Book In Common: Gather up your knees – now the story gets SCARY!

Here we are, My Pretties, it’s Halloween! But the Witching Hour is hours away, we have all day to dust off our hats, look over our flight map,  and make a batch of chocolate mini muffins, with some Three Musketeers bars tucked inside. 

My husband bought me a NEW BROOM!

I woke up early this morning to finish reading the Legend of Sleepy Hollow:

I had left off with the party at Van Tassels – I got off track when I started Google Imaging the foods mentioned – stop it! No wonder the standard of beauty for women in those days was fat  and standing over a skillet! 

At the party we see that Ichabod Crane has “set his hat” for Katrina Van Tassel, who many feel is the prettiest girl in the valley, and daughter of a very rich farmer. We find out she has many suitors, chief among them a big brawny popular fellow named Brom Bones. As the party rolls along and the ghost stories begin around the punch bowl, we begin to hear stories of the Horseman.

As we know, the Headless Horseman had been buried in an abandoned churchyard by an long-dead squire from the Van Tassel family. His head had been lost, and over the years people living in the little towns surrounding the Sleepy Hollow have reported seeing him, riding along at night, and assumed he was searching for his head. He was not necessarily violent, but obviously a frightful specter, someone to avoid, like the high school principal.

“The tale was told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever in ghosts, how he met the Horseman returning from his foray into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up behind him; how they galloped over bush and brake, over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge; when the Horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over the tree-tops with a clap of thunder.”

Of course, swaggering, joking Brom Bones is not afraid of anything. “This story was immediately matched by a thrice marvellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the Galloping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that on returning one night from the neighboring village of Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight trooper; that he had offered to race with him for a bowl of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat the goblin horse all hollow, but just as they came to the church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash of fire.”

And Brom seems to win the evening, because in the end, Ichabod Crane leaves alone. As the families head out cheerfully in their wagons – some of the “damsels” even leaving with their “swains” for a midnight ride – lonely Ichabond steers his borrowed nag toward the darkness of the Hollow, “with the air of one who had been sacking a henroost, rather than a fair lady’s heart.”

Irving lays it on thick – “All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard in the afternoon now came crowding upon his recollection. The night grew darker and darker; the stars seemed to sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place where many of the scenes of the ghost stories had been laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark.”

Apparently, this tree really did exist in Irving’s childhood, and the story was told of a real life Revolutionary spy who was captured under or very near this tree, and later hanged for his part in Benedict Arnold’s treason. At the time, many people believed he had actually been hung from the tree. While eye-witness accounts deny the use of the tree for the hanging, historians agree the tree was important to the local people for a variety of reasons until it was apparently struck by lightening and dismembered by souvenir hounds sometime around 1800. They agree that Irving must have described it from his own memory, although he probably hadn’t seen it for 20 years when he wrote the story. According to historian Henry Steiner, the tree, a “Tulip” tree, measured 29 feet at the base, and stood 111 feet, with 109 diameter at the crown, and stood in the middle of a busy road. According to Steiner, the tree “stood roughly where Broadway passes Warner Library today…”

Now this is a busy modern scene, where there once stood a spooky wood and a big, intimidating tree. Irving describes the tree as though he’d seen it the previous day and it was still  very much alive – “In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip-tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees of the neighborhood, and formed a kind of landmark. Its limbs were gnarled and fantastic, large enough to form trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected with the tragical story of the unfortunate André, who had been taken prisoner hard by; and was universally known by the name of Major André’s tree. The common people regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred namesake, and partly from the tales of strange sights, and doleful lamentations, told concerning it.”

At this point Ichabod forget his failure at romance, and starts thinking about his surroundings, whistling shrilly as he forces himself past the tree. Thinking he’s “out of the woods,” he crosses a bridge into Wiley’s Swamp – “To pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this identical spot that the unfortunate André was captured, and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful are the feelings of the schoolboy who has to pass it alone after dark.”

And of course, as soon  as he gets himself across that bridge, ” In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen and towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon the traveller.”

Here I’ll leave you to read along alone, that’s the best way to finish this story. Maybe you’d like to whistle or sing a psalm to ward off the ghosts!



Book In Common: Now we know why the Headless Horseman was restless – he wanted in on some of this food!

