Ant Invasion

LONG-ASS STORY, NOT PARTICULARLY FUNNY

When we moved here 7 years ago, we had work done, but a surprise (buckets to catch rain) new roof took a bite of the budget (nearly $11,000), so unfinished work remains undone. The hall bath needs to be gutted and redone from scratch. Old closets need the same. The bedroom designated for my dream of a sewing room have evolved into a hoarder's room because of the expensive work involved. I actually watch Hoarders on TV because it makes me feel better except for that one room.

We've been fighting a terrible ant problem since moving in, and I daresay it had been going on long before because of old water problems in this area. I had Terminix on a regular basis for a couple of years, and it was worthless. About a year after moving, not only did I fight ants, but my health went to crap, and I've had three major joint replacements and several heart procedures, rendering me somewhat useless to move as easily as I used to, and with the fatigue of autoimmune diseases, energy is at a premium I don't have. Depleted.

So, because of the ants, we called Orkin this time. It took hours for this Chatty Cathy to assess and create a plan. I rarely beat around the bush, so I said, "This is going to be expensive, right?" His answer was, "It's an investment." I just shut down. Talking of serious water problem under the house, dehumidifier, a 2nd sump pump (we had one installed), new sealed crawl space, and much, much more, he arrived at a price of about $13,000, which didn't include regular treatments And other things we'd need. You know, I'll fight friggin' ants like I've been doing before investing in a crawl space that no one sees. The new bathroom, reworking closets, and put money into a makeover craft room/bedroom might add to resale value, but not a crawl space. We don't even know, at this age, how long we're going to be able to stay in this house, or even LIVE. Vanessa Jones Grove, our daughter, is in line to get the house anyway, and hers and son-in-law's income is a whole helluva lot more than ours (and he's a talented carpenter/handyman), so if they feel it necessary, they can handle it better.

Bottom line: I'm not into modern day services for the deceased. I want cremation and small graveside service or later memorial service, so if my death is never announced, you'll know the ants carried me away. AND Chatty Cathy said many customers use their Orkin-finished crawl spaces for storage for pandemic and apocalyptic reasons and can even survive with bedding, water, clothing, etc. My answer to that is, "Who the hell wants to live that way?" 

Battle of the Bulge

As you may or may not know, I'm an aficionado of TV commercials with the specialty targeted on weight loss programs, because weight loss and weight gain has been the bane of my existence since adolescence when my weight was too great for my height, but my full height of 5'10" finally caught up with my weight. Bagging a boyfriend (Dick Jones, damn him) wasn't easy to get through while I was happy and eating to celebrate my engagement to him---fat 'n happy! So, I went to Dr. Mallory at the old Link Clinic, and he gave me "diet pills." I exercised half the nights before we married, and I kept it to 700-900 calories a day. I was hopped up on what became "speed," which would have killed me today---amphetamines---I used them later illegally when they were called White Crosses---$20 for 100 pills (bargain basement price from a dear friend---HA!). Both times, I got down to my fighting weight.

My first retail experience with a retail program was wildly successful with Diet Center, which I think was earlier than TV commercials of weight loss programs. I was running Knowles Cafeteria at that time, and some of my customers were telling me, "That's enough, Nancy! Don't lose any more." Made me feel sooo good!

Weight Watchers was my method countless times, and it worked nearly every time, but there were times when I just said "Screw it! I'm sick of this!" And I'd fall into my gluttonous habits once again and always gained any lost weight back.

I lost my daughter in '84, which seemed to trigger my genetic predisposition to Lupus, and it was so severe that long-term prednisone use caused weight gain, a "buffalo hump" on the back of my neck, a "moon face," and I was the heaviest I'd ever been---horrible. It was out of control. Back I went to WW and lost 75 pounds. I was going with two besties, and we all lost together. I still had 25 pounds to go when we lost our drive and just kind of drifted away from WW. We remained besties as neighbors and rebels without a cause, living in a country club neighborhood who thought we were not quite country club material. We pretty much thumbed our noses at them and did our thing. I once got a call from the Mattoon Country Club from one of the besties who was home who said to me, "Get over here! They have free peel & eat shrimp and Margaritas!" We both made fools of ourselves drunk, with ice water and shrimp juices running off our elbows, laughing at the sight of each other, where the next table of old women stiffs glared at us. Made us laugh even harder.

Now, I see Marie Osmond speaking on TV for Nutrisystem. She appears with a red sweater, stylishly ripped jeans, and her long, dark hair perfectly framing her boobs with a wave around the boobs. She's trying desperately to appear 20 years younger than she is, and damn it, I think she has succeeded.

