I'm feeling my trailer-trash-side tonight. I didn't quite buy boxed wine, but the blush wine counts, I think.
I certainly have red-neck roots, and I don't mean to disregard them this evening. But Budlight was just not what I was in the mood for. My father used to drink Budlight, but even he got sick of it, and the jugs of wine did the trick much better, and then of course the little shooters of vodka were easier to hide. I remember going to Indiana with him and after a long night where he and his brother and the neighbors stayed up in the garage talking, he would pay my sisters and I a nickel for every cigarette butt we picked up. Boiler Makers cups filled with filth equaled gold. I've got red-neck roots for sure.
I filled a jelly jar with wine and headed out for a walk with my dog, Pali. Pali is all mouth. She gapes at me and I think she is like a copperhead with ears.
This night hasn't been as bad as the recent few. For one, the Tin House arrived. Hooray.