Tuesday, April 12, 2011

White Trash and Schrodinger's Cat

Once upon a time, someone told me that I was too white trash to ever have any friends. I totally shrugged off their egregious comment because I'm tough like that, and by "shrugged it off", I mean that I woke up in the middle of the night every night for about a month with the words ringing in my ears.

I silently protested, "I may be dirty, my kids may swear a lot and not wear shoes but no food every touches my table without a serving dish, I never eat canned foods, I read two newspapers every Sunday, and I don't allow the children to use adjectives when adverbs are required." However, I think today, this giant pile of empty shell casings on my food stained carpet may have tipped the scales. Yep, you heard it here, Mama Minger is officially claiming the moniker "white trash".

Now, I'm off to smoke Winstons and burn library books and cook the kids Cambell's soup and listen to country music and dream a little dream before I scratch off my lottery tickets.

Incidentally, whenever I'm super poor I like to embrace the role by buying scratch tickets and listening to country music. During one of my latest brushes with poverty, I realized that the central appeal of scratch tickets is that they offer the player one blissful Schrodinger's Cat moment before they scratch it. In that moment, they are both rich and poor. They can pay their rent, pay their pile of old utility bills, buy new shoes, etc, etc. Then, they scratch the card. The cat is dead, and they're still a loser. After that epiphany, I stopped playing.       

7 comments:

  1. Your G-PS and BFF was here and wanted to point out that your Auntie J and Uncle G have long attributed any and all of their eccentricities and faux pas to being white trash; J and G applaud you for coming out of the closet in this regard.

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  2. You realize you could gather all of your musings and publish them a la, Shit my Dad Says...

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  3. very good idea (side note, hello to the late 90's sex dreams about our old boss last night), but that would require learning to use twitter....

    incidentally, i have adverted being white trash as I ran my Bissel steam carpet cleaner over the food stains and put the bullet casings in a pretty bowl on the dining table. C-L-A-S-S.

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  4. My husband uses the phrasing, 'Whiskey Tango', like a trucker's call sign...THAT is class. I thought you were supposed to wear your casings around your neck after you drill a hole in it and, if you are really creative, I bet you could arrange them in a way to look as if you are a wild native from some far off island of 'Whis-key Tan-go' and you, its queen. Alright, I think I got a little carried away, but somehow, I don't think you'll mind ;o)

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  5. Xen Xen--- You know I would be a lot more circumscribed about what I say if I were actually in front of you because I'd rather not mar your adorableness with my whiskey tango-tendencies. We have these shell casings (and thank you for the shell casing craft ideas) because the cutest boy dressed in too short too tight too out of style Levi's and a camo shirt gathered them up at the shooting range, and he was ever so excited about his "discoveries" that I've allowed him to keep the collection.

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  6. (side note, hello to the late 90's sex dreams about our old boss last night)
    Um, yeah, that was one of the few sexy things from the late 90's that I had managed to forget.

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  7. ...and if you met me 10 years ago, you'd just be you, or else we wouldn't have stayed friends :o)

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