Red Storm Rising

Today at work my 10 a.m. appointment hadn't arrived on time. The kid I was waiting for is named John, and is mildly obsessed with what I eat for breakfast. So I took advantage of the extra five minutes by filling my water bottle up at the water fountain.

As I'm filling up I hear John and his family coming up the stairs, which are right behind the water fountain. So I turn around to tell say hi to John, his sisters, and babysitter, when all of a sudden his oldest sister decides now is as good a time as any to start throwing up massively. I don't know why it didn't occur to her (or all the other eight year olds in the world) to maybe plan ahead and try to barf outside, ten seconds before she came in. She had to know she wasn't feeling to well. But she risked it, I guess, and hoped the sickness would pass.

She gambled and lost.

I don't know if John is as obsessed with what his sister eats for breakfast as he is with my dining habits. But it's safe to say he didn't have to ask her what she ate for breakfast today. He got to see for himself.

Raspberries. Bright red raspberries. And now there was bright red raspberry vomit all over the steps, walls, and first floor of our office building. Again, and I cannot emphasize this enough: a little foresight from Barfing Sister would have made a lot of people's life a lot easier. So while John and I played Go Fish in my office for half an hour, his babysitter had to mop up raspberry puke. I never knew I'd view playing Go Fish for 23904238th time in my life as a godsend.

Anyway, as Raspberry Shortcake was unloading her breakfast, I really could only think, "Damn that's a lot of red." Beyond the splotches of red, I couldn't process much else. We're talking buckets of red, here, enough to overflow a washing machine.



Many summers ago I went to a Red Sox game and sat in the Fenway bleachers. Beers were enjoyed, so I made my requisite trip to the bathroom in the 6th inning. As I was minding my own business, despite peeing with 30 other crazed Red Sox fans, my peeing neighbor decided to welcome me to the urinal neighborhood. He slapped me on the back and said, "Shiiiiiiiit! How is it that 32 ounces of beer can always make 32 gallons of piss?" When I suggested that perhaps he, like me, had just a bit more than 32 ounces of beer to drink, he said something like "Fuckin' A you got that right!" and put his hand up for a high five, mid-urination. So I took him up on his high-five offer, and felt pretty embrassed afterwards. But you know what alchohol does to people's high five inhibitions; I guess I'm kind of a high-five whore that way.

But I digress. My point is I am reminded of that exchange when I think of this morning's events. How can 32 raspberries lead to a laundry-load of barf?