Trailer Park Karma

One Level Teaspoon -- No, Two Heaping Cups -- Wait. An Overflowing Gallon of Generosity…

Okay, it's time to get a little hocus pocus on ya, a little hoodoo voodoo, a little chatty about magic. It's been awhile, and all you fans of cheap food should be satisfied for a bit by now.

I like words. I spend my days and nights thinking about them, where they come from, how they're used and abused, what life is like with them and without. I've made a living doing it, too. So it shouldn't surprise you that I "believe in" mantras. Like those quotation marks? Notice them. That's on purpose.

If you're some folks, you believe in intention -- that putting "out there" what you want, where you wanna go, what you wanna get, by way of putting your mind to it, focusing on images and words about your goal... is the sure path to "there."

Some folks think this whole "intention" thing is really a matter of energy, measurable and maybe even touchable.

Of course, there are also those who believe that a/some deity/deities is/are involved in the transformation from Want to Get to Have.

Whichever camp you pitch your tent in, you can cling to mantras. You might call it prayer. You might call it talking to yourself. It's all words.

So my mantras for the past couple of decades have been focused on compassion. It's where I was drawn, both my brain and my heart. I knew it was the right thing to focus on, and I felt it deeply. So that's what I did. And the years of focus did, indeed, transform me. Would I be "the way I am" if I hadn't honed in on compassion? Who knows?

The thing is, as of last Friday morning, I came to believe a new mantra's coming my way. 

Now, I hesitate to put this out there, because I really don't want an onslaught of emails from more fans of this seminar or that therapy program or this guru or, even, these books. But... if my experience holds up to test, all of that and more will happen, and in the end, all will be what it is. So, I lay my worries about inundation aside. Sorta. I'll try.

So here 'tis, I think. My new Thang, springing forth and coming to me by way of layer upon layer of experiences juicy with pain and joy, newly sprouted after the most recent fertilization by interactions and connections and meanderings with, among, and through this life experience of mine: Generosity.

I don't mean to imply that I've "got compassion down" so I can move on now. Not even a little bit. Well, okay, maybe a little bit. What I know without a doubt is that I never get any of this stuff "down" for longer than a moment. Then, POOF!

And something else I know now, because I've proven it to myself, is that if I focus on something -- a concept, an idea, a notion, a way -- eventually, eventually, really, really, over time... it becomes me and I become it. Second nature stuff. From sometimes to often to usually and then back again.

So now -- with gratitude to all that has and who have reflected the light back into my tired eyeballs -- I commence toward more consciously and fully embracing Generosity.
Let's see how this goes... 

 

For My Birthday, A Gift For You: Breath

I love my yoga instructor. Well, not that way, although he is pretty cute. He's also young enough to be my son. Like a lot of folks, though, he seems to be older on the inside than the outside. 
One of the reasons I chose to continue on with his classes after my coupon expired (you didn't think I just wandered in and paid full price, did you?!) was because of what he says in-between asanas (that's what you call a yoga pose.) Actually, he talks while we're twisted like pretzels and struggling to breathe, too. He talks a lot. But quietly, with warmth and equanimity in his voice. 

Mostly, he talks about breathing. 

Breathing is a big deal.
Just ask anyone who's ever not been able to do it.

I grew up with asthma before there were preventive medicines for it. Have I told you that before? Once a year, every year, usually during the first cold snap, I'd be bed-ridden for a week or two. Not completely debilitated, certainly not crippled, just trying to breathe. I never really thought much about my annual asthma experiences, since they were all I'd known, until a friend in 4th grade sent me a flowery get-well card. "I hope you're okay," she wrote. That got me to wondering...

Fourth grade is about the time most of us start pondering mortality, at least a little bit. By then, you've lost a gerbil (or two) to whatever kills gerbils. You've spotted a dead bird or cat or dog on the way to the bus stop. You might have even been to a funeral or at least stayed with a sitter while your folks went to one. And I was already a little too serious about everything by my 10th year. I recall the acute grief and depression that set in when I turned 10 because -- true story -- I was "a whole decade old and hadn't accomplished anything with my life yet." 

