Trials and Tribulations of My Trailer Trash Mom’s Family


So we went to my grandmother’s 85th birthday party yesterday. It was at the assisted living facility she and my grandfather live in – near our place, so not out of the way or anything. I baked the cake; and ended up baking two cakes (one for the adults, one for the kids). These people are usually pretty up and down with their drama; although, over time I have come to give them the benefit of the doubt and think they are just coming from the position of what my Trailer Trash Mom lies to them about. Of course every time I give them an inch, they bite me in the ass for it – so maybe they are all of the same breed. Okay, they all wallow in hillbilly pig shit.

But let’s not wax philosophical about them today. Let’s talk about the Trailer Trash Momma Drama that went down at gammy’s party.

“Why Does [Poor] Nick have a film strip tattooed on his arm?”

My husband has a tattoo of a film strip on his right arm, owing much in part to the fact that he works in fucking film. He studied film in college, and has worked at a post production company for close to eight years, working in the editing and management side of the process.

For a brief time after college, my husband worked at Starbucks; although, for the entire time I’ve known him, he’s been in film. I have told my mother he works in film. My mother has seen him go to work. She has talked about the projects he does with him. She has even written down a goddamned TV show he was assistant editor on for my grandpa to watch.

But for some reason the following conversation happened between one of my cousin’s spouses and me yesterday:

“Heather, why does Nick have a film strip tattooed to his arm?”

“Because he works in film.”

“Nick works in film?”

“Yeah, he works in post production.”

“No, seriously? Your mom just told us recently that he works at Starbucks.”

This reminded me of the time we showed up to visit my grandfather at the hospital about a year ago and someone started yelling at me because my mother told them I had never really graduated from college.

For some unknown reason my Trailer Trash Mom seems to want everyone to think we are total fucking losers. I’m not saying that people who work at Starbucks are losers; quite the opposite, actually, they likely have way better benefits and job security than almost anyone in the film industry does.

But why always downplay our achievements like that? It’s a little weird.

The awkward speaker-phone phone call

Something my Trailer Trash Mom always does at a family party is call whatever family member is not present, put them on speaker-phone, then require everyone to yell “hello!!” to them.

The first time or two that she did it, it was cute. Now that it’s been ten years or so since my mom got a cell phone, and there have been countless family parties since, it’s gotten a little fucking annoying. Especially since now it always involves her hillbilly husband.

Yesterday was no exception. After walking around and sharing with everyone the many different stories about her husband’s cancerous mole on his face (the worst is the story about how the doctor supposedly showed him photos of what he would look like after the mole was removed – something doctors do not do – and claimed he would look ‘like a hideous freak of nature.’) … what does one say to the guy when he gets put on speaker phone and says “hello” to everyone?

I’m also a little frustrated right now with them because my mother was talking to him the other day and told him I got a job writing for a magazine. She detailed that it was a column about being a mom, and I heard his hillbilly asshole voice say loud and clear “what does she know about that?”

Bitch, unfriended

Towards the end of the event, I was sitting there talking to my grandma. It was legitimately 95 degrees in the room at this point, the assisted living facility having left the air conditioning off despite the unseasonably warm temperatures. They were finishing the gift exchanges and I just wanted to leave. Then my cousin’s bitch of a wife (who writes occasionally for some two-bit newspaper near where she lives) turned to me and started talking about her job.

These people have got to be the most narcissistic, self-centered people on the fucking planet. They never come to family events, ever. And while I don’t blame them, it isn’t to avoid the drama but because they legitimately believe they are better than everyone. It’s been so long that they had never met one of the children that was at yesterday’s party. She turns 6 years old next month.

(But of course everyone excuses their absences, while causing an unending series of drama if I ever miss an event…)

So she turns to me and she starts rambling on about her day job doing some marketing bullshit, and then she tells me she’s doing this article for the newspaper about wineries or something. Then she says someone suggested she quit her day job and become a full time blogger. She laughs, and then says “God, why would I want to become one of those losers?”


This bitch knows I write a blog. I don’t know what she knows about me beyond that, but she knows I write a blog. In fact, she is a Facebook friend.

