A Ratio That Not Even the Ex-Lawyer in Me Could Defend

It’s 9 pm at night and I can’t find my Netflix movie.

So I yell across the house to Staci, “Hey Babe…Did you get the mail today?”

“No,” she says, “Why?”

“Because I want my Netflix movie.”

“You’ll have to get it yourself then.”

The mailbox is about 90 yards down the street.  And it was cold.

“But you always get the mail.  Why do I have to get it?”‘

“Because you never get it.  It’s not my job.”

I wanted to say, “I sort of think it is your job,” but thought better of it.

“Stephan, since we’ve lived here, how many times have you gotten the mail?”

“What, is this a fairness thing?  Like we should each get the mail the same number of times?”

“How many times have you gotten the mail?”

“I don’t see the point of this.”

“How many times have you gotten the mail?”

I thought for a minute.

“Four,” I said.

“Four,” she repeated.  “And how long have we lived here?”

“Nine years,” I said.

I walked the cold, 90 yards in silence.