Prepartying With My Trailer Trash Mom

I don’t think that “party” is really the most appropriate way to refer to what has gone on the last few days with my Trailer Trash Mom and her Mother’s Day Mayhem. More like psychological and emotional abuse. Drama. And a lot of trailer trash, hillbilly shit.

But since we’ve officially entered the 24 hour countdown to this ridiculous event – this event that my Trailer Trash Mom planned, committed me to do all the cooking for without asking me first, demanded a cake that takes roughly 6 hours to bake, and then intentionally destroyed said cake out of anger; since we are in the countdown phase, it’s time to start the preparty.

Since all of you faithful blog followers can’t drink excessive levels of mimosa with me tomorrow morning before we head over to the assisted living apartment complex my grandparents live in (yes, I will be drinking mimosas until the moment I click my seatbelt), I thought we could do a little preparty of the blog-friendly kind with a little preparty countdown.

Prepartying With My Trailer Trash Mom –

Some Fun TTM Stories

#5 About six years ago my aunt got remarried. They had their ceremony at my grandparent’s old home right outside of Yosemite, sort of in the middle of nowhere with a bunch of desert and brownness everywhere. My aunt decided she wanted to have a “theme,” though, so they decided it would be Hawaiian. It was a Hawaiian-themed, trailer trash wedding, in the middle of the desert, with brown dirt everywhere you looked, in my grandparent’s backyard. Everyone wore a Hawaiian-themed outfit, none of which matched, and they went to Party City to buy a bunch of those hula girl and palm tree cardboard cut out wall hangings. Yes, fucking cardboard hula girls hung all over the goddamned place.

So my mom was the maid of honor and as such decided that she would be taking charge of the all the arrangements. She acted like this pig shit Hawaiian themed, hula girl cardboard cut out wedding was the wedding of the century. Quite frankly, I was embarrassed for her – even my aunt said she was going overboard. Then someone made the mistake of questioning my mother’s judgement on the placement of the tablecloths and she flipped her shit. She threw her trailer trash ass around for about 20 minutes, slammed the door to her bedroom, and cried for about 45 minutes until she walked out of her room as though nothing had happened.

#4 My mother had another meltdown a few years after that pig shit Hawaiian wedding, again in front of her whole family at my grandparent’s home.

She had been dating the guy that was formerly Marvin Gaye’s drummer for some time and that whole Madonna tour thing happened (he told her he was going on tour with Madonna and wanted her to be his groupie, which she believed only to show up at the Fresno International Airport to find out there was no such tour). The truth was that the guy was married, but before my Trailer Trash Mom found that out, she organized a huge family gathering for everyone to meet him over Thanksgiving.

I saw my mother planning that shit for about three months for the blessed day. Then, the guy never showed up. He didn’t just “not show up,” though – he called and said he was almost there and that his cell phone reception was “in and out,” then four hours later he still had not showed up so my mom proceeded to call him every few minutes until his wife picked up and asked her to please stop harassing them.

She stayed in her bedroom for two days that time, and her brothers and sisters all refer to it as “the Thanksgiving we will never forget.” As you see, my Trailer Trash Mom has a lot of issues beyond just being into this hillbilly crap.

#3 After my mom dated the drummer guy, she tried to find any other black man that could fill his shoes. She started spouting off that stupid “once you go black you don’t go back…” stereotype every time someone asked what she was looking for in a man.

She found a guy equally as loserish as her current husband, who happened to be an alcoholic and hillbilly all wrapped into a nice package, which my mom liked to call “the big D.” At the time, my mom was coming over to my dad’s house to hang out with me when I was there using his computer or printer or eating all his food (whatever reason I was there), and every time her boyfriend dropped her off he’d make it a point to tell my dad jokes about dicks and balls.

#2 My Trailer Trash Mom’s family are just as trashy and dysfunctional as she is.

The ultimate decision I made on the whole cake and food thing for this party tomorrow was to just redo the cake, make all the food, show up, hold my head high, and walk away with my dignity intact and a firm resolution not to be treated that way by any of them ever again. My Trailer Trash Mom has told her family a lot of lies about me, and while I don’t really care what they think or say about me, I knew I wanted to be the bigger person in all of this. And I didn’t want to ruin the day for my grandma and grandpa, who have little to do with all this nonsense.

I tried to repair the cake only for it to fall apart today. I put together a new dessert – a simple white cake with mocha cream and some chocolate tulip cups filled with custard. We made chocolate and marshmallow-covered graham crackers and packaged them nicely in to-go containers for all the moms coming as well. I made three appetizers: my famous deviled eggs, my amazingly simple BLT bites, and cubed caprese salads. I even carved an owl into the side of a watermelon to go along with the fruit salad skewers I made. And I should mention that I did all of this not feeling well, having eaten a bad bowl of creamed soup a few days ago, as well as worsening allergies set off by feeling so sick.

I didn’t have the space in my refrigerator to keep all of this food, though, and was going to have more to take over tomorrow anyway. So this evening we piled all of the stuff I had already prepared into my husband’s car to drive the food to my grandparent’s home, where they could store it in their mini-fridge.

While there, I saw two things that again reminded me why after tomorrow it is imperative that I walk away before things get even uglier: an invitation to a cousin’s engagement party, and an invitation to a cousin’s graduation party. We were invited to neither of them.

