CHAPTER 27: The Opera: Act I
CHAPTER 27: The Opera: Act I
From: The Saga of One F**ked Mother
CHAPTER 27 of Mother-Fucking: The Saga of One Fucked Mother begins with Act I of the “Opera”. There are three Acts with five Parts—one for each of the three Family Court trials and two Appellate trials.
This chapter covers Acts I and II, the first two Family Court trials and the first Appellate Court trial. It is a long chapter and will be published in newsletter-sized bites.
In this first section, Legion is nervous about the trial but feels confident she will get custody as all the evidence that she had been the primary and better parent supports that, except for, of course, the cherry-picked, “male-identified” evaluator. She notes that the interrogatory questions, part of the discovery phase, are almost all about finances, not who the more nurturing parent would be. The sexism inherent in the system is becoming apparent even at this early stage of the proceedings.
In the last section of Chapter 26, Legion finished rebutting all of the lies in Herry’s declaration but decided to take her attorney’s advice and not say anything bad about him in her responsive declaration. So she presented a long list of evidence supporting that she has been a great mother and should be given primary custody. She still believes Herry only wants the boys on the weekends—his true vengeful motive of taking the boys away from her has not yet appeared.
Dr. Blue’s novel is based on her own experience of the Custody Crisis. It uniquely conveys how Family Court judges are “mother-fucking” women—a form of systemic oppression and violence directed at ex-wives—as protagonist Legion is systematically and methodically deprived of her children and money and reduced to “one fucked mother”.
Chapters are stand-alone interesting so you can begin reading anywhere. A Cast of Characters follows to help readers at any point [on the web page]. All published chapters are included in the Section: “Saga of One F**ked Mother” accessible on the top bar of the home page of Women’s Coalition News & Views. Sequential chapters are published every Wednesday and subscribers will find them in their inboxes, so make sure to subscribe if you haven’t yet!
TEASERS
Finally only near the ends of both of these Discovery sets do we come to the inquiries and answers regarding each other’s opinions about qualities or traits necessary to be custodial parents of human offspring! To be the continuing primary caretaking parent of the babies whom I alone grew and whom I alone birthed.
I have quite a few ideas as to why this––the Mother‑Fucking––not only happened to me and to my Boys but also is today actually rampantly waging down against mothers and their minors in little courtrooms across every county around the entire nation some few short years later. All of those ideas of mine boil down. Into one word. Sexism. Sexism: the Original Sin.
CHAPTER 27
Dr. True's Opera in Three Acts—with Five Parts
Acts One and Two: Parts One, Two and Three
“The body of a woman is filthy, and not a vessel for the law.”
—Buddha
“Three things are insatiable––the desert, the grave and a woman’s cunt.”
—Arab Proverb
“When man made himself God, he made woman less than human. ‘A woman is never truly her own master,’ argued Luther. ‘God formed her body to belong to a man, to have and to rear children.’ In the grand design of the monotheistic male, woman was no more than a machine to make babies for him, with neither the need nor the right to be anything else: ‘Let them bear children till they die of it.’ Luther advised. ‘That is what they are for.’ ”
—Prophetess Dr. Rosalind Miles in Chapter Five entitled “The Sins of the Mothers” of her Scripture, The Women’s History of the World, verse—page 102.
Confused yet? It’ll get clearer.
It’ll get clearer on the second scream. The first outcry is for help; the second, plain raw rage, is for … justice!
Clearly a good thing, too, that Smutty Smug Thug Herry will not win custody of Mirzah, Jesse and Zane after Act One, Trial One. In about a bazillion ways this is a good thing, not the littlest of which, of course, is the stoppage of the Truemaier Boys’ exposure to patriarchal Pappy Herry’s pornography. At least the most I can do to protect my children from access to a ‘facilitating’ father’s stash of two‑dimensional and, therefore, totally silent DEhumans, an ‘educating’ cache of relational non‑existence belonging to Teacher and Role Model Herry the Daddee who, in his first affidavit to ‘the Court’, narcissistically only discussed matters of how terrific a parent he was and of how meganegatively crazy and cuntishly whoring the Truemaier Boys’ mother, Legion True, was … all whilst, most notably important here, NOT ONCE OUTRIGHT STATING anywhere within the affidavit that Father actually … LOVES … (any one in particular of) the Truemaier Boys! Certainly, no mention was made in said document of Herry’s ever loving moi, er Dr. Legion True, buuuut … that would be expected, wouldn’t it Jury? since the man never ever could utter in any type of speech of his those three ‘I love you’ words in my direction. But for the perfectly pillared and countenanced Dr. Herod Edinsmaier the Parent, the ideal of Paternal leadership Himself, the Father who so‑oft fuckfully fancied in the Shitbox Dodge whilst motoring us all past Midwest pastures of grazing Holsteins modeling through his full facial hair, his brownish bushy beard and handlebar mustache, its sniggering and snorting bulls’ snouts sniffing after the several cows’ vulvae, … for Daddee‑Herry to be so self‑absorbed as to believe that he did not even need, let alone think, to tell ‘the Court’, that is, to tell a similarly elevated judge‑man, that the primo papa actually loves his sons smacks of the highest degree in androcentric arrogance and entitlement. To the actual point that its absolute absence in the situation of child custody! qualifies as hate speech … that silence‑genre of thuggery so, so commonly perped by Terrorist King Herod. … With much more of only the same to come.
