People say the darndest things

I met my husband for lunch today. Whenever we get a chance to sneak away for an hour or so these days, we do. We've just gotten too busy. We met at one of our favorite haunts for a light lunch and to catch up on the day.

Our waitress today was one of our favorites. She's funny, a little quirky and just a tad, um, white trashy. She's nice, and she's a good sport, and she knows us and takes good care of us, but still - there's that WT factor. You never know when it's going to rear its head and show itself. It did today.

We hadn't seen her for a while before today. We knew she had been talking about a trip out west to get married, so we asked her whether that's where she'd been. Well, yes and no, she answered.

She and her future hubby were supposed to marry sometime around Christmas. They didn't, however, because she learned at about the same time that she is pregnant. "Oh," I exclaimed. "How lovely! Are you excited?"  She shook her head that no, in fact, she is not excited. She is quite bummed about the whole notion. So I launched into my speech about how children are a blessing, how they are gifts, how they change your life for the better. You know, the speech.

"Oh yeah, I know," she replied. "It's just that we were planning to go to Vegas and get married, then take a trip. Now we can't."

"Oh sure you can!" we said to her in unison. You look great, you're not too far along to travel safely, do it! Go!"

"No. We're not going, because I can't drink. It ain't no fun if you can't drink," she lamented. "I'll have to wait until I'm at least 6 months along to do that."

Gulp.

Somtimes it ain't all genetic, folks.

Today’s News: We’re a nation of rude people

One of the top stories on my favorite morning news show this morning was this: We have become a nation of rude people. "Civility is dead," I believe the headline was. I could have told you that. I've said it for years. I've witnessed it for years, right here in the South, the "manners" capital of the world. The story was actually about bullying among young people, the direct result of our society's lack of manners, empathy and consideration. And you guessed it - everyone's looking to schools and legislators to correct the problem.

Where have we lost this art? We've lost it at home. We lose it when a child sees his parent act like a maniac at a youth sporting event. We chip away at it when a child sees her mom deliver the one-fingered salute to another rude driver on the way home from school. We allow our kids to walk around like zombies, texting into oblivion during a family meal or bump randomly into strangers in the mall; whatever you do, don't look up!

In other words, we've lost consideration for other human beings. How many times have you sat in a confined space and listened to someone shout one half of a pointless conversation, forcing everyone around them to listen to it? Ever walked through a doorway right behind someone, just to have the door slam on you? And "customer service?" Please. Companies don't even know how to define that any longer. Most can't pronounce it.

I've never considered myself a visionary, but I clearly remember watching the days of "a computer in every home" roll out back in the 80s. I vividly remember thinking and saying to others that the Internet would change the way human beings interact. Let's face it, we weren't that great at it before the 80s. Combine this human divide with the fact that our nation, as a whole, has no idea any longer how to parent, and we've created the monster. Compassion, empathy and civility are taught and modeled at home. That's where those abilities take root and grow. Conversely, if they aren't taught at home, don't look to teachers and lawmakers to do it. Too late.

Too often, people don't see how these "little" things at home impact our community, our nation and our world. Let me explain it, in a nutshell: rude, compassionless kids become rude, selfish adults…become dishonest, self-serving leaders. And parents. It's not just a cycle; it's a downward spiral.

Do society a favor today. Holster the finger, control the tongue, and interact with your kid without a phone or computer.

It’s Halloween!

Oooh, this is one of my favorite times of year. I love the decorations, the stories, the haunted houses, festivals and other community events. I love the excitement on children's faces. Haha I even love the barely-contained terror on the little ones' faces as they go door-to-door begging candy, sure that whatever awaits them on the other side of that door is much scarier than they are. I do have one pet peeve though, and that's teenagers trick-or-treating.

In my opinion, if you're old enough to have a job, you're too old to be bumming candy off your neighbors. Go buy some. And to tell the truth, it's a little intimidating to open the door at night to a kid with a full beard dressed as a character from Moulin Rouge. OK maybe that was just that one year; the family has since moved, but still. Too, if you're tall enough to drag around a pillowcase to collect your goodies, you shouldn't be trick-or-treating. You're scaring the little kids, and you're scaring the adults.