#1 I fully expect there to be some sort of hillbilly brawl tomorrow. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because up until this point everything has been hillbilly pig shittin’ dramatics. Or maybe it’s because of those invitations I saw. Probably it will involve me – it always seems to, although I prefer to avoid the drama.

But then it’s always the people that avoid the drama that cause the most by being so avoidant. Since I’m going bombed on my Mother’s Day morning mimosas, maybe this time I should just embrace it. When I worked in politics, some campaign workers and I were at a bar one night when a fight broke out. I turned to run only to see all of my campaign friends flailing themselves into the center of it all. I suppose it’s time I embrace the hillbilly brawl and jump in, head first. Since I’m walking away and never looking back, I may as well give them a show right?


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The Day My Trailer Trash Mom Went Insane

I know I’ve already put up a post today, but this really deserved it’s own, separate discussion with all you faithful blog followers. For this will forever go down in history as the day my Trailer Trash Mom went insane.

I actually think my Trailer Trash Mom has gone insane before. There was that time when I was in 6th grade and she cried uncontrollably for six hours straight at the kitchen sink because Patrick Swayze went to heaven at the end of the movie Ghost. There was also that time she was dating Marvin Gaye’s former drummer and showed up at the Fresno International Airport asking for her plane ticket to tour Madonna with him, even though she had no actual information beyond something he had said months prior. Yeah, my Trailer Trash Mom has issues – this is why I usually try to keep her at a distance.

So the Mother’s Day gala of the century is just a few days away, and she is now out to prove how angry she is at the world by abusing me over the whole meal preparation thing as much as she possibly can. I realize, now, that the reason she is throwing this little shindig (mostly in her own honor) is because last year I didn’t really do anything for her for the day. This may explain why I caved and continue to take her drama.

When she showed up at my house today to take Pookie to swim lessons so that I would not be interrupted in my six hour cake bake (yes, the cake I was baking takes roughly six hours to bake), she walked into the kitchen and saw all five layers of the cake cooling. This means that the majority of my work was done – the two red velvet layers, the two french vanilla layers, and the thick layer of sticky fudge to hold it all together in the middle were all done. All that was left was to freeze the layers for a few days and then stack the layers together and ice the cake on Saturday night.

My Trailer Trash Mom

Heather, it looks like these layers are going to break apart

Me

Yeah, they are fine. That is how they have to cool so that they fit together properly when I put the cake together. They will not break, just don’t touch them.

Note: my Trailer Trash Mom again has revealed to me at this point how little she actually knows about baking and cooking. Her cooking tastes like shit and the last time she baked anything she almost burned down our apartment doing so.

My Trailer Trash Mom

(Mumbling) Oh yeah, you know everything Heather … you know everything …

My Trailer Trash Mom then left and took Pookie to swimming. 

I should also mention at this point that I was at my dad’s house. I was baking bacon a week or so ago and spilled grease all over the bottom of my oven, which caused smoke to permeate through our entire apartment, setting off the fire alarm and causing a neighborhood ruckus. Afterwards, the grease melded with whatever else was at the bottom of my oven so that now it looks like I was cooking human intestines in the bottom of the damn thing, and I have yet to find the time to clean it out. So today I gathered my things and went to my dad’s house – he has a nicer oven anyway.

My Dad With the Harry Caray Glasses

…walked out to the kitchen to get a Diet Coke

Uh, Heather … what the fuck happened to your cakes?

(Yes, my dad said “fuck” … he says it all the time, which is particularly ironic given how much he bitches at me for saying it so often in my blogs.)

Me

What do you mean? They’re cooling.

I walked into the kitchen and saw that my mother has destroyed my cakes. That’s right, my Trailer Trash Mom broke apart my cakes – the most egregious of which was the fudge that was supposed to hold the entire thing together.

I began to cry.

My Dad With the Harry Caray Glasses

Wow, your mom is one vindictive bitch!

Yes, dad. Yes, she is. I see now why they divorced over twenty years ago.

The remainder of my day was spent shopping and drinking copious amounts of wine. My husband says that I should just say ‘screw it’ altogether on the dessert. My Dad With the Harry Caray Glasses says I should just go buy a box set and make a new cake. I just can’t get over how insane my mother is. All the crying episodes about the movie Ghost, and the whole Marvin Gaye’s drummer thing, doesn’t compare in the least bit to a directly malicious act. I have yet to even bring it up with my Trailer Trash Mom. I’m sure she’ll just spew more of her hillbilly shit all over the place.

Or maybe it will be like an intervention. I don’t know, I still can’t even decide what to do about the cake. No matter what, I think this really was the day My Trailer Trash Mom went insane. Like really insane – who even knows what will happen next.

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?

Me

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.

Me

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:

Me

Whatever

A few minutes went by.

My Trailer Trash Mom

So what kind of vegetables are you making?

Me

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?

Me

Green beans, mom.

My Trailer Trash Mom

So do I have any change?

Me

What?

My Trailer Trash Mom

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

Me

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.

Me

Mom, who is going to do all those dishes?

My Trailer Trash Mom

Well, we are.

Me

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!

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?”

Me

“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.”

Me

“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:

Me

“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?”

Me

“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?”

Me

“Fine.”

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.