“As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides he beheld vast store of apples; some hanging in oppressive opulence on the trees; some gathered into baskets and barrels for the market; others heaped up in rich piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and hasty-pudding; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields breathing the odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipations stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel…”

“Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he entered the state parlor of Van Tassel’s mansion. Not those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious display of red and white; but the ample charms of a genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time of autumn. Such heaped up platters of cakes of various and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced Dutch housewives! There was the doughty doughnut, the tender oly koek, and the crisp and crumbling cruller; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger cakes and honey cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then there were apple pies, and peach pies, and pumpkin pies; besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and roasted chickens; together with bowls of milk and cream, all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have enumerated them, with the motherly teapot sending up its clouds of vapor from the midst—Heaven bless the mark! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his historian, but did ample justice to every dainty.”


Indian or Hasty Pudding – good recipe site


German or Dutch Baby pancake







Oly Koek (doughnuts or fritters)
Crullers – French puff pastries
fruit preserves
grilled shad – a bony little fish like carp, my grandfather liked to smoke them with alder or apple wood
roasted chickens

Book In Common: Ichabod Crane, highly unlikely hero

Now that we have  got to know Sleepy Hollow, we meet some of the inhabitants. Washington Irving describes the inhabitants of Sleepy Hollow as being caught in a sort of dreamy existence, “They are like those little nooks of still water, which border a rapid stream, where we may see the straw and bubble riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic harbor, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current.”

But one man stands as an outsider – Ichabod Crane. In those days, 20 miles was far, and Crane had come all the way from Connecticut to the back woods of Upstate New York. While the people were, as always, friendly and warm to him, he was always the outsider. You get that from the way Irving introduces him. 

“He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a weather-cock perched upon his spindle neck to tell which way the wind blew. To see him striding along the profile of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some scarecrow eloped from a cornfield.”

He looked weird among the stout and rosy faced people of the valley, and they held him apart, even though they seemed to like him. Or just put up with him because it was hard to get a teacher?

“From hence [the schoolhouse] the low murmur of his pupils’ voices, conning over their lessons, might be heard in a drowsy summer’s day, like the hum of a beehive; interrupted now and then by the authoritative voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command, or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” Ichabod Crane’s scholars certainly were not spoiled.”

Frankly, he doesn’t sound like a very nice man. 

“I would not have it imagined, however, that he was one of those cruel potentates of the school who joy in the smart of their subjects; on the contrary, he administered justice with discrimination rather than severity; taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed by with indulgence; but the claims of justice were satisfied by inflicting a double portion on some little tough wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the birch. All this he called “doing his duty by their parents;” and he never inflicted a chastisement without following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smarting urchin, that “he would remember it and thank him for it the longest day he had to live.”

Okay, I detect a note of sarcasm in that last paragraph, I don’t think Washington Irving liked the guy either!  And, something I’ve noticed in reading this story over the years – Crane is not only a dork and a bully, he’s a leech!

“on holiday afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. Indeed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda…”

There you have it.  I’ve read a lot of books about the old days, and there’s always two kinds of school teachers – the take-advantage leech who’s mean to the kids when the adults aren’t around, and the self-sacrificing heroine who gives all in the love of his/her pupils.  Laura Ingalls Wilder has a bunch of different ones in her books, but you can put them all in one or the other category. 

Irving makes fun of Crane, as though he was annoying but harmless. Given some of the stuff we hear about school teachers on the news today, they were lucky to get the guy. But he was an overbearing uninvited house guest that everybody had to put up with for the sake of their good family name. Apparently he was smart enough to know not to wear out his welcome. Don’t you hate that?

“he had various ways of rendering himself both useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasionally in the lighter labors of their farms, helped to make hay, mended the fences, took the horses to water, drove the cows from pasture, and cut wood for the winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and ingratiating. He found favor in the eyes of the mothers by petting the children, particularly the youngest; and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours together.”

Can’t get rid of a guy like that, especially when you have a very eligible and attractive daughter.  ” The schoolmaster is generally a man of some importance in the female circle of a rural neighborhood; being considered a kind of idle, gentlemanlike personage, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the rough country swains… Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure among them in the churchyard, between services on Sundays; gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that overran the surrounding trees; reciting for their amusement all the epitaphs on the tombstones; or sauntering, with a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the adjacent millpond; while the more bashful country bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior elegance and address.”

At this point I’m only glad I never had a daughter.

I have to quit right now too, I’m way late on my chores. I hate to stop, this book is so enchanting.