Think of it this way, just in keeping with the white-trash theme of this blog, pretend that tonight is just like any family gathering throughout the year. People are going to show up at your door, hands out, expecting something for nothing. If you don't cough it up, they will probably do some sort of damage to your house or car. If you do cough it up, they'll be back. And back. And back. I address this phenomenon at length in the book, but if you do have any white trash relatives (come on now, tell the truth), you'll know what I'm talking about.

Now THAT’S scary!

Here we are on Hallowe'en Eve, preparing for the big day tomorrow and eyeing the candy bowl as if it might sprout legs and run away. I love this time of year, and I love this holiday. No, I do not worship Satan or his minions, I do not sacrifice chickens, and I do not wear black nail polish and eyeliner. I just love all that goes with this time of year. I love crisp, cool days. I love the smell of wood burning. I love the smells of apples and cinnamon and pumpkin. I also love the prospect of being scared without being fearful, if that makes sense. At this time of year, we can watch scary movies – our hearts can pound and our palms can sweat – and when the movie's over we can turn off the TV or walk out of the theater and step seamlessly back into our decidedly not-so-scary lives.

You want fear? Try this on for size. The phone rings in the middle of the night. Your long-lost white-trash cousin whom you haven't seen for years just happens to be "passing through," and he's calling to make sure you're home before he pulls in the drive. When he does (about 5 seconds later) you see that he, his common law wife and their 7 kids are piling out of the trailer on wheels. Suitcases, boxes and trash bags filled with clothes come next. Now…that pregnant pause as you stand there staring at cuz and his clan? THAT's scary. When he starts to ask questions about Georgia's extradition laws, that's scary too.

At least Michael Myers drops in, does his business and leaves as quietly as he arrived. If he were white trash, he'd first ask to "borrow" your best knife, you know that high-end baby you bought at Williams-Sonoma that cost you an arm and a leg (no pun intended)? He'd then open your refrigerator and drink all of your beer, even if you just had one that you were saving for later. After he was done carving up you and your family, he'd either steal the knife or damage it beyond repair, leaving it in the sink for you to wash. Oh, and he'd go through everyone's pockets to see what he could help himself to. If he finished his dirty work in time, he'd stop by the free health clinic to pick up his illegal prescription narcotics, then go home and wait for his government check (senseless, violent murders really do a number on your back). Monday is the first of the month, you know.

Electronics are slowly killing me

I'm a writer. My life is on my computer – my professional life, that is. Two days ago, my computer passed away. Oh it was still here in the physical sense, but it started coughing, wheezing, turning first pale, then green. Yesterday afternoon, I pronounced it dead. My husband called the coroner as he snatched the laptop out of my hands. I was headed toward the deep end of our pool to give it a proper burial. The coroner, or our off-site IT guy, performed an autopsy and blamed corrupt files for the homicide. The corrupt files were caused by the automatic updates Windows does to its crap software, well the crap Vista version of it, anyway. The solution, of course, is to purchase and install Windows 7.

I think this qualifies as a racket, Mr. Gates.

While I was trying to pass the time without my computer, I tried to turn on our TV. We had DirecTV installed in September, and I'm hoping it will work properly someday. It takes, at last count, four remotes to turn the TV on. If you want to change channels or adjust the volume, make that six remotes. If you ever do get the TV on and select a channel you like, the channels arbitrarily change, or the TV simply shuts off for no apparent reason. I gave up after about ten minutes and wondered whether I was beginning to PMS. You know that unexplainable rage that makes you want to murder and fingerpaint at the same time? I was there.

Without TV, I began to cook. I love to cook and bake at this time of year. Before long, I began to feel very hot – sweaty hot, and that will not do. I looked at the downstairs thermostat, and the temperature read "81." Indoors! The temp was set on "72." Long story short, there's a float switch and control board issue. I suspect they're both controlled by either Windows software or DirecTV.

So now I'm panicked, frustrated and sweaty. I would call first if you're thinking of stopping by.

Problem solved (sort of)

Well, the story continued today. The parents of the poor little boy were evicted from the house my friend owns. They knew it was coming, and it should have happened a year ago. Among the items discovered in the wreckage were tools, job materials and customer product the baby daddy stole from my husband (his employer). When the sheriffs saw the filth and nastiness in the house, one of them called Department of Family and Children's Services, and lo and behold, they actually showed up at the house. They saw the filth and deplorable conditions, and the toddler was removed from his parents' custody. I do not know where they took him. Sadly, anywhere would be better than with his parents.