As for Jenny Craig, have you seen the ad where some young, blond woman says, "Are you serious? This is supposed to make me lose weight? I just ate a chocolate cake!" Let's you and I get serious. What do you think of when you think of a chocolate cake? They're not fooling me. I know all their tricks because I'm a lifetime hog, and as Dolly Parton once said after having lost a lot of weight---"Hogs don't get anorexic." The chocolate cake that Jenny Craig provides is no more than one of those cheap Little Debbie pieces-of-crap, and I defy anyone to prove me wrong. In my world, a chocolate cake is 2-4 layers with lots of creamy frosting between each layer and slathered on the outside. Now THAT is eating a cake. I'd have to hide it in the cabinet above the fridge and cut it in 4ths to shove to the back of the fridge to eat a fourth each day. Fat chance he'd ever see it wrapped back there. Yessiree, that's what I call a cake!

I have to be on my deathbed to lose serious weight, and I was on that bed a couple or 3 years ago. Since then, I have gained 15 pounds and am struggling to keep it at that to avoid buying new clothes. At times, I've given serious thought to a crowbar to get 'em up and pliers for the zipper.

PLEASE DON'T READ IF YOU DON'T LIKE JOE BIDEN

I feel I have been blessed with a keen ability to detect BS when I smell it and can call on my God-given common sense when necessary. I'm going to support a dear man outside my own personal political persuasion, and this evening, I'm watching an interview with Howard Swartz with Bret Baier today because I want to see what a reasonable leftie has to say. I'm quite open-minded, but the BS is a big problem that makes me wanna puke. My brother, a devoted leftie, says I was born with a propensity to smell it a mile away (bullshit).

If you're bored, move on please. This isn't entertainment.

Joe Biden and I have much I common, having been born of the same generation and having experienced much tragedy in life. Three for him and three for me. He has lost three precious close family members, and I lost a daughter, and have had two family betrayals that nearly cost me my sanity, tons of money, and two businesses. Legal fees added up to $90,000, and settling with the government (fines and 3/4 of a million$ in judgments, which we did fulfill to be free of a lien on our home. No one else in the group of those indicted paid their judgments, so it almost wiped us out, but we freed the lien on our property and owe the government nothing. We're FREE! We have to really watch our pennies today. Material goods matter very little to us now. We feel fortunate to have a roof, food, clothing, and loyal family and friends. Those betrayals taught us many valuable lessons in life and to not take foolish nothingness so damn seriously, so we just don't.

This crap going on that started with the "me too" movement is nonsensical, BS, and attention getters. Joe Biden was likely raised in a loving home who were demonstratively shown love. Are these women AND MEN who've been shown loving, kind physical gestures by Joe Biden really so hurt? Why did they wait till now? Were they afraid to say something at the time and take care of it themselves? I did.

I very narrowly escaped rape when I was 16. I managed to wriggle out the car door on my back and get myself together while he had his pants down. I said to him, "Zip your pants, dumbass." That was a real 'downer' so to speak, but it was the end of my immediate problem. Did I report it? No, and I never did. He was a family friend, and I handled it then and there. He's dead now (was it something I said?), and I won't divulge his ID with respect to the family name. I don't believe in trying to "cash in" on something that one didn't take care of at the time, and most of those times, it's one's own responsibility.

I can hear it now---"women must be heard." Yes, but grow a pair and say something to the man at the time. Women with a pair are maybe not liked but will be respected and won't be bothered again. Or better yet, go to the cops so there is a record ("see something, say something") In my not-so-humble opinion, why would Uncle Joe rub noses with a woman, smell a woman's hair, take her shoulder and run his hand down her back affectionately---all with many around and cameras running---if he thought it inappropriate? These "safe spaces and personal spaces," etc. have become crippling. I know women have suffered at the hands of men throughout time, and that should be dealt with harshly in the prisons, but this crap is ridiculous! It's petty, and I feel very sorry for its victims---good and decent men with experience, service for our country, and knowledge. I have a great deal of respect for that, and I'd like to think our culture hasn't forgotten how valuable that really is

My Friend, Patty Reid

I hope I can give this post justice for a dear, departed gal that I will forever call 'Patty,' not 'Pat,' as she began to be known and also called herself. You see, Patty was known to me when I was in 7th grade. Her sister, Billie Jo, was one of my best friends in junior high through to high school graduation, and Patty was her older sister, cute and short with full, peck-kissable cheeks, and just enough older that I was a bit in awe of her and her baton twirling majorette status later in high school. She was just enough older that she could drive 3 years before I could, and she showed us little nauseating girls all the things we'd ordinarily had to have to wait till we were older.