I can't make that stuff up.

So I used to lie in bed in the burbs of Swamp City, with the humidifier pumping steam from the carpeted floor next to me (you health nuts can add up that equation), doing nothing more than trying to breathe. For days. Weeks. Imagine it. You're an otherwise super healthy kid with all the energy that entails. You like school okay. You love your friends. Even your family is cool. Plenty of reasons to be up and about -- except for that pesky inability to breathe. So you lie there. Some days you can barely even stay awake to read. And this was back in the day before TVs in kids' bedrooms, but I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have managed to keep my eyes open on those days anyway. 

Heck, think about doing that now, in your old age. Kinda makes your skin crawl to imagine it, hours and hours and hours of just lying there, staring at the ceiling, listening to the radio, knowing that life was going on without you outside the room. Bless my sisters' hearts for occasionally coming in to make me laugh. Making me laugh was reason enough to make me laugh. I couldn't do it. And our funnybones were tickled as my lungs convulsed with the attempt. Remember those cartoon dogs, Muttley and Mumbley? Pretty funny, I was.

Once I got the idea from my 4th grade friend that I might possibly not be okay, and this on the heels of my Decade Despondency, a new friend entered the room with my asthma: anxiety about dying. I worried that if I let sleep overtake me during an asthma attack, I might not wake up. I never told my parents about the fear, but the thing is, if I had, they would've just lied to soothe my panic. You can't in all earnesty tell anyone that they won't die. You don't know. They don't either. I remember how floored I was as an adult when I saw the movie "The Hand That Rocks the Cradle." The scene where the innocent young mom dies, grasping for her inhaler? Yeah. I don't even remember the rest of the movie, I was too busy freaking out having seen that what I'd always feared as a child could actually happen. Nothing like a little fresh anxiety to spice up your existence, even if I'd outgrown asthma by then.

"Take in each breath as if it's your last," my yoga instructor said, "because it is the last one like that one. And let it all go in the exhale."

"Just stop thinking and do it. You have the strength." (More words of wisdom from the young yogi.)

Oh, the other reason I chose to continue with my yoga instructor? It's because he kicks our asses relentlessly. I'm well on my way to an unassisted forearm stand. Can't beat that for 51.

Another Year, Another Haircut. And A Hawk.

A year back, Burb Dawg and I headed to camp by a lake in a 1-person (+1-dog) tent in freezing temperatures. I brought a block of the best frozen chicken beer chili in the world, heated it on my camp stove, and indulged in a single Lone Star. At midnight, we watched through the tent flap as fireworks shot up over the lake. 

It was one of my fondest New Year's Eves. 




This year, I teared up a bit, remembering how just looking out any window of my little house in The Sticks could take my breath away. The views are etched into my brain, and I pull them to mind regularly. If you ever see me with a stupid smile and a faraway gaze, that's probably where I am.

I'm not a fan of driving around the amateurs on New Year's Eve. If you can't drive cross-eyed without plowing into something or somebody, those of us who've mastered the skill wish you'd stay home. So I spent the day putzing about, pondering the evening's possibilities. That afternoon, I did laundry. Dinner might have been simply enough popcorn to feed 10 (with only The Editor and me to quibble over it), but what I craved was mussels marinara. Instead of the fancy champagne drink I learned about from The Republic's fancy monthly magazine, I considered settling for a couple of leftover glasses of the cheap red wine I used to marinate beef for the old folks' lunch earlier this week. And Burb Dawg got a nice long, ball-fetchin' walk at the little league field.

That's where the hawk comes in.

Have I mentioned how stupidly giddy I get when I see a hawk? The seven-year-old Dr. Doolittle fan in me likes to think hawks appear for my benefit. And that doesn't happen in Swamp City too often (unless you live in the Burbs, like I used to...)

The first time I saw this guy, he was soaring way, way overhead as I hung laundry. Hopefully none of my neighbors witnessed my jaw drop and goofy grin. But you can believe I stopped pinnin' washrags for a minute to watch. 

