh yeah. I must be thinking of my other grandparent's house."
Me (relieved): "Ah. Where do they live?"
Eleven-Year-Old Tony: "Phoenix."
Me: "Umm, I'm pretty sure Phoenix doesn't get very much rai..."
Eleven-Year-Old Tony (interrupting): "Wait. Were you just about to say 'nun's vagi...'?"
Me (interrupting): "Golly, I never could stand that damn Phoenix rain."