Later in high school, since I grew to 5'10" I got a little further in stuff I shouldn't have been doing without Patty's help. I once had a couple of pimple-faced, short boys tell me I looked older, so would I go into one of the bars in Charleston and get them a couple of sixes (six packs). I was brazen and thought I could do anything, so I walked right into Sporty's in Charleston, stuck my non-boobs out as far as my lungs would allow, leaned into the bar and asked the bartender if he knew Patty Reid. He said that yeah, he did and she had left about an hour before. I gave a look like, "Aw, damn the luck," and I just held my breath and said very quickly, Okay, well just give me 2 sixes then." No hesitation, he swung two cold sixes onto the bar, and I gave him the money the pimple faces had given me. He gave me some change, and I nearly ran out. Surely someone could see my heart pounding! I gave the pimplies the beer and told them the change was mine for taking a chance. Okay by them! In those days a quarter bought a pack of cigs and gave someone's gas tank enough gas to drag Broadway and through Gill's numerous times till we had to be home for 50 cents

That was around 1963-64. Patty never talked down to us because of our ages, nor did she ever get us into any trouble or get us into any kind of trouble. She drove us around the main drag before any of us had our licenses. She was a good person, and at one time, I was insanely jealous of her, but she never knew it till later. Where my family lived at the time was just a block from the Burgess-Osborne Auditorium where bands played every weekend. I didn't pay. There was a guy named G.I. Drury that I used to hang off the stage and nearly swoon as I drank him in. He knew I was totally gaga over him, and while he was playing/singing, he'd wink at me. I was totally besotted. I found out years later, he was going with Patty Reid but had it in my mind at the time he would have fallen in love with me and whisked me away, but I got tired of the dream and wearing the same silly dress that I thought made me gorgeous and him not asking me to marry him at my age of 13, so I moved on. 😂😂😂

I met up with Patty much later here on FB and got to know the adult Pat. She and I disagreed, at times vehemently, on politics, but there was kindness and reason behind it at all times. I respected her and she, I. She lovingly encouraged me to write a book for a long time, simply based on my language with injections of quirky humor, and because she loved me and my writing. The strangest comment she ever made on any of my FB writings was quite recent, and then she went silent on FB. Her comment was, "Don't wait. Write the book." I checked her page several times because that one comment chilled me just a dab---so unlike a comment from Patty. I didn't expect her impending death, but I thought perhaps someone in her family or the new beautiful great granddaughter was sick, but if she was ever like me and took long breaks from Facebook, I was unaware of it, so I told myself to give her time to explain her absence.

I never expected the end of Patty HERE. Though I hadn't seen Patty in decades, she was still here, and our friendship continued. I'm just sick thinking of her sudden death. Just tonight her sister, Billie Jo, a best friend of mine since I was 12, is the one who contacted me via messenger and told me how fast her life ended after she was diagnosed with small cell carcinoma, which had spread widely. Patty died within one week of finding out on February 12.

She's one of those special people who live on in our hearts for as long we live. She's really one of the people who formed who I am today.... and I grieve for what was, but I carry her with me still.

Super Bowl Fare

I was watching "Outnumbered" on Fox News that features 5 'on the couch,' consisting of one man, either a Liberal or Conservative, and 4 mostly beautiful women, but always with brains. They try to have at least one Liberal woman for balance, but many Liberals won't accept the invitation, though it's perfectly safe and very much welcomed. Lisa Booth is one of my fave Conservatives there often because she has always reminded me of my cousin, Bonnie Dean---brains, ambition, and beauty. They were discussing the Super Bowl, and Lisa said she would be watching with Fritos Pie and beer with friends. So I went on a search for Frito Pie, and there are a huge number of varying recipes that I assume are all delicious, but I wanted a simple one in an amount that would do for just an intimate group, like us (LOL), though I'm not sure about the intimacy, and not a big crowd. I thought most of what I found for Frito Pie would be fine, and I found this one good and simple and felt it was good enough for Super Bowl. As it turns out, our Chicago Bears lost their chance anyway (G-r-r-r), so the half-time entertainment and Super Bowl commercials will have to do. Bring on the food and beverages, such as Dos Equis, Monterey, Corona with lots of lime, and Diet Dr. Pepper makes me happy too. The sweet Gallo fruit wines (Sweet Apple, Sweet Peach, and Sweet Pineapple) make me sweeter than sweet, warm and fuzzy, and hap, hap, happy. Give me a glass of wine, and I can sit at a keyboard with a glow and words that just flow like liquid silver. I prefer silver or white gold over yellow gold. Give me a 2nd glass and the liquid precious metal color makes no difference. It's all good.


The first time I became familiar with Fritos was we first moved to McAllen TX when I was a very young child. Fritos' home was in TX, as was Dr. Pepper, and that bag of Fritos was on our table at dinner time, eaten with the hottest of hot chillies---the tiny green ones that made you cry and made your nose run---and we all messed around with jalapenos though they got pussy-fied after the mean green baby ones. We all found our niche with Tex-Mex and authentic Mexican faire. We had 3 Mexican ladies working with us in our home-based Knowles Infra-Red Sandwich Services. Carolina helped with the house, and Petra & Margarita helped with recipes and putting together the different sandwiches, heat-sealing them in the correctly ID'ed cellophane bags with simple mechanisms on counters built in the breezeway that was enclosed with screen and narrow louvered windows. It was a very large room that connected the two-car garage to the house (kitchen). It was wonderful. On one side a door that went outside to our grill and picnic table; the other side of windows showed our beautiful banana tree, a bougainvillea and small collection of varied palm tree varieties. My mother, bless her heart, worked so hard on those recipes. She did a lot of the meats in pressure cookers, and the STEAM was incredible in that kitchen. We had to slide the pocket doors closed to the dining room and to the hall from the living room to the bedrooms & baths to keep it from becoming too much of a heat load for the A/C. Her health wasn't the greatest because of that work. She had boils in hidden places on her body and her appendix had to be removed. I doubt the steam & hard work caused it all, but she never let it get her completely down & out. Our hard-working girls were a huge help to us also.