I saw him again from the backyard a few weeks later, with The Editor. Just a hawk, brownish and white from way down here, soaring around over Ratville.

Then on the last day of 2011... In between tossing the slime-and-dirt-covered ball for Burb Dawg and keeping a close eye on the chain link fence for the litter of tiny pups who squeeze out from under to say hello, I was enjoying the big flocks of grackles, doves, and parrots (yes, parrots) as they meandered and waddled, squawking and cooing, over the ball fields. It's pretty great to watch them all take off when the Dawg runs near, all flashes and flutters of bright green in the air. The flock, several hundred strong, decided the treetops were a safer perch, at least until our ball throwing took us beyond their realm. 



A few minutes later, a loud ruckus arose from behind me, and I turned to see grey, black, and green wings flapping frantically against the overcast backdrop. High over the scattering birds, my hawk friend dipped and dove. Just for me.

I walked home with Burb Dawg as he valiantly carried his jingle bell ball. Then without a smidge of hesitation, I cut off seven inches of my hair.

Happy New Year. 

Friday Night Food Porn

What a coincidence. Tonight, one of the best untouched photos I've ever taken, and it's dirty. And earlier today, I got a press release touting a book about "yet another dimension to food to be explored." Written by Italian-born Chef Tiberio Simone (a new find for me, and adorable!) and shot by freelance photographer Matt Freedman, the "provocative new coffee table book" is called La Figa: Visions of Food and Form (www.LaFigaProject.com). It features full-color, artistically rendered portraits of the naked human body decorated with fresh ingredients. And you can bet your boots that I'm asking for a review copy.

Incorporate food in your love life, Chef Simone says, and you’ll discover the sublime. Probably doesn't hurt that Freedman, the photog, produced the first iPhone app about the Burning Man festival.

But who needs credentials like that when you can shoot from the hip like this?!

Recipe next week. Enjoy!

Want to meet Chef Tiberio Simone? Check out his incredible little talk on "Food, Touch and STDs":

 

 

Speaking of It's Just Me: Picture Me in Hip Attire

It's damned tough getting older, for too many reasons to list. But for a lot of us, the Looks Going South Department is one touchy subject. 

Take the other night, for instance. The Editor and I set out on a spontaneous All Saints’ Day evening field trip. He wanted to visit a local cemetery. I wanted to procure a meds refill for my kid. I was feeling impulsive -- my newly decaffeinated mind had just imbibed one whole cup of Balinese java. All bets were off for this adventure.

The first pharmacy was out of the meds, so we headed to the all-nighter, which is in a neighborhood we don't venture into much. Crazy busy, that drug store! Later on, we decided that they're just plain crazy. Long story short, The Editor and I read English differently than the head pharmacist. It took a conversation between him, his staff, and staff at another branch of their own company to get the prescription filled. We waited at the cemetery. All in all, an exciting night.

Thing is, I'm pretty convinced that the trouble the pharmacy counter staff gave us was due, at least partly, to my attire. I was dressed in... oh... an outfit that screamed Used To Be Middle Class Now Bag Lady. Remember, I said this was a spontaneous foray. The Editor commented that I didn't really have a thing for matching clothing. I pointed out that my day-glo orange anklets perfectly matched part of the artwork on my shirt. At any rate, clothing that flies in the barrio of Swamp City is far different than what you can get away with in The Bubble, and I'm mighty glad of that. 

I just can't hack the Middle-Aged Mom wear. I've always been a comfort hog, and I don't spend much time and effort toward lookin' better. Turns out at my age that that only works if you're trying to impress the folks livin' under the bridge.
 
I have friends who are young enough to be my kids. Bless their hearts, when I start whining about how bad I look, they come forward with the sweetest comments. They're excellent liars. Yeah, yeah, I'm still okay with my appearance, but believe me, it's different than it was -- and I know it's different than it will be. So I try not to get too hung up on it, but c'mon -- in this world? We're all inundated with images to emulate. I may be Buddhist, but even more than that, I'm human. Who the heck doesn't want to be smashingly gorgeous?