Any takers on throwing her a baby shower for the next little ward of the state she plans to deliver in a few months? It'll be number 4.

Another child failed by the system

I had recently posted some comments about a child of whom we are aware who is living with ignorant parents in deplorable conditions. My husband and I were approached by the Department of Family and Children's Services, asking whether we would open our home as an emergency resource should they decide to remove this child from his surroundings. After having given the matter a lot of consideration, we said that yes, we would. Two days and numerous calls from DFCS later, the matter was apparently dropped, and we received a phone call from the White Trash Mother accusing us of trying to steal her child, and there was no way she would allow him to live with us.

And DFCS wonders why it has such a poor reputation. A) We were approached; we did not pursue the matter. B) These disgusting people left a terrified puppy and (at last count) 6 cats in the filthy house they abandoned for the seedy motel room they now inhabit. Animal feces and urine covers every square inch of the structure. C) This woman has already lost two children to "the system." I can't imagine what she did to do that, if DFCS sees nothing wrong with the way the parents live now.

We pray that we do not see this little boy's face on the evening news or in the paper, as now we understand that he truly is on his own and pretty much screwed. The system actually encourages laziness, filth and stupidity. It actually pays white trash parents to exemplify those characteristics. I, for one, think that tax dollars could be better spent, but what do I know?

The not-so-funny side of white trash

Yes, there is a serious side to this underbelly of society. They produce children and in best case scenarios, those children grow up to be social leeches, too – learning to work the system and scamming whatever they can from people who work for a living. Then there's the tragic side – children who are born to parents who live for the next fix, who live in filth and unsafe surroundings, who are barely aware that there is a child in the home, much less of what that child needs to thrive. Those children too often fall through the cracks of a system that was intended to catch them.

My husband and I are privy to such a situation now, and it's heartbreaking. An already over-burdened child welfare system has let this child live in such conditions for far too long. People who are aware of the deplorable conditions have tried to get the child help to no avail. Now the situation has become so dire that the system has no choice but to step in.

These "parents," and I'm using that term loosely – they are biologically linked to this baby – have had so many chances. People have bent over backwards to try to help them, but that bothersome white trash tru-ism still rears its ugly head. If people don't want to be helped, no amount of help in the world will make one bit of difference. This woman has already had 2 children removed from her care. Somehow, this little third one can't seem to get out.

Oh, and the punch line? She's pregnant again. Hallelujah, and pass the Medicaid and food stamps.

Writer’s Block…UGH!

Oh, I just hate it. By the time you get everything else done and go to work (in my case, a great office in my home), you need the creative juices to start flowing. I get my coffee, I settle back into my chair and wait. Usually, the muse does not disappoint. Today, she's off shopping or at the salon, 'cause she sure ain't here in the office with me.

Writers and other creative types depend on THE MUSE for so much. Without her (mine's female), we can't weave our tapestries. We try. I tried today. What a disaster. When I try to force creative writing, the outcome is usually disappointing, often pitiful, sometimes even awful. It's never good. Now I understand why athletes are so superstitious. I sat there in my chair pondering the reason for my complete lack of talent today. Have I switched brands of coffee? Is the lighting different in here? Maybe it's the socks. Did I go to the gym later than usual? No, no, no and no.

It just isn't happening today. I was at a writers' seminar once, and one of the guest speakers actually advised us to write through the block. "Just keep writing. It will come," she said. She lied. What works for me is to get up, push my chair back in, power down the laptop and walk away. Hopefully, my muse will get all of her errands run today and be ready to get back to it tomorrow. Oh, I hope she's not on an extended vacation.

“White Trash” offensive to blacks?

I just had the most interesting conversation with a black man, about several things really, but one in particular I thought I'd share. We started talking about my book, and he asked me the title. When I told him "Southern Fried White Trash," he was mortified and said "Please, anything but that." It puzzled me.