My dad had a new red & white big honkin' '56 Chevy station wagon with add-on A/C (not factory in those days), and he had a refrigeration man build him a big box that had its own refrigeration unit for delivery of sandwiches all over the Rio Grande Valley. Each patron had his/her own infra-red machine with timer, and the cellophane sealed bags had a component that allowed intense heat without burning up, yet heated the content to perfection. It was cutting edge in the 50s, and it was a huge hit. He took me with him on his route when I wanted to go. Used to be cigarettes were given away for samples with 4 in a neat little package. I was fascinated by the charm of the neat little pack, so my dad got me to 'light one up.' He laughed so hard while I was holding back the puke. We delivered to bowling alleys, gas stations (no convenience stores then), taverns, theatres, etc. In summer, when not in school, I took many orders, names, and phone #s to give to my dad when he got home from his Valley route.

We never lost our taste for the authenticity of great Mexican food, and with our beloved Mexican friends/employees, we learned how to seek out the best. When we first arrived in TX, we were sent to this out-of-the-way tin shack with canvas windows that were held up with broomsticks. No screens, no glass, and no public health food inspectors, LOL! I sank 7-year-old teeth into my first cheese & onion enchilada, and at that tender age, I thought I was dying, and by God, I KNEW I was going to heaven without a doubt or prayer. I've never had any like those anywhere else, but I found a recipe that I'm betting is close, but no cigar. My cookbooks define my love: My Sweet Mexico, The Homesick Texan, etc. I've never been able to match the food of the little tin shack or La Hacienda or even some of Luby's Cafeteria's Tex-Mex recipes (yes, I have that cookbook too---chain of cafeterias in TX), but some of the local Mexican ristorantes here are close 2nds, such as Taco Amigos here in Mattoon and the Charleston IL El Rancherito, where Dick has learned all the bad-taste Spanish they will give him. They call him "Ricardo Cabeza," (Dick Head), and I am simply "Nanci." My best friend in McAllen was Sarah Jane, and their little Mexican live-in help, Maria, named me "Nancina." I loved her. I wanted her to live with us.

I was watching "Outnumbered" on Fox News that features 5 'on the couch,' consisting of one man, either a Liberal or Conservative, and 4 mostly beautiful women, but always with brains. They try to have at least one Liberal woman for balance, but many Liberals won't accept the invitation, though it's perfectly safe and very much welcomed. Lisa Booth is one of my fave Conservatives there often because she has always reminded me of my cousin, Bonnie Dean---brains, ambition, and beauty. They were discussing the Super Bowl, and Lisa said she would be watching with Fritos Pie and beer with friends. So I went on a search for Frito Pie, and there are a huge number of varying recipes that I assume are all delicious, but I wanted a simple one in an amount that would do for just an intimate group, like us (LOL), though I'm not sure about the intimacy, and not a big crowd. I thought most of what I found for Frito Pie would be fine, and I found this one good and simple and felt it was good enough for Super Bowl. As it turns out, our Chicago Bears lost their chance anyway (G-r-r-r), so the half-time entertainment and Super Bowl commercials will have to do. Bring on the food and beverages, such as Dos Equis, Monterey, Corona with lots of lime, and Diet Dr. Pepper makes me happy too. The sweet Gallo fruit wines (Sweet Apple, Sweet Peach, and Sweet Pineapple) make me sweeter than sweet, warm and fuzzy, and hap, hap, happy. Give me a glass of wine, and I can sit at a keyboard with a glow and words that just flow like liquid silver. I prefer silver or white gold over yellow gold. Give me a 2nd glass and the liquid precious metal color makes no difference. It's all good.