Book In Common: Should we feel sorry for the lonely Headless Horseman?

Halloween has almost snuck up on me this year, I been so busy with various things. It’s only one day a year, so I like to get as much as I can out of it – not just candy!   It’s fun to read a ghost story in the morning, puts  that chill in your bones, sets your nerves on edge, and your hair on end.

The Headless Horseman is one of our greatest ghosts, from one of our earliest American-born authors, although, this legend has it’s roots in Europe. It’s an old story with a character common to the old days, “the ghost of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle…”  This Hessian was apparently buried at the cemetery of a later-abandoned church, and as you’d guess, spent his nights traversing the roads between the cemetery and the long-forgotten battlefield, in search of his head. 

I knew a person who was decapitated, and knowing her as well as I did, I know she would not have left this earth without possession of her head, having forever been known as a woman who kept her head in any kind of situation. It makes sense.

So, you’re out one night with your sweetie, or say, coming home from the bar, and you see a rider approaching. All friendly like, you hail this person, even though you notice his clothes are kinda strange… And then the next day, feeling pretty lucky to be alive, you wonder, “should I share  this with my friends?”  And then you find yourself back at Duffys the following Friday night, and after a couple of Bigfoot Ales, you’re ready to tell your story, with certain embellishments of course.  This is how legends are born. 

There was no tv back in those days, and I guess being pretty eager for entertainment, they believed just about anything. So, this story made it’s rounds, and this apparition was quickly and aptly named, “The Headless Horseman of Sleepy Hollow.” 

Washington Irving had been born within a week of the surrender of General Cornwallis to George Washington. His Dutch parents were so impressed they named him after General Washington. He grew up hearing the stories and legends of the  war, and spent his youth wandering the woods of Sleepy Hollow. As he heard these stories his mind separated the best parts of each story, and having met many interesting characters in the town and seen interesting names in the cemetery, he came up with one, longer, more organized story that has been handed down now for over 200 years, made into movies, and now a really awful tv show. I’d recommend the original, which you can find here:

Irving had heard a story of a Hessian, or German, trooper buried in a local churchyard by a prominent family – the Van Tassels. The Hessians had been hired from King Frederich by British King George – a horrible gambler, George had huge debts, and couldn’t keep his own army. He rented one from King Frederich, and sent them across the Atlantic to harass American citizens. They came from the district of Hesse – Hessians.

I can’t help but feel for the Germans – they were having a horrible depression, their lands were burnt over from wars dating back to Roman times,  heavily deforested and over-farmed. For hundreds of years the Germans left home, looking for wealth, because their homeland was had over by various robber barons, split up between warlords, generally ruined. Germany’s a tough country, it’s amazing they’re still there at all.

I don’t know if you’ve heard the story of Washington Crossing the Delaware – here’s Mad Magazine’s take on that great event, I have this poster hanging over my kitchen sink:

He did so in the middle of Christmas Eve because the Americans did not yet celebrate Christmas, it was the Germans who gave us the Christmas with a decorated tree and a fat man in a red suit. General Washington knew the Hessians, away from their families on a big holiday, would get drunk. So he snuck across the river at midnight – apparently dressed to the nines –  and jumped them unawares. 30 Hessians died. This was not only a “humiliation” for the Hessians, but I’d say, pretty sad.

So this legend has a sad and lonely feel to it, right up until the horseman is fast on somebody’s behind. We quickly lose sympathy for this character as he bears down on the victim – maybe he’s tired of searching for his own head, long gone, and he’s decided to settle for someone else’s!





Working my way through a bitch fit

I know, lately, bitch bitch bitch!

Well, I don’t know about you, but that’s why I blog – to VENT! It’s like farting out of your mouth  – just gotta let her rip!

Debbie Presson read the taxpayer’s blog, and maybe this one too, and complains that I have opinions and state them. I don’t attack people – I complain about what they’re doing or not doing, or I complain that they said they were going to do a job and now they’re not doing it. I have a right to my opinion, especially when it’s about somebody who’s making over $132,000/year off the public teat.

Newspaper shill David Little doesn’t like me having my own opinions either – they don’t get it. They think they can squash somebody’s free speech rights because she says things they don’t like. If I was saying anything that’s not true, I think I’d be hearing from a lawyer.

That is what blogs are for, emoting. And I’ll use whatever fucking language I like, fuckyouverymuch. 

What Presson doesn’t seem to get is, some people say bad things, while other people DO bad things. 

