Will let me on a little theory of his a few years ago. White trash, according to him, is not about how poor you are or how you dress or your political persuasions. Being white trash is about how much you’re willing to share the intimate problems of your personal life with strangers. Do you tell your co-workers about how your husband-slash-common law boyfriend cheated on you with your cousin? Do you describe your mama’s shingles to the guy in the cubicle next to you? Do you tell the customers in your line at the Walmart the name that you are going to give your unborn baby even though your unemployed boyfriend, who is probably the father of the child, disapproves of the name?

You can be a millionaire, not white, or dead, but if you answered ‘yes’ to any of the above, you are white trash. Which brings me to the conversation I overheard at Walmart on Sunday:

Management type cashier to clearly not on duty cashier: DID YOU BREAK UP WITH THAT BOYFRIEND YET?

Clearly not on duty cashier: (sheepishly) Uh, we’re working on it.

Management type cashier: (as an afterthought, from about ten feet away from clearly not on duty cashier, and in front of about two dozen customers) YOU KNOW, ONCE YOU LET A GUY HIT YOU HE’S NOT GONNA STOP.

And then she walks away, la-di-da, after just yelling out that the not on duty cashier gets beat up by her boyfriend. To that, Will says, “She just made white trash her bitch.”

My husband has a potty mouth.

I may tell you, anonymous reader, about the mile-high snow in my yard, or my psycho kids, or maybe even about the occasional riff with my husband, but you don’t get to hear about sexytimes or my lady-parts or irregularly shaped moles, all of which are topics that Will has had the privilege of hearing about from various strangers over the years. Mostly female strangers. I finally had to make him stop wearing his t-shirt that said “I AM YOUR SHOULDER TO CRY ON.”

It’s much better now.