A good thing, too, if also just in the locking of the front and back doors at night before retiring. Herry not one time that I observed ever desired to, nor did, this ‘safety and wellbeing’ measure on behalf of himself or of me, not to mention of the Boys! Not one time. I never said word one to him about this; I just did it myself every night everywhere we happened to be at bedtime. Herry’s not locking up was not at all because I did it for him and the rest of us all; it was, always, that he did not see the need for his remembering to do the work! of it all, “They’ll come in anyway, if they’re going to, so what’s the use? They’ll still get in and get to ya’.” Much this was along the very same lines of, “If an emergency came up, then you’d have to handle it yourself alone now anyhow, wouldn’t ya’?” That which was given me as his standard, pat answer at least 25 times in 12½ years as Dr. Herod Edinsmaier was headed out the door to a medical meeting for a week, say, in Boston or in San Diego. A time span during which I could’ve not only handled any emergency, I could have also, very much alone, buried all three of my sons, too, before their Sperm Source would be back in town to even know of, let alone, care to find out about, our ‘safety and wellbeing’.
Yes, Herry’s never locking up of the doors at night nor safeguarding our collective sleep as much as possible was a ‘safety and wellbeing’ choice whether we were home, at relatives or friends, staying in a motel or camping out in the woods all night, and Herry simply chose never, ever to do it. Because Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor, if he would have even cared, didn’t know of this fathering choice about the Truemaier Boys’ ‘safety and wellbeing’, great thing it was then that I, their protecting mama, would win!
Still … I was petrified entering the courtroom that first day, 10 May 1989. I didn’t know I would prevail. I thought I would. I thought I should. But shit … there was the matter of the literally mother‑fucking report from Ms. Carrie Canard, Custody Evaluator, to Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor, daMan.
To prevail in a legal dissolution of marriage action can mean a lot of different things for folks. For me though, it simply only meant having my kids live nearly every single day and night with me along with something to support them. It didn’t mean calling home a pad‑like palatial mansion next to an urban forest; it certainly didn’t mean owning anything fancier than the beige, 1980 Dodge Diplomat station wagon that I presently drove or the clothes we already had in the drawers and closets. I wanted no other embellished spiritual life than silent Quaker Meeting, and we didn’t, any of us four, need a more elegant town; Ames was just fine. And, of course, we four had had no idea at all about Herry’s supposed commitment to the Boys and me regarding our all staying put right here in Ames throughout, at least, all of their graduations from high school. That “vow” of Herry’s, of course, would’ve suited us all mighty fine, but only Judge Seizor had been made so conveniently aware; we four knew squat of this. I wanted no next man; I needed no next man. And for sure, Mr. Jazzy Jinx had so zealously forewarned me that there’d better, fuck never, before, during nor at any time soon after all of these proceedings, … there had better never be any next man whatsoever! So the something to support them with through high school and college would some come from Herry and some come from my going back to work as a veterinary professor––clinician and researcher and educator, all of that––just as soon as a new residence was secured and we settled. The dust settled.
By the time the entire Opera was finally finished near the end of 1994, things about this so unadorned idea of mine, that is, of the Truemaier Boys with me and living okay day to day in Ames, were so convoluted and contorted that I couldn’t even recognize my elementary Act One, Part One pleadings. Shit, what am I saying? About recognizing? The very juices of our lifeblood had been so sucked the fuck all out of us four that I for one, I know, wasn’t even breathing.
Why? For why? Because of why? Why was the result in the end The Right Choice, The Right Thing To Do, In the Children’s Best Interests? Fuck, even legal? Like, ah, aaaah, U.S. Constitutional? Let’s just tackle that last one: how was what happened, The Mother-Fucking that is, even legal? I mean, U.S. Constitutionally legal?!
I’m no lawyer and, of course by extended logic, no ‘The Court’ or daJudge so I (probably) cannot or, more accurately, cannot “be allowed to” completely nor officially answer these questions; but I have quite a few ideas as to why this––the Mother‑Fucking––not only happened to me and to my Boys but also is today actually rampantly waging down against mothers and their minors in little courtrooms across every county around the entire nation some few short years later. All of those ideas of mine boil down. Into one word. Sexism. Sexism: the Original Sin. Where the accusatory pronouncement , “O m’god, you’re a sexist!” carries no weight nor elicits any reactivity at all––except ridicule back onto its speaker. When it should. It should carry to the accused and to all societies even more shock and awe than any other accusation. Than any other has––ever before. If for no other reason than … simply … by the fact of our sheer numbers. Of us Not Males. The mere numbers alone of us DEhumans should bring us such respect, honor and … justice.