I couldn't for the life of me understand why that title would offend a black man. Then he explained to me that, coming from a background in which stereotyping and name-calling were givens, he thought calling anyone "white trash" must be terribly offensive. I get that. I do. Just as I am horrified to hear one black person call another the "n" word (see? I can't even type it, it so offends me), he doesn't like the term "white trash."

I tried to explain to him that, just as the "n" word is used as a term of endearment among blacks and is therefore not offensive at all COMING FROM ANOTHER BLACK PERSON, sort of the same is true when a white person calls another "white trash." As I have pointed out in the book, real white trash people are as proud as can be to be called "white trash." The only people whom I can think of that might be offended would be whites who really aren't white trash, but have been called that anyway.

Wow, I do believe racism is pretty much eradicated from our society, but I am reminded every now and then that color words are still loaded guns when pointed at people here in America.

Rednecks vs. White Trash

What's the difference, you ask? Actually, a friend of mine asked exactly that just a few days ago, and it occurred to me that not everyone may have the benefit of that knowledge. Of course, I address the subtle differences between the two populations in the book, but I'm happy to offer a high-level synopsis here for your consideration.

First, a redneck's habitat is the southern United States. Period. Some may have migrated to other regions, but they have likely done so out of necessity or under extreme duress. The term "redneck" is slang and refers to a member of the Southern white rural laboring class. A white laborer who works outdoors will probably have a red neck; turtleneck shirts are worn only during the winter, otherwise known as the last full week of February here in Georgia. Calling someone a redneck is not always intended as a slur and in fact may be received as a compliment - to a bona fide redneck, that is. While many redneck characteristics are considered unappealing to more refined folks, a redneck is not known for scamming, mooching or otherwise fleecing upstanding citizens. They're simply people who enjoy the, um, "southern country" side of life with a sometimes undignified flair. They are honest, hardworking folks.

The difference between rednecks and white trash, in a word, is "ignorance." White trash children are taught practically from birth to carry the torch – white trash parents USUALLY beget white trash offspring. Occasionally a kid will come along who's smart enough to look through the bars of his crib and say to himself, "No way. There has to be something better." But more often than not, that same little kid will be peeping through bars of one sort of another his entire life. A little white trash kid grows up seeing his parents cheat the system, scam relatives, steal from friends (or strangers; they're not picky), anything to keep from actually working. Working would only take time away from the true white trash passion of drama. They love drama, and it takes precious time and resources to create it and keep it going. Drugs, domestic violence, petty crime, repeated unplanned pregnancies and endless incarcerations have been voted the Top 5 Most Fun White Trash Activities in the United States. I read that in some consumer advice magazine recently.

Oh one more thing, white trash have been found in every inhabited region of the world, including Iceland and Antarctica. I believe in those inhospitable regions they are referred to simply as "cockroaches." Don't laugh; they have a knack for survival and will outlive both you and me.

The “white trash” legacy

I was driving today, and the question popped into my head – "Where did all this fascination with 'white trash' come from, anyway?" I had lunch with a girlfriend last week, and she told me that one of her African-American friends heard her drop the term "white trash," and she was offended by it. I thought that was odd; how in the world would that offend anyone, especially if they're not white to begin with? I guess color words are still loaded guns in our society.

Anyway, I digress. I can remember as far back as being a small child hearing my mother utter the declaration, "I didn't raise you to act like white trash." We'd get that gem of wisdom if we were doing something inappropriate, like spitting at each other in the mall or eating with our elbows on the table or not washing behind our ears. In my mind, "white trash" was a species of creature, not sure if it was human, but it epitomized slovenly, inappropriate, rude and sometimes disgusting behavior.

And of course, I always swore that I'd never use that term when correcting my children. Sadly I fell far short of that goal, as it became a running joke in our household that everyone who behaved inappropriately was "white trash." My kids even worked up a little singing and dancing routine that ended with all of them framing their darling little faces with spirit fingers and belting out "WHITE TRASH" with big grins on their faces.

I guess what I'm trying to say, and I address this in the book also, is that calling someone "white trash" is only offensive if that person is anything but white trash. True white trash is as proud as punch to be called exactly that. They strive to perfect the art of white-trash-dom. The ones I know are succeeding, by the way.

