Galloping Gourmet

"Can I go to Mexico this summer?" asked my middle son.

"Leave me alone, I'm busy," I told him.

"Seriously," he said.

"Yes, seriously, I'm busy. I'm working."

""Why didn't you finish it at the office?"

"Because I had too much to do," I said.

"Where'd you go for lunch?" he sneered.

"That's not the point," I said.

"What did you have?"

"Hủ Tiếu Mì."

"What does that mean?"

"It means 'delicious.'"

"So you weren't working."

"Knock it off," I said. "You sound like your mother."

"Anyway, can I go to Mexico?" he repeated.

"Don't be stupid."

"You're stupid," he said.

"This whole conversation is stupid," I said.

"Does that mean I can go?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" I asked, finally turning to look at him.

"My friend S. is going and his mom said I could come too if it's okay with you and mom."

"How much does it cost?"

"I don't know," he said. "You'd only have to pay for the plane ticket."

"Plus a passport," I said. "Unless I sneak you over the border late at night. You probably wouldn't make it back, then. That would be very sad."

"Be quiet."

"I love you, buddy."

"So can I?" he asked, again.

"You're going to Mexico, your older brother's going to Australia and New Zealand, and where am I going? Nowhere. That's where I always am, right?"

"Dad, you're getting agitated. Besides, you're going somewhere."

"Where?"

"Little Rock."

"For three days. For a conference."

"You can go out to eat."

"Where?" I demanded.

"I bet they have good barbecue," he said.

"You're probably right," I said, turning back to my computer and typing in 'restaurant' and 'little rock.'"

"I thought you had work to do," said the boy.

"I'm doing it," I said.