The first time I became familiar with Fritos was we first moved to McAllen TX when I was a very young child. Fritos' home was in TX, as was Dr. Pepper, and that bag of Fritos was on our table at dinner time, eaten with the hottest of hot chillies---the tiny green ones that made you cry and made your nose run---and we all messed around with jalapenos though they got pussy-fied after the mean green baby ones. We all found our niche with Tex-Mex and authentic Mexican faire. We had 3 Mexican ladies working with us in our home-based Knowles Infra-Red Sandwich Services. Carolina helped with the house, and Petra & Margarita helped with recipes and putting together the different sandwiches, heat-sealing them in the correctly ID'ed cellophane bags with simple mechanisms on counters built in the breezeway that was enclosed with screen and narrow louvered windows. It was a very large room that connected the two-car garage to the house (kitchen). It was wonderful. On one side a door that went outside to our grill and picnic table; the other side of windows showed our beautiful banana tree, a bougainvillea and small collection of varied palm tree varieties. My mother, bless her heart, worked so hard on those recipes. She did a lot of the meats in pressure cookers, and the STEAM was incredible in that kitchen. We had to slide the pocket doors closed to the dining room and to the hall from the living room to the bedrooms & baths to keep it from becoming too much of a heat load for the A/C. Her health wasn't the greatest because of that work. She had boils in hidden places on her body and her appendix had to be removed. I doubt the steam & hard work caused it all, but she never let it get her completely down & out. Our hard-working girls were a huge help to us also.

My dad had a new red & white big honkin' '56 Chevy station wagon with add-on A/C (not factory in those days), and he had a refrigeration man build him a big box that had its own refrigeration unit for delivery of sandwiches all over the Rio Grande Valley. Each patron had his/her own infra-red machine with timer, and the cellophane sealed bags had a component that allowed intense heat without burning up, yet heated the content to perfection. It was cutting edge in the 50s, and it was a huge hit. He took me with him on his route when I wanted to go. Used to be cigarettes were given away for samples with 4 in a neat little package. I was fascinated by the charm of the neat little pack, so my dad got me to 'light one up.' He laughed so hard while I was holding back the puke. We delivered to bowling alleys, gas stations (no convenience stores then), taverns, theatres, etc. In summer, when not in school, I took many orders, names, and phone #s to give to my dad when he got home from his Valley route.

We never lost our taste for the authenticity of great Mexican food, and with our beloved Mexican friends/employees, we learned how to seek out the best. When we first arrived in TX, we were sent to this out-of-the-way tin shack with canvas windows that were held up with broomsticks. No screens, no glass, and no public health food inspectors, LOL! I sank 7-year-old teeth into my first cheese & onion enchilada, and at that tender age, I thought I was dying, and by God, I KNEW I was going to heaven without a doubt or prayer. I've never had any like those anywhere else, but I found a recipe that I'm betting is close, but no cigar. My cookbooks define my love: My Sweet Mexico, The Homesick Texan, etc. I've never been able to match the food of the little tin shack or La Hacienda or even some of Luby's Cafeteria's Tex-Mex recipes (yes, I have that cookbook too---chain of cafeterias in TX), but some of the local Mexican ristorantes here are close 2nds, such as Taco Amigos here in Mattoon and the Charleston IL El Rancherito, where Dick has learned all the bad-taste Spanish they will give him. They call him "Ricardo Cabeza," (Dick Head), and I am simply "Nanci." My best friend in McAllen was Sarah Jane, and their little Mexican live-in help, Maria, named me "Nancina." I loved her. I wanted her to live with us.


There's still time to pick out the simple ingredients of Frito Pie and have some jalapeno poppers, boneless wings in your favorite flavors, chips, dips, and the beauty of most of this is it's all readily available to buy already made. Just throw this simplest of Frito Pie together, and wow yourself and/or anyone you're sharing with. I'll also be switching over to the Puppy Bowl and the Kitten Bowl.

http://www.texascooking.com/recipes/fritopie.htm

TRAINING BRAS

Have you ever wondered just what training bras are all about? I guess they're now called sports bras, which work just fine for me. Were training bras called that because it was supposed to train them to grow? If so, it was a hoax. I never figured out why they were called 'training.'

I was reminded several months ago of a few issues that took me back so many years ago, I don't want to say.

I've been meeting with several girls from the class '65 every month to have lunch, and we are all 'Tooners (we all ended up back in Mattoon IL, our hometown) though some of the old classmates meet with us when they're here in Mattoon.

So we were stuffed into a booth, and Karen leaned over and said, "Where are your boobs?" Me: "I don't have any." And I never did. We were at a slumber party one night in those days, and we named our boobs. Yes, we really did. There was Wolf Head, Boobs Mallory, Fried Eggs, Lemon Drops, Grapefruit---you get the picture.

But onto the distant past.