Timeout for what matters

Ok I know – this blog is about white trash and their endless antics (well, mostly anyway). But even I have to take a break here and write about something that is near and dear to my heart while terrifying me at the same time. I had coffee with a friend this morning. I haven't seen her is a couple of months but thanks to Facebook, we planned a coffee date. My friend has cancer and has been battling it for a while now. She is doing so with dignity, grace and a strength that I could only wish to have.

I am irrational when it comes to cancer and the prospect of someday having it. In fact, most of the time I refer to cancer as "the C word." You see, I saw leukemia devour my mother when I was a kid, and I've never gotten over that. It's a hideous, nasty animal that is never sated. It terrifies me, and I have come to equate any and every cancer with that same animal and appetite. When I see someone living with it and facing it down every day, I am in awe.

It was good to see my friend today. She tells me her family and marriage are stronger for the experience, and I believe her. Even in the most terrifying things, God weaves a beautiful tapestry.

Illegal immigrants in state universities, really?

Can someone tell me why we're even having to debate whether it's OK for illegals to attend state universities? Have they contributed one cent to their construction, maintenance or programs? Why are they here illegally, because it's too much trouble to go through the proper steps (as many immigrants have)? And the ACLU is worried that weeding out illegals might be "too harsh?"

Cry me a river, ACLU. How about this…how about you guys pony up the cash for illegals' tuition and pay for them to get the education they so richly deserve? If every "undocumented" leech in this country carried his or her own weight instead of adding weight to an already over-burdened system, the country would not be as bad off as it is now. But no, no. We might sound mean or, God forbid, harsh, if we require anything of these people. Give me a break. Is anyone out there thinking any more?

Ughhhhh! Honestly!

Educated white trash

My husband and I just returned from Fall Family Weekend at GA Southern University. I wanted so badly for my daughter to love it wherever she went to school, to thrive and make lots of new friends and have the time of her life. There are 20,000 students at that school. Seemed to be a reasonable hope. Now growing up, all I heard about Southern was that it was a big party school. Of course it is. Name one that's not, right? But I thought well, she's going to party if she chooses, and she'll take the higher road if she chooses, no matter what school she attends.

The problem with that theory is that there's no higher road to choose at Southern, which is located in Statesboro. Statesboro is a town (city is stretching it) that consists of cotton fields and tractor shops. And bars, which surround the campus. Bars that are apparently more than happy to serve minors. If you should happen to not choose to be a slobbering alcoholic at Southern, you have no other options. My impression of the school this weekend was comparable to 20,000 12-year-olds that had been turned loose in a liquor store. Students relieving themselves in restaurant parking lots. Parents cheering them on. Uh, and on and on. I was so disappointed. Her roommates get drunk on a regular basis, and they're so loud and obnoxious that she sometimes has to sleep in her girlfriends' room just to get enough sleep for class the next day.

Not sure what else you'd call all this except White Trash – with a new spin: a "college education." She'll be transferring ASAP.

Aging is not for the weak

Today has been an eye opener for me. I have spent literally all day running from one doctor to the next. I have become the woman I used to look at and shake my head in false empathy. In truth I was thinking, "thank God that's not me and never will be." I was wrong.

I kicked off the festivities today by seeing my "female" doctor. I hate that term, but it's the least offensive I can think of. I have spent nearly a year with several physicians figuring out why I'm having such difficulties. The solution is in place, so to speak, but now it's a waiting game to see whether it works. Let's face it folks…you only get 12 shots a year to see what's changed.

OK from that appointment, on to lend a sympathetic ear to a friend of ours going through a difficult divorce. It's unsettling to me how much I can relate to such problems. I can though, so I may as well put my powers to good use. J

From that session, I went to see my physical therapist. Why? Because every moving part I have hurts. Aches. Throbs. The major offender right now, however, is my neck. I think it's misshaped or something. The only part of the doctor's diagnosis I recall is when he said "these things come with age." Did my head get bigger and heavier over the years? My neck scrawnier? What does that mean, exactly?

Next week, I get to work on other areas with different doctors. It's a vicious cycle, like owning a house. Fix one thing, and five more crop up.

A whole new chapter

Well, I thought I was finished with the book. The powers that be tell me I need to re-title it. That's OK. I can live with that. At this point, I just want to put it to bed so that I can start the next one.