Flip/reverse. Flip/reverse the gender. If over 85 percent of the judges at all levels were DEhumans, if over 85 percent of the attorneys at all levels were DEhumans and if only a fractional iota of these same injustices and evil came down upon Males, just guess then which gender would rise up and take fricking notice of this inegalitarianism—and, too, just how fucking fast it would be that they would?! That they would take note of it?! And then how fast it’d be that those same Males would up and go do something (including violence, very likely) because of it?!
I myself have yet to hear from anywhere that even one lawyer, one ‘The Court’ or even one judge knows that sexism in the courts, in all of the nation’s courts, will stop. Has it even been stated as such? O JYeah, Baby, multiple times. Actually formally … with appointed commissions of persons, most on these “task forces” men even, “to study” it and with published, glossy‑bound reports and such. Since the first one in the early 1980s out of Massachusetts. Then the State of New York’s Supreme Court in April 2002, released its second report embossed in black sheen and entitled grandly enough, Women in the Courts: A Work in Progress 15 Years After the Report of the New York Task Force on Women in the Courts. Fifteen fucking years after! After its first report! And Iowa? Iowa, too, was a leader among states––in just naming it as sexism along around a year and a half before the final curtain on #9215 – 8801, … ‘my case’.
Because of its Task Force report then, the first‑of‑the‑week’s opulently sized Des Moines Register in 1993, on Valentine’s Day! no less, ran a lovely explanatory editorial in its Sunday Opinion section with the headline of “Equality Not Always Present in Iowa Courts,” its text ending with “Finally, the task force recommends creation of a follow – up group to ensure that education programs continue to monitor progress and identify new problem areas. Some task – force members, in discussing the report with Register editors and reporters last week, candidly alluded to differences among them. But there also seemed to be a very high level of mutual respect and, just as important, a willingness to listen, to study and to accept the need for change. The task – force report notes that ‘more work and understanding can make a difference.’ If the report is accepted by the legal community in the spirit in which it has been presented, it not only can make a difference, it will.” There’s that second of (Chapter Eight’s) two tools about changing shit again, the will to do the change identified and educated about. And needed.
So then? Then what? Well, you know. You know, Jury. You know what … then. Lovely as all that moonshine on the mess was, especially those sappy, syrupy parts about “mutual respect” and sweetly listening to each other and about even one more fucking focus and “educational follow‑up” group needed––when we all, all of us, everyone of us already knows since we were at least eight years old that we should be fair and equal, for chris’sake … that was that. Nothing changes when nothing changes. The will to change? In humanity’s males?! Particularly its pillared ones?! Fuck that!
With all of this sexism running around rampant inside the male‑driven legal system and even published about, no one judge, male or female, about whom I have ever heard from anywhere in any state has publicly admitted, “I made a sexist decision in such‑and‑such case. That was a bad thing to do, and I was wrong. I’m sorry.” Let alone, “And I will set about right now to fixing it and getting it righted, corrected … and just—just as soon as possible!” No one has admitted personal guilt nor personal accountability. Not one about whom I have ever, ever heard.
Kind of like Herry here. About himself and others The Rule. The rule of daMan is: to deny, deny, deny.
The wrongdoing or even just the charge of doing wrongly. It will go away. You just have to deny it was you—loooong enough. And about this denial thing of men––in regard to all aspects of living their lives, not just within the legal system––women absolutely have to get most clear: no amount of hoping for “what goes around, comes around” will ever, ever, ever make it––will ever, ever, ever make for her justice––fucking “come around.” Women, if they are addicted to anything, are fucking addicted to … hope. Over and over we recite little sayings like that one as if mouthing it enough times will make it happen. We scurry and scram to the kneeling boards at the local cathedrals and mosques and temples with rosary beads and prayer books in hand and with ayatollahs’ and rabbis’ and priests’ and monks’ outspread hands dominatingly positioned above and upon our so purely white‑doilied heads and with their enmeshing and entangling limbs around our shoulders and our waists and … wrapped around other parts of our anatomies as well––to be sure … , we women so sigh or shout or heave in slobbering sobs about how it is that, “O, he’ll get his! On Judgment Day! On Judgment Day, he’ll get his, don’t think he won’t!”