Wait … make that was. Just a few days ago, I went on her Facebook and wished her a Happy Birthday. Sure, she’s a total bitch, but I’m still going to be cordial – something few of my Trailer Trash Mom’s family members seem to know the meaning of. Well, when I got home, I went to look on her Facebook and see just what “newspaper” she does these cutesy little articles for, only to learn that she had defriended me. Sometime between about five days ago when I wished her a happy birthday, and yesterday when she said she doesn’t want to be a loser blogger. Like those people (me).

Good riddance.

Well, happy birthday to my grandma! And may my Trailer Trash Mom’s family continue to wallow in their trailer trash pig shit they seem to wallow in most days of the year.

My Trailer Trash Mom

So today I was just sitting around, minding my own business, and my mother called. This – by definition – can never be good. Lately her hillbilly shit has been spreading itself all over the walls of my life. Today it wasn’t hillbilly shit, though. It was actually worse: Mothers Day Mayhem.

The conversation went something like this:

My Trailer Trash Mom

“Heeeeeeeather, how ya’ dooooin?”


“Fine” (thinking to myself ‘Oh God, she wants something’)

My Trailer Trash Mom

“So … we’re going to be having a little party at the assisted living apartments for Grandma on Mother’s Day and I want to get you guys here for it. It’ll be at noon and we’ll all be bringing something.”


“Oh, okay, let me just check the schedule with Nick and let you know later today.”

My Trailer Trash Mom

“Okay … and then you can let me know what you’ll be bringing so that everyone else can plan around it.”

… at this point, I’m sure you are all thinking wait, what the fuck? Yes, I was thinking that as well. So I said:


“Oh … kay … well, what is the main dish going to be?”

My Trailer Trash Mom

“See … that’s the thing, we were thinking you could make the main dishes since you have that new multi cooker, and are such a good cook now.”

Long Pause

My Trailer Trash Mom

“Are you still there?”


“Yes.” (I’m speechless at this point.)

My Trailer Trash Mom

“And we were hoping you’d make another one of those cakes you made for Grandma and Grandpa’s anniversary too.”

Putting all of this unbelievable and ballsy bull shit to the side for a moment, let me tell you faithful blog followers about the cake she is referring to. It was a marbled chocolate, vanilla, and red velvet cake with a homemade waffle cone garnish. The cake – because of the complexity of making all three flavors from scratch, as well as the waffle cone and frostings from scratch, AS WELL AS marbling it, took me a total of six hours to make. It was – by far – the greatest, most delicious cake I have ever made, but I vowed after that day to never bake that cake again, just because of how much work it was.

Back to my trailer trash mother, I quickly got off the phone with her, telling her I would have to think about it.

Then about two hours later, I was fuming over the entire ordeal, and conflicted because I know that if I were to not make the meal, my trailer trash mother and her trailer trash family would ostracize me and cause a terrible amount of trailer trash drama because “Heather’s always too good for our family…” Sitting in the parent-section of swimming, fuming and conflicted, I was thirty seconds away from calling my mother and saying “no,” and then she walked up. That’s right: my trailer trash mother showed up at the kiddo’s swimming class so as to seal the deal on the Mothers Day Mayhem.

I will spare you all the details of her ongoing drama about my grandma having a colonoscopy and how this will just be so nice for her. I will spare you her passive aggressively reminding me how little time I spent with her family while I was in graduate school. I will spare you the detail of how she manipulated me by reminding me that she will be returning to her hillbilly husband and their hillbilly trailer in hillbilly New Mexico within the next month. I will just cut to the chase, and the point where I am sure the majority of you will lose an enormous amount of respect for this, here bitch (if you haven’t already, that is)…

My Trailer Trash Mom

“So? … will you do it?”



I’m even going to make the cake.

Go ahead, lose respect for me. Call me a sucker. Call me a push over. I agree with it all completely. I don’t even know why I gave in to my trailer trash mother and her hillbilly Mothers Day Mayhem. But I did. Maybe a part of me does feel bad for how little time I spent with her side of the family during graduate school. Maybe I am a push over. Or maybe it really is as I said to her (after getting over being angry at her and myself): this is the last time I do this. I know, you faithful blog followers all say ‘yeah right, you’ll do it again.’ But, really, since she’s returning to her man, I don’t think it’ll be an issue.

I will now hang my head in shame.