White trash can be fabulously trashy. It’s all in one’s perspective.
I picked up all kinds of trashy tips from my youth – like wrapping a can of pop (soda, Coke, whatever area of the world you live in insert word here) in aluminum foil is a poor gal’s koozie (my mom would do this to chill my beverage for field trips), keeping a wet wash cloth in a plastic baggie is just the same (and much cheaper) than a wet wipe (again, my clever mother), and ketchup between two slices of bread will make you feel like a chef (my genius shining through).
Any of these tips ring a bell to you? If not, you’re a classy person – in my book anyway.
To me, being white trash is knowing better (eating the piece of cheese after removing the moldy corner, blaming the broken basketball hoop on me, your cousin when I saw you break it with my own two eyes, proudly announcing that your entire family’s favorite movie is National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation (hence the category Grizzies), going through a vacated house across the street because you knew no one lived there, digging the bag of chips out of the garbage because you want to be sure you ate them all, or wearing the mini skirt with the heels that are just a tad too high) but doing it anyway, while not giving a rat’s ass what anyone thinks.
I grew up in a rural town where it was a big deal if Dad decided to get a Casey’s gas station pizza on Friday night, a small hog (yes hog, not dog) house served as my backyard playhouse where mud pies were served abundantly and you were never short a friend or cousin to play alongside (and my mother could care whether her child was mistaken for smoking a cigarette).
I was also raised in a world where it was perfectly acceptable (in my family, anyway) to come home from the pool for lunch, play a round of baseball with Dad in the yard (not opting for a wardrobe change of shorts and a tank top – sticking with the classy bathing suit), then head back to swim the rest of the day away.
White trash? Or fabulously trashy?