My Trailer Trash Mom, Part Deux – the Trailer Was Destroyed

So my Trailer Trash Mom’s trailer was apparently destroyed yesterday.

I think I mentioned to all you faithful blog followers last week that my mom is married to a hillbilly that lives out in the rednecked New Mexico version of the Ozarks, in a trailer. She spews her hillbilly shit all over the place all the time now; has since she eloped with this guy last October. To make matters worse, the guy is a total liar (as most psychopathic hillbillies are), and as such there is a constant stream of stories from him over why they can’t move from New Mexico back to my mother’s lavish life in California. At present she – and she, alone – can only visit, which she has been doing now since the beginning of March.

Apparently, the trailer they were trying to sell on the land – the one where hillbilly husband claimed 15 Mexican migrant workers had essentially begun squatting in, refusing to leave; that trailer fell victim to a hail storm yesterday. That’s right: all my Trailer Trash Mom’s hopes and dreams of having a property to sell in New Mexico were destroyed yesterday when a supposed storm ripped through their land, dropping hail the size of my head (her description) – and while this sign of End Times storm was not apparently bad enough to be reported widely in the news, it was bad enough to completely destroy the trailer that the Mexican squatters were inhabiting, which was the only ticket my mom had out of New Mexico.

I’ve asked this before (and recently): at what point do you call bullshit on all of this? Apparently, for my Trailer Trash Mom, she has not reached that point yet. She instead took it out on me.

My Trailer Trash Mom waltzed into Pookie’s swimming lesson today and she actually had a snarl on her face.

My Trailer Trash Mom

Heather, what is the plan for this weekend?


Um, what do you mean ‘what is the plan’? I am making dinner for 15 of your family members on Sunday and bringing it to Grandma and Grandpa’s apartment.

My Trailer Trash Mom

I thought I was coming over Saturday to help you.


Well, I don’t remember you offering help, and that is nice of you but I’m going to an opera gala Saturday evening so have already prepped everything and the cake is even done and frozen.

My Trailer Trash Mom

Heather! Some of us don’t actually like your cooking!

Now you all may be pausing to wonder just what the fuck is going on. Last week she said that she had volunteered me to single-handedly prepare this grandiose meal because I am “such a good cook.” Now apparently she meant to say she wanted to come over and use my kitchen because a lot of them don’t actually like my cooking.

Keeping in mind that my mother has a tendency to try and pick fights with me when she is in a pissy mood, I simply replied:



A few minutes went by.

My Trailer Trash Mom

So what kind of vegetables are you making?


Well, I was going to make —

My Trailer Trash Mom

Because you know that some of us there don’t have teeth.

Yes, faithful blog followers, my mother is correct. Some of them do not have teeth – at least real ones, that is. This includes my Trailer Trash Mom. Makes her even more trailer trash-y, doesn’t it?


Green beans, mom.

My Trailer Trash Mom

So do I have any change?



My Trailer Trash Mom

So do I have any change? I gave you $60.


No, Mom – no change. $60 barely bought the meat. We’re having roasted trip tip, green beans, mushroom risotto, the triple layered cake, and I’m making BLT bites, deviled eggs, and caprese skewers for appetizers. You do not have any change.

A few more minutes went by, and this time it was awkward.

My Trailer Trash Mom

So I was thinking about it and we’re going to use Grandma’s dishes.

I should mention that my grandparents live in an assisted living apartment complex. This means that they don’t actually cook their own meals – they meet with all the other elderly people that live in those apartments three times a day and have meals served to them. This means they have no kitchen in their apartment, except for a little microwave and a mini fridge.


Mom, who is going to do all those dishes?

My Trailer Trash Mom

Well, we are.


Who is we? We really cannot stay much past dinner and gifts.

My Trailer Trash Mom

You and I. Heather, this is a special occasion. I am not going to have it ruined with your trashy plastic plates and silverware. You can just find the time to stay and do the dishes.