Well, I feel better, I’ll try to move along. 

Enterprise Record Editor Dave Little asleep at the wheel?

For years now I’ve had a bittersweet relationship with Enterprise Record editor David Little. We have never met physically, but we’ve chatted online over my letters and newstips I’ve e-mailed in. Sometimes he’s agreed with my letters, I think most times he’s held his nose and printed them. But he’s always stood up for my right to my opinion.

Well, as long as I didn’t use the ‘f’ word! In fact, one time he took me to task for using the word “crap” in an e-mail to him. I used to use that word as a substitute for “stuff.” One day he told me, “the Enterprise Record does not print ‘crap’…well, we don’t print the word ‘crap’…”   See, he’s got a funny sense of humor when he doesn’t have something up his ass.

Every now and then he’s gotten mad at me over some remark I’ve made – like when I told him he seemed to forget objectivity whenever the subject of his own children’s charter school came up. He acted completely unprofessional covering that story,  and I told him so, and that was the first time I set his nose out of whack and he started to cool off on me a little bit.

Oh well – he’d offended me in his backhanded way a hundred times, and I was tired of holding back. I get tired of being nice to people just so they’ll be my friend.  I got a husband, two kids and a couple of great dogs, I don’t need friends who demand constant butt-licking to like me.  Friends can be a major liability, sticking their dick in your business just when you least need them to. I don’t have that many “friends,” but they’ve learned to keep their dick in their own pants.

I’ve certainly never expected special treatment, but after a while I realized I was getting it. Whenever Little would go out of town, I noticed my letters would “get lost.” Once I had a weird exchange with  Managing Editor Steve Schoonover, who’s wife Laura Urseny is their lead reporter. Schoonover fills in for Little whenever he’s out of town. I had written a letter about the subdivision planned a few doors down from my house, and Schoonover responded to me that even though he disagreed with me he was going to run my letter. Well, lah-tee-dah! I don’t think that’s appropriate for an editor – Little typically responds that he’s received your letter, that’s it. Schoonover was trying to intimidate me out of writing. 

Ever since then, every time David Little goes out of town, my letters just seem to disappear. I’ve had ER staffers claim they’ve been “lost,’ but I believe Schoonover just roundfiles them. I’ve had to resend and resend, and then get the same surprised response from a returning Little – “we’ll get it in the cue.”   Finally he acknowledged there was some mysterious problem, and told me to cc his e-mail whenever I sent a letter. He would promptly respond, “it’s in the cue,” or I’d resend.  That’s been our system for three or four years now. 

I’ve sent my most recent letter twice since I originally sent it – October 14. When I resent October 17  I was told by David Little, “it’s in line.”   When I resent today, I got an auto response from Little that he is out of town until November 3. 

Little isn’t just the editor of the ER anymore, his job includes overseeing several other papers that are printed by the ER. He is also the editor of the Oroville Mercury Register. I think we’re about 20 jobs beyond competency here. When will they  get us an Editor who considers the Chico newspaper his full time job? 

It’s not just about my letters to the editor – it’s the paper. Read other papers from towns this size – you will find papers in Auburn, Grass Valley/Nevada City, Marysville/Yuba City, and other towns our size are a lot more active and real, with a lot more local news and plenty of local opinion. 

To think the editor would take off at election time. Is he really there, but just doesn’t want to explain to me why he isn’t running my letter? Whatever he’s doing, he’s running his newspaper into the heap. 





Debbie Presson and the actions of city staff are making me sick

Here's the payoff for hours well spent over Summer.

Here’s the payoff for hours well spent over Summer.

I’m a creature of habit – every morning I get up and open the door of my freezer and pull out a bag of frozen peaches and another of strawberries. The peaches my husband grew in our orchard and the strawberries I got on sale at Safeway – every time they’d mark them down to 99 cents a basket I’d grab two to four baskets.  I sliced them up, layered them in zip-lock bags, spraying each layer with lemon juice I put up last winter when our lemon trees were hung like John Holmes.

I like to freeze bananas too, I get those really cheap at Cash and Carry, Walmart has pretty cheap bananas too. They’re okay fresh, but freezing makes them really sweet. 

I put  this all out on the counter when I get up, and by the time I am fully awake they’ve softened up and lost that frozen feel.  I like to add some homemade yogurt.

I'm still using a combination of goat and cow's milk because the goat milk is pretty expensive. Sometimes I can  get it at Walmart for about half the price, but it's still alot more than cow's milk. So I compromise.