My little brother was very sick in Southern TX (asthma from the climate there) so my family pulled up stakes, sold the house and business in McAllen TX and headed for Southern CA. We had close relatives and old friends there. My dad looked for work while we lived there, renting a wonderful daylight basement apartment from a retired dentist from Mattoon, the older Dr. Baughman and wife Edna, who moved to Carlsbad to retire and had always been childless. They were thrilled to have two kids living downstairs, and they were so enthralled with me and my brother. My sister was in the womb. When I walked out our door, up a few steps were the doctor's tomato plants, roses and several veggies. He and I used to pick and eat juicy tomatoes right off the vine, and he would just laugh delightedly at our messes. If I passed his little garden and walk a few steps to the street (the house was on a corner) and look down the street, there was the ocean. They built Carlsbad homes upward away from the ocean. It was the neatest place ever, and our TV was in storage, so I read lots of Nancy Drew Mysteries, but there was no end to what kept me occupied, and I LOVED our apartment---so cozy and homey. Though smallish for a family, I adored living there, but we all had our own space. Scott and I were bussed to Oceanside CA to school, and those schools were sadly lacking compared to TX's new and progressive schools. I hated the school and my teacher, and it stunk something terrible. I still smell it, something I never forgot. I described the smell to my mom as "rotten candy." In reality, it was a very old, sweet smell. I used to hold my nose in class to block it out. She used to call on me when she saw me holding my nose, and I just sat there like I was deaf and mute. I hated that horrible woman.

CA was overrun by the influx of people moving for the climate and its beauty. My dad had looked for work, but jobs were so scarce, he couldn't find anything that paid enough to support a growing family, so after talking to the Baughmans and giving them a check for the time spent there (they would never accept rent on a monthly basis), and it was with great sadness for them and us, we packed up and headed out of CA., not knowing where we were bound. BTW, the Baughman's never would cash the check.

We got to a point of no return, and my dad had talked to his folks who had told him they wanted him back to run Knowles Cafeteria, as my granddad wanted to retire. My dad pulled off the road crying, bawling, turning around to Scott and me (we had the station wagon's back seat down and a mattress covering the back for us kids) and asking through the tears if we wanted to go back or go home to IL. I was crying by then, and Scott and I said in unison, "Go home!" He drove back onto the road, and we were IL bound in no time.

I had been talking to my mom and dad during the ride from TX to CA by leaning my chest on the back of the front seat. However, on the way to IL, I started to do that and it was a shock to find that my chest hurt. I recoiled that first time, and my mom happened to see it. "Did that hurt?" Me, being puzzled, said "Yeah!" Mama said, "You're developing." My thought at the time, "Developing what?" It only took a few seconds to connect, and my exact thought, "Ohhh, UGH!" I had just spent years chasing snakes, toads, lizards, etc. and riding horses and my burro, both bareback. It was only sissies who rode on saddles, and we forged into undeveloped areas we called wildernesses, cutting down anything in our way, making paths to absolutely nothing. We'd show up at home when we were thirsty enough to drink tadpole infested muddy water in the irrigation canals or so hungry our collection of scary critters in our bucket or box were looking good enough to eat. Looking back, we were tough little girls, afraid of nothing. I had to be broken in though. Coming down to the Rio Grande Valley, 6 miles to the Mexico border was no match for a Gringo from IL. I quickly found two neighboring friends, raised right there, who conquered my fears by taking me to a stop sign where 2 little Mexican boys had killed a huge rattler by throwing rocks till it croaked. Then, they stood on a car and pulled the rattler up to the top of the sign, fastened it there and let the length of the snake hang down. It was so long, the end was on the ground---maybe a couple of feet, and it was fat and ugly. I decided right then I had to get tough, but you know.... it was so much fun! We even picked cotton in a big field across the street from my two girlfriends (I lived across the alley from them). I didn't even know what it was we were picking till they laughed and said, "It's cotton!" Wow... I didn't know how far I'd come till my dad discovered a huge fire ant hill almost in our backyard, but just outside on the side of the alley. Every time I walked by it, I'd destroy the top of their hill by kicking it good, and they would get busy and build it up again, only to have me come by and destroy it again and again. Those fire ants were nasty, and these were huge and very red. I once stood straddled over it and poured water into the hole at the top of their hill. I would she those things scattering and dip my foot down into the mass of ants and stir them around with pure meanness, stomping on them as I went. I'd never read any horror books a that tender age, so them attacking me was never a thought. It would have been a Stephen King classic, though he wasn't even writing yet. I think that poor old fart is about my age. So this little rough and tumble brown-skinned girl with a TX accent was told 'she was developing.' She was in awe on one hand, but crushed on the other hand because it meant that going back to a developed, civilized and boring way of living meant she would be forced to grow up, and she wasn't so sure she was ready for that.

Triple humiliation started when I was 11, soon after the "sore" incident. My mom took me to Young's Department Store. She hadn't told me a sales lady would come in and measure me for a good fit. OMG! It was a horrible experience! I was so mad at my mom, but she acted like she didn't know that would happen. Later, my family were playing badminton in our backyard. My mom said, "Dwain, Nancy is wearing her new training bra." Horrors. It was worse than the woman "fitting" me.

Since I didn't train them to grow, I kept on wearing training bras. The last horrifying incident was when I was 15 and went to a huge slumber party at a classmate's house. It was where someone taught me that if you didn't inhale, you weren't really smoking. I inhaled, and it nearly killed me. I thought I would pass out, but I tried like hell not to show it. When my dad picked up several of us, he said we smelled like smoke. I told him Judy's dad was a smoker. He didn't buy it but laughed anyway.