Well, … I’m here to tell ya’, “No, Girl, he will not! He won’t! He will fucking not not not … ‘get his’! The only thing he’s gotten, Sister, is all of your babes away from you! And he has them—clean slick away from you! The vengeance upon you that he soooo, so desired. And you, Girl? You are the one vexed and hexed. Forever. You are. There is no hell for him. Got that?! He has gotten away with this—clean slick away with this. So the thing you first gotta do is get the fuck over that frickin’ addiction of yours … to hope. Just fucking quit with that. Do it! And do it right off! When he is dead––just like when you are––well then, he’s dead. No judgment. No hereafter. No ‘you finally getting’ yours back now. Either your justice—or your babies. No way. Doesn’t happen thataway, Woman! Does not. He is fucking just dead. The worms move in. Ya’ got that? The worms move in. Ya’ know, the vermin. As in the verms–just–come–on–in … as in vermiculture!
And you, Mama? Well, you and your children have been denied each other all of his life. That? That is reality. That is … the Truth of things, Woman.”
* * * *
Nine boxes of files and documents are a lot, an awful lot. Dusty, cobwebs, even some of the pages moldy, rust on the binder clips after years of moisture in the cellar air, cardstock accordion files ripping with ease after the ages, staples similarly rusted loosening and the originally bound sheets coming apart and mixing up. Like I’ve written before, every single divorced mother whom I know, everyone of them, utterly loathes the probing into these papers and simply refuses to ever do it unless absolutely necessary. Truth is … today … absolutely necessary. Finally.
In coming up with the first date of trial, I find that Herry, in those papers mostly on legal‑sized sheets, double‑lined and variously entitled always in capital lettering with such phrases as “PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE” or “APPLICATION FOR PHYSICAL CUSTODY” or “RESPONDENT’S RESISTANCE TO APPLICATION FOR PHYSICAL CUSTODY” or “INTERIM ORDER FOR HOME STUDY” or “NOTICE OF INTERROGATORIES” or “REQUEST FOR PRODUCTION OF DOCUMENTS” or the actual “PRODUCTION OF DOCUMENTS” or “ANSWERS TO INTERROGATORIES OF PETITIONER” or “SUPPLEMENTAL ANSWER AND ANSWER TO INTERROGATORIES” or “OBJECTION TO DISCOVERY REQUEST AND MOTION FOR PROTECTIVE ORDER” or “RESPONDENT’S RESISTANCE TO MOTION FOR MENTAL EXAMINATION”––I find that Herry had already, early on, file‑stamped some of these icy documents 06 February 1989, meaning that Herry went straightaway right for my winterized jugular even before opening‑day salvo! Nooooo matter to Dr. Herod Edinsmaier that several different AFFIDAVITs OF WITNESSes on the behalves of both the Petitioner and Respondent included a lovely one from fellow Quaker, Dr. Tad J. King, Associate Professor and Coordinator of the Religious Studies Program at Iowa State University stating how “Legion exercises wise discipline with her sons and has always been in complete control of herself in dealing with them.” The last one I perused, “PETITIONER’S MOTION FOR MENTAL EXAMINATION AND TEMPORARY CUSTODY OF THE CHILDREN”––I find that Herry had ordered all of it up––in one fell swoop. I had actually forgotten this: that I had so fuckingly pissed off Herry so very fucking much in my finally calling him to accountability for his addiction illegalities and criminal abuses of both me and of the Truemaier Boys that, right off, he went for grounds against me … of craziness, unfitness, loony tunes, mental instability … all around about the Ides of January 1989, even when we were still most married and, as a matter of fact, on very nearly the exact same day as the “You go on out there, Cunt. You try to find a man who doesn’t lust after other women every single day” sewage and violence that this husband of mine savagely slopped and sloshed, like mutilating acid, all over my brain and my heart and my blood and my bones.
“COMES NOW the Respondent, by and through her attorney, and for Objection and Request for Protective Order regarding Request for Production of Documents served by Petitioner on Respondent on April 07, 1989, states that the respondent has in her possession certain diaries that she has kept that are personal and even intimate in nature and that disclosure of said information could be personally embarrassing to the Respondent and that such matters should not be inquired into.” Notarized and served to ‘The Court’ 03 May 1989. Not quite so done with The Opera’s Overture, are we, after all? This, Jury, this would be my “Mawwiage Counselor” Larry Brouhaha‑assignment, the Rolodex inventory of me, myself and I of which, of course, Herry knew and saw for chris’sake and, of course, which sure’s shit became Petitioner’s Exhibit #9 and submitted to ‘The Court’ right off the second day of Act One, Part One … that is, of Trial One … on 11 May 1989.
Funny though. Mr. Jazzy Jinx and I had asked through the Interrogatories and Production of Documents overturing procedure for that royal blue, 5” x 8½”, spiral‑spined notebook of Herry’s from his first year of college at his age then of 18 with the Creighton University emblem on its front. The one with the 40 to 50 or so names of DEhumans on its lined notebook paper pages whom Herry had systematically, well, … harmed. No such notebook ever appeared to me after Jinx’s and my receiving Herry’s ANSWERS TO INTERROGATORIES OF PETITIONER file‑stamped 30 January 1989. Instead, Herry counter‑sought it––that same small blue Creighton ‘journaling’ diary––through the smoke‑and‑mirrors shit of accusing me of having it instead! So that on court‑stamped, legal paper I had to, again, defend myself with “the Respondent True has searched, but does not have any journals or diaries kept by Petitioner Edinsmaier.”