I have recently been made aware of a situation that prompted the idea for a new chapter, and that's "Births." More specifically, the new chapter is about white trash women and the births and subsequent use of the resulting offspring for barter, for lack of a better word. It's a tough concept to explain, unless of course you've witnessed it firsthand. Then it's very recognizable. Believe it or not, there is humor to be found even there.

Back to reality

Well I took a break for a few days; my husband and I were at the beach on a workation, and it was (for the most part) glorious. Some loser broke into my husband's truck the last night we were there and stole some tools, but one never escapes the land of white trash for long, does one?

I'm happy to report that the weather has finally cooled here in Atlanta. When that happens, a light comes on on my dashboard telling me that my tire pressure is low. I happened to be over by the dealership where I bought the car this morning, so I swung in there just to get them to give me a shot of air in each tire. That usually fixes me up for the Winter. The guy who greeted me at the door this morning, however, had a better idea. He wanted to sell me air with bigger molecules, so that the air wouldn't leak out of my tires. I kid you not.

Now I'm not a genius folks, but I did not fall off the truck yesterday either. I politely declined the gentleman's offer, since I could not for the life of me figure out how I'd know what size air molecules I was buying. I mean, can you just buy one really big one, thereby saving a lot of money per tire? Can I buy extra and keep them in a Mason jar in case the little light comes on again? What if I get stranded in a not-so-urban area, where the folks have never heard of bigger air molecules? Already, I was worrying myself sick. It just wasn't worth it.

Youth sports and white trash parents

I know; here in the South it's safer to talk about religion and politics than it is our beloved sports programs. But it has to be done. I decided that this morning while shopping at Kroger (a local supermarket). I was standing in line behind a woman who, from the looks of things, played on the line for an NFL team a few years back. She had most of her teeth, but there were a key few missing up front. OK maybe hockey, but not likely. Not in Georgia.

Anyway, this woman was talking to her son (I'd say he was maybe 10 years, maybe a big 9). My first thought was, "Why isn't that kid in school?" He was leaning on her grocery cart and complaining about not feeling well, so he was probably sick. But wait a minute – Mom was talking to the kid about his poor performance at last night's football practice. Apparently a bigger kid had gotten the best of him at some point during the practice. And Mom, while belittling the kid for his lack of domination over another 10 year old the night before, was trying to get Junior pumped up for tonight's practice. I presume he plans to be healed before then.

Now are you sitting down? Mom actually said to the kid, "You better kick his a** tonight, or I'm gonna kick yours when we get home." I couldn't believe it. You should've seen the kid's face: an unhealthy mix of fear and dismay. And that, my friends, sums up the way white trash parents drag their kids through recreational sports. No wonder kids burn out and abandon a sport they probably loved at one time.

My husband and I together have raised 4 children. All of them played some sport or another year-round. We had one hard and fast rule: if you sign up to play, you're gonna finish the season. After that, you never have to play again if you so choose. There's a lesson in that, if you think about it for a minute. Some parents never see it. When I see a parent (and they usually come in pairs, but not always) berate a kid like this woman did, or sit in the stands and shout at players, refs and other parents, I cringe inwardly and outwardly. How obnoxious. Their kid is usually the most talented athlete to come down the pike since Samson. Everyone else's kid is on the field strictly in a supporting role, and everyone else's kid inevitably falls short. Refs are stupid; coaches are inept. And yet Mr. and Mrs. White Trash sit in the stands on their a**es and dole out misery across the board.

I will save the specific sport of cheerleading for another post, all by itself. Those parents are a breed all their own, and their girls…wow. They're what therapy is made of.

White Trash? What did you call me?

I mention in the book that bona fide white trash is proud to be exactly that. But call someone white trash who isn't, or someone who is too ignorant to know that they are and look out! It's like throwing gasoline on an open flame; you better watch out.

I also include in the book a handy dandy checklist, just in case you're not quite sure whether someone you know is white trash. Little clues like a person's manner of dress, of speech, whether that person seems aware of any type of etiquette…even a person's shopping and grooming habits all clue one in to whether a subject is true white trash.

These are things one truly must know, especially here in the South, Nowhere else in the country is one's status – or the perception of one's status - quite as important as it is here.