There were some boys outside who had heard about the party, so we went outside to see who all was there. Somehow, a few of the boys got inside the house while we were occupied. They got into our underwear and helped themselves. Yes, they got my training bra, old and stretched out, all 34 AA of it. Later, when inside, we discovered the mess they had made of our things. One of the girls looked out and saw all that underwear hanging from the tower TV antenna (the kind you could easily climb). I tried to be calm when we all went out and held a flashlight up to see if ours was there. Horrors. There was my training bra flapping at the top. I tried to be nonchalant as one of the girls went up grabbing and throwing down the underwear for all to pick up. I never even let on and ignored my bra while I thought ahead to the next day when I would have to leave with no bra. Little did I know I needn't have worried.

I went home dressed without a bra and no one could even tell. Humiliating. I told my mom I wanted to get rid of the old training bras and get one with a little padding, so she took me to Young's again; I told her I didn't want a fitter in my dressing room---I'd fit myself nicely without help, so I did.

Can you guess what happened with the padded bra? Nothing, absolutely nothing. No one, including me, could ever see a difference.

Halloween at 1009

I loved when we left our house on the golf course to come here. I spent 24 years of my life there in the house we had built, many of those years the best of my life. We had several years there full of good friends, taking a big part in helping to raise our granddaughter, our daughter being a single mom at that time, and the best of the good life (and at times, the bad, when we became federal felons). On many occasions, a couple of my non-conformist, non-goody-two-shoes friends (the proverbial doctor's wives, totally unaffected by their would-be status in earlier times) would call me and say, "Call so & so, and let's go to the clubhouse to eat free peel-and-eat shrimp and Margaritas while the guys play golf today." Me: "But I have Moriah." "She'll love it!." Me: "OK!" So, off we'd go to eat shrimp and drink Maggies, ice water and shrimpage dripping off our elbows, laughing and happy drunk, watching the old-money (or wanted us to think that) bitties who objected to our obtrusiveness and laughing about THEM. I'd lived in Mattoon most of my life, and I knew the old moneyed people. They were NOT these people. My friends and I set a new trend at the country club---jeans, sweatshirts, T shirts, etc. I was the longest standing member of Mattoon Golf & Country Club ever when we left. My dad was playing his match on the course when my mom went into labor with me. My uncle took her to the hospital and stayed till my dad could arrive. So, I was literally a member for the biggest part of my life of that club till 5 years ago. My siblings grew up playing golf and swimming on that course. It was a great place for families, and it was safe and taught kids healthy habits while learning sportsmanship and social graces in a caring, responsible way. In the grand days of my dad's reigning championship for well over a decade, the club had ambiance and class. Now, it's a barely struggling-to-stay-alive entity whose still-beautiful grounds are devoid of golfers as opposed to how crowded it has been in the past. I can't forget to tell you, while I'm still thinking of it, when writing about the doctors and previous status in older times, Dick was on a winning team for some hometown organization to raise funds, which was called "3 Docs and a Dick." That's what times were like when our group dominated at Mattoon Golf & Country Club, but sadly, times change as the years march forward. Then, no one cared who were the doctors and who was the dick, so Dick happily played the part of the dick.

Halloween was---at one time in our house on the back nine holes of the course---fun... because of the neighbors' kids and grands coming to trick or treat, but after those younger years, they all left the nest. All we had left to treat were truck and van loads of country kids we didn't know. Some of them brought along with them the stench of hog farms, but fortunately, there was no extra charge to homeowners of Rolling Green residences in property taxes for the nearby breezes of the hog farm in hot, humid weather. Crème de la crème. We then had 3/4 of our basement finished, yielding a great computer/lounge area (all my design on a scap of notebook paper for the contractor, of course), my sewing room, a full bath, and huge family room with fireplace, all making it where we spent most of our time. During that construction was when my kitty rescue time began. I will never forget my little PIB (aka Pain In The Butt, or Pibbie, my 1st of the happy kiltties) running through the basement on the new, tight carpet once installed. She was delighted with the new digs. I've given several kitties wonderful, loving homes, and three have gone on to wait for me at the Rainbow Bridge. I miss them all deeply (as long as I live) but know that I did my utmost at making them important and very happy and loved. That is my legacy to God's creations who might not have had a chance had it not been for me. I am fulfilled and blessed.

By that time, we left our porch light off during Halloween so no one came to trick or treat. It was fine with both of us by that time.

When the close friends began following new directions in their lives, Dick being one golfer who found that his back pain was no longer worth all the fun it had been, and all of us found aging was inhibiting us and the intensity of what had been, Dick decided golf was no longer important, so he sold his golf cart, and we began looking at a couple of other older, well-established neighborhoods within city limits. After having built two great homes in country subdivisions, we had spent 36 years of our lives without city fire protection and police protection. My health had become an issue, and I was ready to move back to our fair little city's roots. The old groups we had been so close with had all become empty nesters and some began following their grown children's lives in other places. I have a very hard time dealing with the emotions of the great times, now over, as only memories, but as one dear friend said to me: "As life goes on, we close those chapters in our lives, and new ones open. They nearly always end with everyone going their separate ways, but they always remember with love." It still hurts me.

