Las Vegas, Part Five: The Chocolate is Lactose Intolerant

16 Nov

from August 30, 2008

The next day we had breakfast at the Rio buffet because we were comped. Simple as that.

It was a good buffet. There were eggs of all types, with all types of stuff in them, and bacon, ham, sausage links, sausage patties, muffins, English muffins, croissants, toast, wheat toast, melba toast, fruit, cold cereal, hot cereal, sandwiches, pancakes, flapjacks (which I say ARE pancakes), waffles, fried rice, egg fu yung, spare ribs, roast pork, beef and broccoli, sweet and sour chicken, and a huge variety of Chinese food at 10 in the morning. Really, there was more Chinese food than I am used to seeing outside of cold cartons in my fridge at that early hour.

Everything went smoothly until the waitress attempted to explain why she couldn’t bring us the chocolate milk we had ordered. We had each ordered a chocolate milk and a glass of orange juice. We were served two glasses of orange juice apiece. I love orange juice but I was all set for some chocolate milk. The waitress tried to explain what happened but there was a language barrier. While apparently human, she spoke some dialect that could not have been created in our solar system, or possibly this dimension. It’ll be hard, but I’ll recreate part of the “conversation” as well as I can, and make it easier for you to understand than it was for me.

MY BROTHER: We ordered chocolate milk.
WAITRESS: Yes.
MY BROTHER: So where is it?
WAITRESS: I gave you an extra orange juice.
ME: But what about the chocolate milk?
WAITRESS: The chocolate is not in.
MY BROTHER: You don’t have any chocolate?
WAITRESS: It is not in the milk.
ME: It is not in the milk?
WAITRESS: It is not in.

So the chocolate was not in the milk, or whatever, and after I found that while I love orange juice, I didn’t like it so much after I drank two huge Las Vegas-size glasses of it, it was time to take care of the only familial obligation we had on this trip.

Cousin Marty was not really our cousin, he was my Dad’s cousin. I’m not sure what that makes him to me so, glutton for punishment that I am, I googled it. Here’s what Yahoo Answers came up with: (And just wondering, If I google on Yahoo, what is that called?

Geneology Q — would my father’s cousin be my 1st cousin once removed or my 2nd cousin?

Best Answer – Chosen by Asker

The cousin number indicates the number of generations separating the person closest to a common ancestor from that common ancestor.

In your case, the common ancestor is your great grandfather. Both your father and his cousin are separated from your great grandfather by ONE generation (for your father, it is your grandfather — for your father’s cousin, it is your great Aunt or Uncle). Thus they are 1st cousins (1 generation separation from common ancestor).

The “removed” is the additional generations, if any, separating the second person (further away) from the common ancestor.

So with YOU, your father’s cousin is still closest to the common ancestor, 1 generation separation, so you and your father’s cousin are still 1st cousins.

BUT you are TWO generations separated from the common ancestor (your father and grandfather). So the difference (2-1=1) is the removed number. So you and your father’s cousin are 1st cousins once removed.

BUT, your father’s cousins CHILD would now be two generations removed from the common ancestor — as you are two generations removed. So you and your father’s cousin’s child are 2nd cousins. And since you are both 2 generations separated, there is no “removed” as 2-2=0.

So I still have no idea what he is to me, other than a rich stranger. You see, he is the son of my Grandma Sophie’s sister, Aunt Charlotte, whom we all just called Aunt Charlie when we kids for what reason I have no idea. (I never saw her cross-dress.) But even back then I had no idea of who she was because I think, without googling my yahoo, I think she was really my Great Aunt.

I never saw her much because she was scatterbrained and my Grandma was crotchety (cranky) and eventually Aunt Charlie moved to Las Vegas with her son Marty whom I never met. They had no relatives out there but Marty stayed in touch with my Dad. They had always been close and when Dad went to Vegas they always got together.

A few years ago he called my Dad and asked if my brother and I, whom he had never met, would mind being in his will. We didn’t mind. Aunt Charlie had passed away and he had no other relatives and in exchange for being his heirs (he owns some property out there) all we’d have to do is go out and there and make the arrangements after he died.

So it was with thoughts of familial love and obligation, and the prospect of someday owning some Nevada land, that we called Cousin Marty.

He wanted to drive over. He wanted to take us out to eat. He wanted to show us Freemont Street, whatever that was, but he couldn’t see us at all because he was on heavy antibiotics after some dental work and was groggy.

But we talked and promised that we’d get together next time and we dodged the Marty bullet.

So with breakfast digested, orange juice peed, and chocolate not in the milk, we got in a cab and went to the Hilton, to Star Trek: The Experience.

And also to bitch-slap Paris Hilton if she happened to be there.

 

 

 

TO BE CONTINUED

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