I’m still using a combination of goat and cow’s milk because the goat milk is pretty expensive. Sometimes I can get it at Walmart for about half the price, but it’s still alot more than cow’s milk. So I compromise.


The “experts” say  goat milk is easier to digest, I think that’s true, because I don’t get that rash I was getting anymore. I’d read that lactose intolerance can cause eczema, and it did disappear when I started substituting the goat milk for half the cow milk.  I’ve been using the electric yogurt maker a friend gave me, it’s just easier. But, it turns out just as well when I use the pot of hot water method. I keep some powdered starter handy – I get that really cheap through Lucky Vitamin – but I usually just use a portion of the old yogurt to start the new yogurt. I keep the powder starter for times when maybe I’m rushed, or the yogurt comes out a little too liquidy and I want to add a little more culture to it. 

Lately I’ve been using Spirutein protein powder in my smoothie, cause I noticed, all the sudden I been losing weight like crazy. You might remember, I was worried about being overweight a while back. I had actually got up to my pregnancy weight –  129 pounds – and I realized, that’s why it felt like I was dragging a suitcase up the stairs to my apartment – it was my ass!  My pants were too tight, and some of my fave shorts wouldn’t even button.

So, I got right on it, and the smoothies were part of it – dumped all those crap-in-a-box breakfast cereals. I also quit eating potato chips, we hardly eat those anymore. I cut a lot of refined flour products – crackers! – almost completely, although I’ll still binge on Ritz or Saltines or even tortilla chips once in a while. My dentist confirmed that stuff is also bad for your teeth – it just pounds right into your gums!

The good news – I lost 9 pounds, pretty quickly. I enjoyed my ideal weight for about a year – unfortunately, I had already thrown out my Roxie board shorts, cause they have velcro fasteners, and they were not able to contain my fat butt. I did keep my little brown cargo shorts, which I call my “mom shorts”  cause they’re decent to wear to the store. I had not been able to fasten the button for about a year, I was shocked to put them on earlier this Summer, zip them right up and slip that button right into it’s place.

Well, now those shorts are hanging on me. My elastic waist “fat-lady” pants will absolutely not stay up, I have to fold the waste band over and pull them up around my chin. My son gave me a pair of his jeans – they have belt loops, so I cut a few new holes in my belt and there I went. I rocked those for about a week, now they look like baggies. 

I’m down to 111. My “ideal” is 115-120. And it just keeps sliding right offa there. I’m as afraid to get on the scale now as I was during my fattie period. 

I eat too, boy do I eat. Know what I made the other day – a quart of goat milk custard! Damn it’s good too. Nobody in my family likes custard, so I been kind of worried about getting it all eaten before it goes bad – so last night I sat down and ate two helpings of the stuff, before bed, which is supposed to be really bad. God it’s so fucking delicious, I couldn’t stop.

This is the last serving of my rice-raisin custard. If you are a custard eater, your mouth is watering right now.

This is the last serving of my rice-raisin custard. If you are a custard eater, your mouth is watering right now.  Yes, of course I remembered the nutmeg!

My husband goes outside to walk the dogs, I say I’m going to finish up the dishes – I’ll be frank here, I open that refrigerator and just start eating whatever ain’t nailed down. That is one of my dirty little secrets people, knock yourselves out.  I also eat the leftovers off my family’s plates – my husband will say, “I saved  that piece of fat for the dogs!” Tough, I say, and I gobble it down. 

But to no avail. I’m shriiiiiiiiinking! I blame stress. 

Lately, this town has gotten so ugly – you know me, I used to go to the meetings. I used to be a regular contributor to the letters section. Frankly, I’m literally getting sick of it. That note I got from Presson this  morning

 made me wretch – if there’d been anything in my stomach when I read her little attack, it would have been in the toilet within about 15 seconds.  She’s trying to set me up here, trying to excuse herself from having to respond to my requests for information.

Well, I got news for her. She and other people Downtown have set up a hostile environment for the tax payer. Her actions, trying to get me cut off because of this and the CTA blog, are really stressful and mentally abusive to me, and I’m practically shitting myself down the toilet because of the way she treats me. 

My husband always used to say, “Oh, they’d love for you to quit…” Now he doesn’t tease me anymore, he tries to distract me from that crap all the time. This weekend we’re going underground, off the grid, see you the hell later.