How I get from then to now is like a maze, but this book always ends in a way out, and BTW, I've started that book. No promises, but it's my book, whatever that may be. It's actually a cathartic experience to record.

So it was Halloween 2013 when we experienced our first city Halloween in this neighborhood. I was thrilled to be here and experiencing a new way of life. We had been haunting the well-maintained earlier neighborhoods in Mattoon for a couple of years before deciding to ditch the country subdivisions and move into town for our last move. We weren't in a terrible hurry when we began looking, so I had the luxury of deciding what we really wanted after redesigning basic plans from the last two houses we had built. I loved the redesigning of new houses (and our office building of our Internet/computer business). My uncle, who financed our new Internet/computer building, told me to let him know what we needed a building, and I did it on a piece of notebook paper. When I do things, I do it with flair and pizzazz, no doubt about it. Even the architects who drew up the actual drafted plans were impressed with the plan, but the government ended up with it in the end and charged us with it in our federal judgement when the shit hit the fan. We were even paying rent on it without our names on it (don't even know the actual price+ of the building), but it went onto our judgements anyway. Hard knocks, I know, but life is never easy. It's what we make of it that fulfills us.

This house fit the bill and had all on my wish list, and I was thrilled to be starting a new life in a totally different environment. Even in a farm community in the Midwest, there is a big difference in the flavor of town vs. country living. I was ready for the new fit, but there were things I hadn't considered, and three of them were surrounding us---low income housing projects---on the east, on the west, and just south of us. Don't judge me for being skeptical about the trouble we might have. We've never had any major problems because many of these people are here from bigger cities, just trying to raise their families in a safer environment. I respect that and have been treated with respect and kindness, but of course, there are always those exceptions. Like at Halloween, I've had literal gang numbers show up in the afternoon while still bright daylight on my porch asking for candy, wearing no costume and asking for extra bags for the ones at home. I just rarely go to the door now, and if I do, I tell them trick or treating hours don't start till 6:00. Kids with britches hanging off their asses, about 15-16 years old, started showing up during trick or treat hours. Grandmas younger than me started coming up with the little ones, looking like skanks of the night, and asking for their own treat bag for taking out the kids. Like I was supposed to reward them??? For being perfectly skanky grandmas and doing the dirty work for their daughter/son who didn't want to take the kid out door-to-door??? Pissed me off, but I was my perfectly polite sarcastic self, flashed 'em a go-to-hell smile that said, "I got your number, Grandma of the Year, and you don't need this candy, fatty!" Didn't have to say a word. The dazzling smile with 'the look' did the job.

As Dick and I were bagging up beggar candy, I was stewing. I told him that if I had people asking for more bags to take back home, I was shutting up shop and turning off the light. We went for our usual "date night" to El Rancherito in Charleston and didn't tarry so we could get home in reasonable time to hand out treats. I had been stewing all the time I was eating and drinking my usual two Margaritas, anticipating the beggars. I ran to the door, flipped on the light, and like magic, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to a young mother and her little fat-faced boy with a younger one in tow. I held out my bagged treats in their container, and the little guy dug in with both hands. He said, "I need some for my grandma." His mother, amazingly, said, "No, this is for kids." I said, "That's right, Mama. Grandmas need to get out and walk for their own treats because they have diabetes."

Dear gawd, from whence did that come? It is what I have become. I was left with over half the bags I started with. Last year, I didn't object when one group came three times, but on the third trip, I told them I WAS SICK of seeing them. I totally ran out of candy and had to turn out the light 1/2 hour before quitting time, despite the doorbell still beckoning for an hour after that. My four cats were nervous wrecks the rest of the night, and I was seething. This Halloween left me with half the bags I started with, so don't bring anyone to my house next year because the bags with candy still in them are getting recycled. The chocolate fun bars will look like white dog turds.

The last straw was this spoiled, round-faced, little rich kid who had on an expensive Amazon costume of Harry Potter. Trying valiantly to redeem myself, I tried one last time to bring myself back into the realm of humanity by cheerfully saying to the little brat, "I know who you are! I've read about you in the books and the movies. Hello, Harry Potter!" He tearfully turned to his mother, saying, "But I'm a magician! Mommy, why doesn't anyone call me a magician?" Me: "Because Harry Potter IS a magician!" He starts bawling, and his mother says, "The lady is just trying to be nice." Me: "No, not really. Maybe it's time he knows just who Harry Potter is." I wanted to take his wand and swat his bottom with it and say, "Now you have something to bawl about." Little f***er!

I'm going to hell.....