Got Milk?

I have a full time job and make money and pay taxes. I live on my own. I have voted in two elections. I can drink and gamble and die in a war. Generally speaking, I feel like an adult. And yet tonight, at a family dinner of about 50 people (in honor of my cousin's Bar Mitzvah), I was told to sit at the children’s table. Goodbye, perception of maturity. Hello, little children.

I must admit, while I was first perturbed by such a seating arrangement, eventually I found that sitting at the children’s table had its perks. For example, my 7 year old cousin to my left generously offered me many of the French Fries from her plate, and even dipped them in ketchup for me before stuffing them, (sometimes, without warning) into my mouth. To my right was my little sister Faryn, who amused me by stinking ice cubes down my brother Kyle’s shirt. He, of course, made a big scene and started shaking his shirt to get it out. The table thought this was hilarious, and Kyle was a big hit. In fact, one little boy, (not sure if, or how, he is related to me), thought it was so funny, he wanted to see it again. However, because his chocolate milk did not have any ice cubes in it, his four year old mind told him that the next best thing to do would be to dunk his power rangers, (he had a complete set), in the chocolate milk and rub them on my brother’s nice button down shirt. I, of course, found this to be hysterical. I found it less hysterical when he later came up to me with a smile on his face and a green power ranger grasped tightly in his four year old little paw, and told me, “I’m going to stick an arrow in your butt.” I’m guessing he meant the power ranger, but I didn’t ask follow up questions.

Dinner was followed by a Friday night Sabbath service, which was then followed by a dessert reception. Lots of Jews, lots of desserts. Few drinks. Thirsty Ryan ventures over to a pitcher of milk sitting by itself on a table. Ryan picks up pitcher and turns to old Jewish man:

Ryan: What is this?
Old man: Milk.
Ryan: This is milk?
Old man: Yes.
Ryan pours milk. Ryan drinks milk. It is not milk. Ryan gags.
Ryan then takes the warm, thick chemical paste over to his father.
Ryan: “All that chocolate cake, and no milk? Aren’t you thirsty?”
Dad: “Yeah, I am.”
Ryan: “Here, have some milk.”
Dad: “Thanks”
Dad grasps cub and takes a large sip. Dad gags, white liquid dribbling down his chin. Dad slowly pulls down cup and stares at his son. Ryan laughs. Dad walks over to a corner with a hand to his mouth, trying hard not to vomit all over the floor. Ryan laughs some more. Eventually, Dad returns.
Dad: “I am never trusting you again.”
Ryan: “Where is Kyle?”
Ryan spots Kyle and walks over to him.
Ryan: “Can’t believe they are allowed to have milk at this dessert reception. That’s not kosher.”
Kyle: “There is no milk here.”
Ryan: “Oh yeah, what is this then?”
Kyle (incredulously): “Where did you get that?”
Ryan: “I don’t even want it. I’m going to throw it out. Unless of course…YOU want it.”
Kyle: “Yeah”
Kyle drinks. His face contorts. He spits it back into the cup. He yells at me. I laugh.

I might be a lousy son and brother, but I certainly know how to amuse myself. Milk, it does a body good.