The Buckets

My little brother had his graduation party on Saturday afternoon. Well, it officially started on Saturday afternoon. It unofficially started the day he was born, and we’ve spent 18 years building up to the day where we’d have to put on a party that is good enough for he-who-is-holier-than-the-golden-calf. I know they love him more. It’s fine. I’m not bitter. At all.

Anyway, after much partying and congratulating, the last people left at 6:00 p.m., which was six and a half hours from the start of the party. As a normally non-social person, I had to lie on the floor for awhile to recover. And then, it was time for a little something my neighborhood likes to call “beerthirty” (or would it be beer:30 p.m.?) alternately known as “gutter beer” depending on where you’re drinking. As we were drinking on the back porch, I felt a little more classy about the inevitable outcome: getting drunk with my parents.

It all started with Mike’s Hard Lemonade, and ended with shots of hard alcohol. I have never been in such close proximity to my childhood bedroom AND so tipsy in my life. And so white trash feeling. It’s only a matter of time before I’m cooking Hot Pockets and watching NASCAR.

There was also mention of Ma and Pa Kettle and some family named Clampett. I don’t know who my parents were talking about, but if our neighbors are The Kettles, would that make us The Buckets?


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