“Smooooth, Herry. Smooth move. Not the Truth, o’course, is it Herry? But soooo smooth. Denial. Deny, deny, deny. Even something so tangible as that, just deny its existence in your possession.
Same as like your denying the existence of or ever having received the pornographic book of poetry sent to you from the Australian woman, Ms. Li Zhang, whom you were soooo “comforting” back at the Chicago Knickerbocker Hotel’s medical meeting of March 1989—at 3 in the goddamn morning! DaJudge never saw that palpable piece of fucking ‘evidence’ either, did he? Where d’ya’s’pose that little Blue Book of yours is by now, Herry? Where’ve ya’ managed to keep that journal stowed all of these years so that you can still reminisce, er, I mean lust, just every so now and then like you did when wed to me? Mind‑fuck over all of those two‑dimensional names in the Stash and all of your mother‑fucking dirt from back then at Creighton University? Where is it, Herry? The diary in which you even admitted to liking roughing up women, that you enjoyed doing that to us! Wrote that mother‑fucking statement right on down into that little Blue Book of yours in your own script, didn’tcha’, Herry? How it is you, Herod Edinsmaier, sperm‑sourced spawn of the Juggern Aut, wrote there in it that it “feels good” to assault us DEhumans.
Right alongside some of your loathsome comedy: the three‑types‑of‑New‑Zealand‑ducks’‑anuses joke which you remembered to tell the Truemaier Boys at that Fatlantic café the very first time that they ever even met Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive, the bicycles‑are‑better‑than‑women one and the old‑woman’s‑tight‑tits‑and‑twat‑for‑her‑blind‑old‑man one. Those jokes, Herry, aren’t the ones you soooo told, er testified, to Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor as examples of the actual and true woman‑hating nature of “our sense of humor”––that … brought you and Ms. Fannie McLive so bondingly close to Mirzah, to Jesse and to Zane, now are they? ‘Member telling him from the witness chair, sworn in you were, how wonderful your and your Next‑Cunt‑in‑the‑Stash’s “sense of humor” around the Boys was? I’m right, aren’t I, Herry? The Truth now, Mister Doctor Wonderful, the Truth now! There’s no judge around to even give a shit now, Herry, as if daJudge, daMan, was ever going to care about the Truth in the first, friggin’ place anyhow. You can stop denying it, can’tcha’, Dr. Edinsmaier?! After fucking all, ‘the case’ is closed!”
But, no. We’re just getting warmed up. We’re just getting started with The Opera.
* * * *
Without Trial One transcripts then at all, we are in reality, we are in Truth, left with throughout all of Act One Part One only what I affirmed verbally and what Herry swore to, that is, the he‑said/she‑said dance routine which we shall again so behold in future Acts, what some testifiers said including the now‑dead‑and‑ashes witness Ms. Margaret Sagely, what was written down on the well—choreographed ‘official’ answers to Interrogatories, the putative acceptance by each party, by the Petitioning Edinsmaier and by the Responding True, of the Production of Documents and some by ‘The Court’ in the form of allegedly material exhibits and the submission to ‘The Court’ from the so‑learned and so parentally experienced Ms. Carrie Canard after that supposed “home study” of her custody evaluation report! In a nutshell then that, and only that, equaled the sum total of the Truemaier Boys’, Herry’s and my lives to date. And, most importantly, of Herry’s and mine as parents! What literal … fuck!
The beginning questions requiring essay‑sized answers on either set of affirmed or sworn‑to, completed Interrogatories, the respondent’s or the petitioner’s, meaning those given back to the other from me or from Herry, are just like based‑on‑a‑true‑story, made‑for‑TV movie contracts: pretty damn standard and routine. Interrogatories such as “State your name, your current address, social security number, blah, blah” and “State with regard to your current place of employment, both full and part time, the following, yada, yada” and “List all sources of income that you have had for the previous five years, plus estimated income for thus and so and attach federal and state tax return forms from such and such” and “State with regard to any property in which you have an interest of any kind the following” followed by a whole big, big bunchy wad asking about “value” especially “cash value” and “current market value” and “life insurance policies in force on your life and all policies on another person’s life in which you have an ownership” and “each and every retirement plan, blankity‑blank‑blank blank plan or similar fund or account” including stock shares or “interest of any kind in any firm, company, partnership or corporation” or “a safe deposit box at any time since the filing of the Petition in this Dissolution of Marriage matter” or “all assets of any kind whatsoever in which you have any interest whether or not in your opinion it has any value which is not otherwise listed in these Interrogatories.” A whoooole passel of ‘em about … money, money, money and, then, … more about … more money.
