Sometimes life is fair. Rarely does this occur, true - but it happens.
I was settling in at Starbucks this evening, plugging in my computer, ordering my hot chocolate. Aaaah! My cellphone rang. It was Larry, calling to tell me that I should pick up some ginger ale while I'm out.
Ginger ale. That can't be good.
"We have some in the pantry," I told him. "Did someone throw up?"
"Yeah, Brian did," he said. "So, uh, I guess I'll just, uh, start cleaning up here..."
At this point, I confess, I almost offered to come home. Someone was sick! There was vomit to clean up! And then I remembered - I'm working. Wasn't the deal that whoever was out earning money was not required to come home and clean up the vomit? Wasn't that the arrangement I had abided by during the 17-year-long pukefest that has been our life with kids (at least up until July of 2008)? Heck, yeah.
"Well, have fun with that," I said. "See ya later."
[For you statistically-minded people, that was 508 days without a puking incident in our household - an all-time record.]