What are the odds?
You have been struck with the "Suzy F. Homemaker" bug (or struck by lightning, you aren't sure which), when you decide to make your husband waffles for breakfast. Homemade. You are holding the baby when he suddenly projectile vomits and hits the entire northeast corner of the kitchen. For those unaware of the landscape in said kitchen, that would be the oven, microwave and half of the pots and pans.
You run to the door, dropping a waffle on the way, to let the dog in. You drop the baby into the Jumperoo, or as we are affectionately referring to it these days, the "Neglect-aroo." He begins his loud protestations but to no avail. You go back into the kitchen to find the dog has eaten the waffle and has moved on to the bathroom, where HE is now projectile vomiting the contents of HIS stomach. The waffle maker begins to "beep, BEEP, BEEEEPPPP" but you are now forced to pick up vomit that smells mysteriously like poop, while having to listen to the baby's wails from the next room. You now smell the waffle and wonder when the smoke alarm is going to smell it as well. Oh, that's right. You disconnected the smoke alarm on this floor because it rings more than it is silent.
You yell apologies to the baby, who is now sounding like he might bring this up at Thanksgiving 25 years from now, but apologies are just not going to cut it. You go back and save the waffle maker from the waffle that looks like it might combust at any moment.
And what do you hear? "Why are you crying, buddy?" From his perch 2 feet away from the baby on the couch, as he peruses the daily results of his Fantasy Baseball pool on the laptop. A pool in which he finds himself 7 out of 8 at any given time. A pool that goes approximately 137 games longer than it should. A pool that will not change between now and 9 o'clock when he gets to his government job and he proceeds to surf the web on all "breaks."
Two vomits (one smelling like poop) and burnt waffles.
What are the odds? One in One.