My personal favorite answer from Herry re “material assets” was the one where he was ordered to “State what property or property rights you had at the time of entering into this marriage by listing the property or property right and its value at the time of the marriage.” It was such a guttural giggle or two to read all right what, in Herry’s mind, had been worth something and “his right” to it. A lot about socket sets and punches and chisels and motorcycles and loudspeakers and an LL Bean sleeping bag, a Moor and Mountain tent and a Craftsman gas lantern plus a “rec pac”. Manly man stuff. Let’s varoom on out into the woods every day and there do the essence required of daily living stuff?! … what AmTaham had termed about the accountable adult American man was the work involved in … “so much to just staying alive?!” O … NOT! Not one Petitioner Herod Edinsmaier‑answer about that. About that staying‑alive stuff regarding a man’s family!
And not word one in Herry’s answers on tangible assets before marriage, or during and since we had gotten married, about animals or pets, I noted, wherein I myself had marked these––that is, Zephyr, the Boys’ gray striped tabby, Zane’s zebra finches and Jesse’s exquisitely imprinted Eastern Florida kingsnake named Rex even though the regal serpent was female––as holding the “present value” of … “priceless”. Regarding all of these $ queries about materialism and possessions over there on Othello Drive then, we were to have ponied the hell up the answers about anything and everything thought to have merit of any fucking dollar value!
These were then, of course, followed by the Interrogatories questioning the both of us about our costs and expenditures, our debts or about our having a stake in agencies or organizations which had bucks in them—also only regarding those monetarily valued ones. Such as “With regard to liabilities or debts of any kind that you have which are not mentioned elsewhere in these Interrogatories, state the following” and “State whether or not you have, at any time within the last five years, furnished a financial statement of any kind to any bank, life insurance company, financial institution or other person or organization” and “List any reason or personal property possessed by you or in which you have any interest, which you have sold, assigned, mortgaged, given, loaned or in any matter transferred to another at any time after thirty days prior to filing yada, yada.” Here in this area of interrogatory type, my personal favorite turned out to be no. 19, “List your actual personal expenses on a monthly basis at this time,” especially Herry’s sworn answer of $60 to “children’s allowances” with just $67 then that he’d stated was for an entire month of his “children’s expenses”, a mere $10 to “home repairs” and, of course the funniest: the absolutely hilarious … $300 monthly to “charities”! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
What kind of payoff in 1989, is there in it for the 17‑year‑old, older brother—Joy Toy Boy daddee who spends only $67 on his children’s needs but then at the very same time simply tosses down to the nine‑year‑old, the ten‑year‑old and the twelve‑year‑old children just about that very amount to spend as they so choose on their wants for the month? Well, the bonus, the perk, that payoff is not even subtle: Herry – Daddee continued to purchase the Truemaier Boys’ affections––even after the separation, no change in his will regarding this laissez‑faire behavior of his here, for sure. A soooo perpetuating sequel, wouldn’t you say, Jury, to Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s becoming the primary caretaking parent for my three minor children, for this finally freed potty‑brain from out of the Brookside Forest?
Finally only near the ends of both of these Discovery sets do we come to the inquiries and answers regarding each other’s opinions about qualities or traits necessary to be custodial parents of human offspring! To be the continuing primary caretaking parent of the babies whom I alone grew and whom I alone birthed. And was …, from their git‑go, trusted to so do! From a bumper sticker I recently read, “If you can’t trust me with The Choice, then how can you trust me with The Child?”
But! But I had been trusted with both! … And times three! Three perfect, perfect, perfect platinum blonde, blue‑eyed Aryan boy babies! Bada bing, bada bang, bada boom! Regarding The Choice, too, just wait, Jury, till you know the Good and Wonderful Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s C H O I C E for … Dr. Legion True’s, for my uterus’s very first fruitful fecundity … … Zane. Huge H I N T here, Jury: Think … A B O R T I O N.
Beginning with #20 out of a total of 24 interrogatories, we read that a mere five or only about 20 percent of all of the queries pertain to, well, … the characters of the adults, the Truemaier Boys’ mother and father! Too, these five are not so standard nor routine either. As a matter of fact, they’re pretty personal. Or, I should say … personalized. Worded so that the questions fit me most specifically. I The Mother, and never the Petitioner, not the father, am decidedly singled out to specifically be put on the defensive right off. Sexist!
* * * *
About only mamas, and never the papas, being put onto the defensive from the babes’ very, very, very git‑go, here’s a dastardly tidbit thread for you, Jury. From 1989? Noooo, no, no, no. From 01 April 2003 it comes, and no mother‑fucking April Fool's joke is it either! Inside this very 21st goddamn American century it is!