So anyway, in between slogging through e-mails telling me how to be fantastic and offering to let me try out and tell you about these awesome products that will make me feel like a zillion bucks and look that way, too -- I stumbled on to Buddhaful. It's a newish grassroots company from America's own Middle Earth (Seattle) that's swirling around the globe creating art, music, and fashion. 
I glanced through their stuff thinking the thoughts that I usually think lately when it comes to clothes: way cool, but who the heck wants to see a 50-year-old in groovy gear? I'm thinking my preteen would puke (but then, there's hardly a thing I can do lately that doesn't make The Boy cry out "MOM!!" with a look of utter disgust...). I mean, I was rather hippie-ish in my day, yes. A little young to be a bona fide hippie, never mind being raised in The Republic instead of Haight-Ashbury, but I did a pretty good rendition.

On a lark, I asked Buddhaful if they'd be so kind... figurin' I'd never hear back. Just as well. I'm fine, trudgin' through Swamp City in my decades-old thrift store wear. Nothing to see here...
Look what those nice people at Buddhaful sent me:

It's très groovy, and of course, I totally dig the meaning of the design. Even better -- the material it's made from! Feels like a soft embrace and makes even the crankiest, decaffeinated middle-aged mama feel... sexy. Now the only question is where to wear it. I'm saving it for someplace special.

Moral of the story: Remember when you're trying to pigeonhole a bag lady, she might just have an Isis hidden inside that you're not seein'. In other words, looks not only can be but are deceiving.

It's Recipes! It's Buddhist Guideposts! It's Stories! No! It's... Just Me

Writing this blog has been a great exercise in watching people watch me. I know that the title, Trailer Park Karma, is both intriguing and confusing to some -- and I swear that ain't on purpose. But beyond that basic seemingly conundrumical (how'd ya like that word?!) starting point, this blog has brought clarity for me on this human trait: We badly crave clarity.

Yes, I know I'm projecting. I'm clear about that. But to paraphrase an old one, just because I'm projecting my insides doesn't mean you ain't lookin' like this, too.

Some folks who read this blog want very badly to pigeonhole it. I get it. Life, especially on the Internet (which any more for most people seems to be right smack in your palm, which is a pretty indispensable part of your body, so I figure you're looking at it most of your waking hours...), is overwhelming. Classifying and categorizing are mind games we play with ourselves to simplify the constant buzz coming at us. We really want to be able to say "That band plays XYZ music, and she's usually in XYZ type movies." Or "That blog's about XYZ."

Some of us are so dependent on sticking life's components in organized boxes that we wind up spending a lot more time and energy being afraid that we haven't categorized things just right. In the end, all of those things that we're frantic about organizing? They're happening anyway. Or not. We're barely even really here.

The sad thing is when we start doing that not only to events and tasks and activities but also to complex, sentient beings. Like people.
 
It's sad because it can't be accomplished. You can try and try. You can spend an entire lifetime of energy on honing in on people, narrowing the field they're in in your mind, trying "to understand" them, often so you can relate one way or another. Then they up and surprise you.
 
Why are we surprised at all when all any human (or other animal) is is a compound, moving experience?

I've been confused by plenty of folks. I've come to the end of my rope with trying to grasp why some of them do what they do. I've hung in there long with some and dissed some early in the knowing. The longer my life goes on, the more readily it dawns on me again and again that I cannot reasonably and sanely box up people.

So, back to this blog and people who read it. I watch the numbers, ya know. Some of you want me to publish more recipes. Some of you want me to publish more meandering thoughts. Some of you want more stories. Some only want my original, personal thoughts, while others want to see guest bloggers. More Buddhism. More trailerpark-ishness. 

It's been amusing and sometimes perplexing to hear people's theories on things like why I moved to The Sticks, why I moved back to Swamp City, why I discuss this or that topic in blogposts, why, why, why, why. It's how we "understand" these complex things called people, by making up stories that somehow bring ease to our foggy notions. Since the stories we create are mostly informed by our own ever-changing internal states, they're mostly just plain, old opinion.

