A New Age

I'm in my parents' home.
Because I'm going to the big party at Peter Hardy's (was that his name) and I need to get into Dad's liquor cabinet.
I'm certain that I won't fit in.
The booze helps to make that less painfully obvious.
I may in fact throw the party myself; Mom and Dad are out of town.
They're somewhere that may be Bonavista.
I've taken over the entire house.
I removed the Rita McNeil discs from the stereo and replaced them with mine.
I've been playing my electric twanger in the living room.
I'm defrosting a steak.
My parents took all of the toothpaste.
To teach me some survival skills, I suppose.
So I had to walk to the Turpin's and use their toothpaste.
No one was home.
The Turpins have really been contributing to my oral hygiene lately.

It's tough when you realize that your parents are getting older.
The hints are subtle, but the more you pay attention, the more you realize that they're everywhere.
The grape nut ice cream, for example.
Actually, that's about as subtle as a poke to the eyeball.
All of their drinking glasses are tiny.
Glorified shot glasses, really.
And that's when I figured it out:
You only need a small mouthful of grapefruit juice to swallow a regimen of pills.
While looking for the toothpaste (which I believe we went over) I found Epsom salts.
When they start collecting ceramic cat figurines I`m going to stop visiting.