My girlfriend, Rachel, had to have an emergency cesarean section due to Mama’s very high fever, her other pulmonary and gastrointestinal symptoms––and all of these along with a chronic hemoglobin level in the friggin’ toilet at under for months and months and months despite ferrous supplementation … at under 9 grams per deciliter! The major surgery occurred on 01 April 2003, with a recorded due date of only ten days hence so, for the fetus’s growth, the soon‑to‑be human was in fine shape development‑wise. It was for Mama’s life‑saving sake that Baby Victoria Joy was so born out of Mama Rachel’s belly.
So: Tall and tiny‑framed Rachel struggled with nausea, high fever, chills, coughing, sweating, exhaustion, joint and muscle pain––an unknown illness on top of an already critical––and chronic––hemoglobin of under 9.0 at 8½ months’ gestation, not to mention the laboring agony of the uterine contractions––as she literally hunkered down during hospital “admission”. The questions came too fast for Rach to answer, “Previous history of high fever post anesthesia? Family history of high blood pressure? Allergies? Family doctor? Religious preference? People who live with you in your home?” Husband Matthew had to mostly answer, the contractions were two minutes apart and one minute long, for chris’sake.
Rachel had no IV in place yet, … yet had also already been told that her fetus would be a child in the World within the hour. Fast losing the ability to even care how that was going to happen, Rach labored to state, “I have a seven‑year‑old, a son.”
“Where is he now?”
“With his dad. He lives in Minnesota most of the time. We, ah, O, … O, … aaaahh, um, we see him every other weekend and in the … the su – ss – sum – summer.” Matthew needed to take over the baffling number of queries’ responses again. Rachel, squeezing the railings of the hospital bed and contemplating whether or not she had to piddle, cried over her wee one’s birthday, “An April Fool’s baby? O, … O, … couldn’t this deal wait till tomorrow?!”
The nurse tittered and twittered at Mama’s wisecrack, then torpedoed Rachel with, “So. You, his mother, … you don’t have custody of your own son?”
“Wha’?” No reply. “What did you ask?” No answer back still. Rachel’s head turned ever so slightly. Matthew did not speak either. The question seemed, at the time, little more than mother‑fuckingly nosy.
Sure‘nuf, within that hour Rachel and Matthew were in the World joined by Victoria Joy Babe. Second time‑around Mama was administered something to finally help shed the residual pain and doze off a bit with Bambina Victoria––quite concertedly and noticeably not at all placed inside Mama Rachel’s waiting and outstretched arms––immediately spirited away to the newborn intensive care nursery. Rachel managed to catch one glimpse of one foot; it was very pink. And … that was that. As for the scientifically documented importance of physically bonding––ma with babe––at birth? That was that … as in: (Mother‑) Fuck that.
Nurse Titter Twitter Torpedo appeared again at Rachel’s bedside, clipboard in hand – again – but not seated; she was standing – and the nurse stayed standing. Hours and hours postpartum … yet still more questions. “We should review your allergies,” this ‘health‑care provider’ masqueraded. Yet still no bambina to mama. No Victoria Joy into Mama Rachel’s arms.
Rachel yearned, “When can I touch Victoria?”
The incredulous reply came back at now–again–Mama Rachel, “When you can make it down the hall.”
Sensing herself frantic, not to mention furious, Rachel queried, “What’s wrong with her?! What’s wrong with my baby?! Where’s my husband?!”
“They’re just watching her,” answered an equally watching Nurse Ratchet as she warily surveilled my dear, dear friend Rachel lying there in her post‑so‑mother‑fuckingly‑bad‑labor‑now‑partum bed … but with no babe in arms.
More questions. Still no baby to Mama. Instead, “information” slopped onto Mama’s eardrums and onto her beautiful brain behind them, “Sometimes after a baby is born, mother gets the baby blues. If you feel helpless or hopeless or like you just can’t go on for more than two weeks, you need to see your doctor. ‘He’ can give you medicine to help you feel better.” In her next blinkless mouthing, Ambushing Torpedo Nurse exploded, “We know you don’t have custody of your son. What we don’t know is why you don’t? Are you having any feelings, Rachel, like you need to hurt your new baby?”
We? We noncustodial, no‑parental‑rights‑even mamas? We get this fuckful sexist askance all of the goddamn, mother‑fucking time. Years and years and years later. After daJudge’s custody ruling. From both genders obviously and everywhere we are––including right there not only in a ‘health care’ facility, a goddamn religiosity‑denominated/‑dominated sponsoring hospital but also just moments … within literalfucking moments … into a situation where Mama could have succumbed––Rachel could have mother – fucking died––before or after bearing his babies for him. “ ‘TILL SHE FUCKING DIED OF IT,’ fuck ya’ very much, 500‑year‑old Martin Luther!” I blast silently forth on Rachel’s, as well as on my own, behalf! Having seen only a few tiny pink toes peeking through the warmed receiver, a startlingly stunned Rachel, 21st Century adult and mother multiple times over, sonorously and incredulously intoned, “Whaaaat?! I haven’t … met … her! ! !”