Thing is, I don't dispute anyone's opinions. Well, not publicly anyway. 

Like we've all heard, you can't make everybody happy. Sometimes you can't make anybody happy. Just being yourself, you can do.

Just One Thing

My valiant attempt to stay sane during this crunch time has meant calling on every teeny particle of discipline in me. I'm also learning how to shortcut my way through life a little, usually without omitting the really important stuff. Every bit of whittling my mind can manage earns this verbose girl bonus points.

So there's Just One Thing.

First, here's the thing I do (I'm grateful that I’ve already worked this into my daily to-do psyche) each time my heart starts to race (I'm grateful the muscle still beats) when the things-to-do list (I'm grateful to have so much paying work) appears insurmountable. (holy cow!) 

I think and then feel gratitude. 
Every time. First thing.
I started the whole Gratitude Thing eons ago when I was a kid. Long before Oprah was Oprah. Well, okay, she was born, but I think she was a reporter then or something. Since I was determined to make the world a better place as a teenager, even if I had to do it all by myself, damn it, it dawned on me that a good starting place would be to recognize what was already good. So I started uttering thoughts of gratitude to myself, muttering inside my head or out, around the time that Swamp City was filling up with carloads of families from the Rust Belt camping under freeway overpasses and "Greed is good" was a popular motto.

The juxtaposition made gratitude easy.

Flash forward to now, when my life is rich beyond belief with family, friends, food, and fun. Like everyone else, I've learned firsthand that none of those things can touch my inner state of being -- unless I invite them in to do so, consciously.

So there's Just One Thing.

When things are a little quieter on the work end of things, I respond to the never-ending deluge of product sample requests. Lo and behold, two books at once came my way just before my mountainous work pile. One is called "Shortcuts to Inner Peace." (who wouldn't love that title?) It's on my list to be reviewed soon. The other is called "Just One Thing" and you really gotta love its subtitle: "Developing a buddha brain one simple practice at a time". The author, Rick Hanson, Ph.D., is a neuropsychologist who's already written another popular book about Buddha's Brain.

Hanson's being a neuropsychologist is what got me interested. Did I ever tell you I wanted to be a brain researcher? While dutifully soothing my own guilt by being a social worker for years (I'm grateful to have somewhat tamed the beast that was a self-righteous, outrageously moralistic teen), I found the connections between "mind" and body fascinating. For a very long time, my mantra was that if I could do anything, be anything, and had all the time and money to make the education possible, I'd be a neuroscientist. (So here I am, cookin Survival Food...)

Now, I'm grateful just to have time to read their books. Sometimes.

Hanson's proposition has to do with neuroplasticity (you know what that is, right?) and promises that each time you do one of his book's 52 simple practices, you strengthen your brain's circuitry. Just like muscle building in a gym.

In spite of my friend Darbi's pronouncement that Just One Thing is cheesy, I like it. And I may have the discipline of a nun (sometimes, for which I am grateful), but I've never been a fan of rigidity, especially in scheduling. When my body says "whoa!" I like to heed it, sometimes no matter the social consequences. And when my calendar is sliced and diced and multicolored for weeks or months on end, no way am I going to add a rigorous exercise plan, whether it's for building biceps or bringin' peace to my brain. 

But Just One Thing, I can do.

Hanson first makes me happy with his brief, understandable explanations of why each practice works. I skim over most of it because he's preachin' to the choir here, but even so, he spends maybe 200 words on the Why before heading straight for the How. His language is simple. He's not overly impressed with himself. And the practices really are basic. Actually, you'll likely think (like Darbi) that they're pretty cheeseball. But the thing is they work. 

Example:

Chapter 5: Slow Down

The author describes how nowadays when someone asks "How are ya?" in casual talk, the response is more often "Busy!" than "Fine." He explains the potential destruction of our sympathetic nervous system and then makes his recommendations, like "Find what's good about this moment, as it is..." with examples of everyday situations where you might practice. Here's a sample of Hanson's writing on a related topic, titled "Step Into the Cloud" -- see if it doesn't make total sense to you and also, maybe, help your shoulders relax a smidge farther from your ears.