I did not continue her conversation any further. Had I, I may have told her where she could shove her Mother’s Day dinner, her dirty dishes, and all of her ingratitude for all the things I do. Later in the day she yelled at me some more about how she didn’t like the way I had set up the new bed in the spare bedroom of our apartment. Then she capped it all off with a random tirade about what I don’t know – I didn’t pay attention to a word of it. Clearly my Trailer Trash Mom has some trailer trash issues that need to be resolved so she can stop taking them out on other people. The other possibility is that she’s been away from Hillbilly Husband for far too long, and is itching to get back to the trailer they rent off the property that held the trailer they owned, which my Trailer Trash Mom has never actually seen but was apparently destroyed yesterday by hail.

New Mexico calls, Trailer Trash Mom! New Mexico calls!

Hello, Hello Kitty Toaster


Hey Heather! Life, here … I haven’t thrown you enough shitty curve balls lately, chocked full of awkward and hair pulling situations … so I’m going to send you a real doozy today!

I’m pretty sure that’s what happened, and while I’m not complaining I’m also not jumping for joy at having run into Hello Kitty Toaster and “…go fuck yourself off” today.

I’m really getting ahead of myself, here. Maybe the six mini-bags of Cheez-Its I binge-ate to help myself cope with the awkwardness have gone to my head.

For those of you that don’t know, Hello Kitty Toaster is my sister-in-law and “…go fuck yourself off” is my brother-in-law (her husband). Recently, things have gotten a little awkward – mostly owing to the fact that my husband and I don’t often attend family events; and that they are pretty much the exact opposite of what we are, in every way imaginable. Most recently, Hello Kitty Toaster and I got into a little bit of a tet-a-tet on Facebook over whether it’s better to clean the house yourself, or hire the help. “…go fuck yourself off” and I don’t talk that much anymore either, since he told me to go fuck myself off…

So we went to Target to stock up today on things like toothpaste and juice boxes; your typical Target purchases. Standing in line, my phone rang and I answered just to say “call you back, in line at Target” and then out of nowhere the loudest yelp I had ever heard in line at a retail superstore called out my name.


After jumping, realizing who had yelled my name, and simultaneously wishing I could activate that badass Star Trek cloaking device the Klingons always used to stay hidden, I then (of course) put on my fakest smile possible and responded:

Oh! Hello, Hello Kitty Toaster

What are you doing here?

What I wanted to say: Oh, you know… just taking a leisurely stroll down the aisles to look at all the cleaning supplies we don’t have to buy because our cleaning lady handles that for us.

What I really said: Oh, just stocking up on things … toothpaste, laundry detergent, that kind of stuff. What about you?

OH, so Brooky is out of food!!! CAN YOU BELIEVE SHE EATS THIS MUCH FOOD?!

[Insert extra large bag of dog food, and yes – Hello Kitty Toaster’s dog is named Brooklyn, like the bridge although I’m fairly certain HKT has no idea what or where that is.]

Oh … wow … that’s … a lot … of food … … … … . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

[Insert awkward moment where we realize we have finished checking out at the same time and will be walking in the same direction.]

Walking out the door, we’re saying good-bye and I’m lying and saying we have to stop by the restroom, and “…go fuck yourself off” turns around, an extra large ICEE in hand. I shit you not, faithful blog followers – an extra large ICEE. This is important because I haven’t seen them in person since maybe last summer. I’ve seen a few photos on Facebook, but as for in person not a once. In those photos, I had noticed that “…go fuck yourself off” had gained a little weight. He’s married now, it happens.

Today, though, as he turned around with an ICEE larger than my head in hand, I realized that he is well on his way to morbid obesity. By my count, the dude now has four chins.

Oh hey, Heather. Long time no see – how’s it going.

What I wanted to say: Go fuck yourself off.

What I really said: Oh, hi, yeah, just shopping, stocking up on stuff, toothpaste, laundry detergent, you know


Yeah that would be great.

Oh, yeah – that would be great. We’ve gotta’ get to the bathroom. See you later.

We then adjourned to the Target restroom where we stood outside if for about five minutes, waiting long enough to make sure Hello Kitty Toaster and “…go fuck yourself off” had made their way out of the parking lot. Then I went home and ate six mini-bags of Cheez-Its to make myself feel a little less awkward about the encounter.

Good times over here!