Common sense often comes across as cheesy. Much is stuff that we "know" so we dismiss it. But knowing and practicing are quite different.

Besides, each chapter in the book is, like, four pages. Works for me.

Most interesting is how the book's title itself has become a mantra that plays in my head without my consciously conjuring it. I wake up lately with a racing mind, a to-do list that clamors for immediate attention when in wafts "just one thing" (the words, not the book)... and the cacophony dissipates.

Once that happens, my brain has room for creative flow. Sometimes. This morning was one. Turning on the Laptop That Is My World, rummaging through my head for a starting place, wondering which boss to make happy first, I saw the headline "What To Do When Your 'To Do' List Looks Like A Mountain". And my review of "Just One Thing" was sparked.

Must be that time of year. The time when most of us have far more than just one thing to do. But in the end we all do it all just one thing at a time.

 

You'd Think I Would've Thought

I am utterly uninspired to write lately. Y'all have seen me go through it before -- the doldrums, a brain slump. I refuse to call it "writer's block" because it seems to me like that's what happens when you have a literary destination of some sort and you can't reach it. Me, I'm so full up with jobs right now that I don't have much of a writerly goal to tend.

I'm obligated to so many distinct gigs at the moment that it gets hard to keep them straight from hour to hour. Not impossible, but hard. Sometimes, a gear in my head slips and I wind up where I am right now -- an hour to kill in a waiting room without my work-filled flash drive. And no Internet connection. You’d think I woulda learned to tote a note pad and pencil…

You'd think after being this crazy-busy off and on for most of my life, I'd be better at it. You'd think that since I really do dig this kind of frenetic pace, I'd be the Mistress of Time Management. 

You'd think.

But here I am. 

Truth is, I'm living life so fully right now that my mind isn't quite the same as it was last year about this time. That's a good thing. Remember how alone I was out in The Sticks? I loved it. Took a swan dive in and swam deep in my gray matter's recesses. But I returned to Swamp City so’s I could wade back into the muck of life with my loved ones. 

And here I am -- right where I wanted to be. I love it, too.

And you're in luck -- the brain clouds haven't stopped me from cooking. With more mouths around to feed, I'm cooking more. Hallelujah! So while the time of year to hunker down approaches (and yes, it really is, even if it's gonna feel like summer for months more), and my reptilian brain senses the earth turning, I'll toss you a bunch of recipes that are clogging up my hard drive.
I'll let ya know if I'm stricken by a meandering thought again.

When It Rains, The Other Shoe Falls

When people ask about my job, and I foolishly reveal that "I'm a writer," I've learned to respond to follow-up questions with "It's not romantic."

That doesn't describe the half of it.

Being a freelance writer for a living is (for most of us) choosing to make "feast or famine" a regular, ongoing part of your existence. When there's work, you better take it, even if you think your plate's already full, because you can't predict when you’ll get your next job. And when there's not enough work... well, there's this little town called London in west central Texas you can move to...

If you've been following along, you know that I left my rocky savannah idyll and came back to Swamp City to catch a gravy train. The things we'll do to feed and clothe ourselves and our dependents, huh? And now, a week shy of my second month in the city, I'm already back to treading water as fast as I can, doing what I gotta do. When hunger's a part of your history -- and you wanna keep it neatly tucked right back there -- you'll bite off as much as you can chew when the bone is dangled. And if you bite off more than that, be prepared to choke a little or spit it out.

If there's one thing I know for sure (and there ain't much, so take what I got), it's that the other shoe WILL drop. It's not a question of if but when. The trick is seeing those harsh possibilities clearly and with a sense of wonder and amusement, not resignation or foreboding.

It's a hell of a trick.

All I have to do is think about the super-sized task pile on my plate, due in the next eight weeks, and my blood pressure goes up. So what do I do? I heap on a little more. The pile's now topped by a couple of books about being more like Buddha. Really.

One's called "Just One Thing: Developing a Buddha Brain One Simple Practice at a Time" by Rick Hanson, and the other is "Shortcuts to Inner Peace: 70 Simple Paths to Everyday Serenity" by Ashley Davis Bush. Neither is out yet -- they're both being published after my task pile should be cleared. My plan: Use whatever these galleys got in 'em in hopes of keepin’ my craw clear enough to get down what I bit off. And be found sane when it's all said and done. So you might not see the reviews until later. Much later. Like, holiday shopping time, maybe.

It's a damned good thing I found this at the store last night:

 

 

Lest Ye Think I Jest

All my life, people have said to me, "You don't sound like you're from Texas!" They said it on the phone. They said it to my face. (Remember "One of the Voices In My Head Eats Buttermilk Fritos"?) I've never been exactly sure how to respond to such a comment.

It's sort of like telling a woman she's "so skinny!"

Is that a good thing? Or a bad thing?

Of course, in my head, it doesn't matter. One of the best things about the way I think (and there's plenty not so good about my mind, so I like to harp on the good stuff when I can) is that I've learned to let praise and blame wash over me. Well. Mostly. Sometimes, I trick myself into thinking it matters again. But I usually pull up eventually.

Anyway -- another thing I get a lot: "You are NOT white trash!" This comes on the heels of my self-reference, and they say it like they're trying to make me feel better about myself.

It's sort of like telling a woman "you are NOT too skinny!"

The thing is, all of us are merely what we tell ourselves and others. There's no way to encapsulate anyone. Sure, you can haul out the DSM-IV (or V if you're really hip, or III if you're really fixated) and jam yourself and everyone else into a neat hole. And it is easier to point fingers at specific, physically occurring situations, like "you're a diabetic" or "that’s a bunion" and yes, eventually we'll probably be able to look into each others' gray matter and say, "Yep, what we got here is a little bipolar stuff..." But for now, nope.
 
And that goes double for observations that are purely (almost purely?) filter-based, like what you think about how my dialect sounds or whether or not your concept of white trash and mine are the same.
But some things are provable. Some conditions are documented or at least documentable. 

Take my having lived in a trailer park.
 
Now, I don't have documents verifying that I lived there, but I know a few folks who can testify. If you really need verification, just ask me and I'll refer you on to them. Or you could be really clever and look them up yourself and surprise them with your questions about me. Some of them read this blog, so I hereby grant permission to anyone who knew me back in the day to verify to anyone who asks whether or not I lived in a trailer park.

And here's the only representation of said park I could find on a quick Web search. Check out those reviews, would ya...

CitySearch's place profile page (there's damned fine commentary at this one)

(oh, and a few interesting review reads here, too)
MerchantCircle's attempt

That right there is where my little kitten who used to climb up my entire naked body [Editor’s note: yeouch!] as I washed dishes was attacked and killed by two rogue Irish setters who jumped their chicken wire fence.

And besides my own Time Well-Spent in Atascosita, I'm "trailerpark" by way of blood, too: My old man's mama, my Swedish, born-in-Louise-Texas grandma, lived out a whole lotta her life in what we like to call a "mobile home". Spent many a weekend there myself, and it was only a handful of miles from where I live now. I remember sneakin’ a smoke right outside the back of her trailer. I was at that age when kids also have no idea that just because they only have eyes for their current flame doesn't mean that the rest of the world can't see ‘em making out in public. What was I thinking?

So -- yes, I've lived in trailer parks. (And that doesn't count the in-laws' RV that we drove around to state parks back then, either.)
And I'd do it again.
{and here's yet another family photo sans moi, with Ma & Annie Pearl sharing a private joke, taken in front of my grandmother's beautiful aqua & white trailer. and her mama crocheted that bedspread in the background. and don't Martha's kids look just about as perfect as 3 stairsteps can be in this shot? my Mamaw's behind Martha, that's the Stairsteps' Daddy to far left next to the Old Man, and there's uber-boyish H2 grinnin & bearin in the back.}