“We have a situation here,” Pillar‑of‑the‑Medical‑Community’s‑Nurturer Nurse wasn’t done. She tortured further, “With the situation of your son, … naturally … we are concerned about Victoria.”
Believing this friggin’ conversation a nightmare borne out of Demerol, Rachel ordered the male‑identified she‑devil to leave her immediately. And summoned the strength to … to what? To what, Jury?! To stare at the fucking blank wall. Between her interior cranium and the plaster beige screamed the following soliloquy but of course only telepathically––this venue being a hospital and all and Rachel so had to be quiet and keep her voice down and, as a matter of very, very real ages’ – old fact, just shut the fuck up, Woman! …, doesn’t she? “I DIDN’T HURT MY SON! HE WEIGHED IN AT 9 POUNDS 10 OUNCES ON DECEMBER the 13th OF 1995. I WAS 20. I WAS INSTANTLY, IMMEDIATELY HIS! I STILL AM! I STAYED AT HOME WITH HIM UNTIL HE WAS 9 MONTHS OLD AND DIDN’T GO TO WORK UNTIL HIS DAD WALKED THROUGH THE DOOR ONE TUESDAY ANNOUNCING THAT HE HAD QUIT HIS JOB.
THAT’S THE SAME MAN, MY BOY’S DADDEE, WHOM I FOUND IN BED WITH TWO WOMEN ONE SUNDAY MORNING DURING CHURCH. WE WERE IN COUNSELING. WE WERE WORKING IT OUT. WE WERE IN LOVE, DAMMIT!
I LEFT. WHY DID I ‘LOSE’ MY SON? WHY? BECAUSE I MOTHER‑FUCKINGLY PISSED HIS FATHER OFF! I LEFT! I REFUSED TO YIELD TO HIS SENSE OF ENTITLEMENT. I PISSED HIM OFF, AND HE MOTHER‑FUCKED ME BACK: HE TOOK MY CHILD !!!
AND I’D RATHER HE’DA TAKEN A LIMB.
BITCH.”
We such mothers? We tell each other. Rachel resolved then and there, she had to, to think on this matter … later. She would think on it––justice sought––later and get in touch with others of us. No one else wants to feel what they know about this. They know; they just will not, will not, will not … deal with it! Ever. So. They don’t. And a day ago Rachel emailed me from her home two hours easterly, “And now, writing this, I see that I cannot even think about this now. I’m ill. We two women in our late 20s. Nurse Twitter Titter Torpedo Torture Terror and Tyranny, a mother of a two‑year‑old son. Me? The mother of a seven‑year‑old and with a newborn lying in a bassinet two frickin’ miles down the hospital hall. To ask me?
To assume? To presume? How the mother‑fucking hell dare she?! How the hell dare she, Legion?!”
* * * *
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dr. Legion True: One Fucked Mother
Dr. Herod (Herry) Edinsmaier: Legion’s husband/Sperm Source [“re: I am snide” backwards]
Zane Truemaier: Legion’s son
Jesse Truemaier: Legion’s son
Mirzah Truemaier: Legion’s son
AmTaham True: Legion’s father [Mahatma backwards]
Mehitable True: Legion’s mother [Me hit-able—i.e. she was abusive]
Ardys and Endys: Legion’s sisters [names backwards]
Sterling: Legion’s brother [her mother’s planned name of next son (who never came)]
Mi Sprision O'Revinnoco: Herry’s sister [misprision: concealing knowledge of treason/O'Revinnoco = O'Connivero backwards]
Juggern Aut Misein Edinsmaier: Legion’s father-in-law [juggernaut; aut = 0; misein = “to hate (misogyny)”]
Detanimod Edinsmaier: Legion’s mother-in-law [dominated backwards]
Ava Saffron True and Zebulon True: respectively, Legion's paternal grandmother and her husband, Legion's paternal grandfather
Rowland and Wyman Natures: respectively, Legion's most favored uncle and most favored male first cousin
Fannie Issicran McLive: fawning enabler of ex [narcissi(st) and Mc(Evil) backwards]
Legion’s Friends: Margaret, Mona, Yanira, Stormy, Lynda, László, Jane, Kincaid, Joseph, Sheryl
Legion’s Best Friends: Ms Grace and Dr Lionel Portia and Rachel
Wende: = Legion's friend after divorce [committed suicide due to Custody Crisis]
Jim Cornball: Herry’s acquaintance from AA and realtor
Loser Lorn: Insurance agent referred by Cornball
Judge Harley Butcher: Family Court judge
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: Family Court judge
Judge Barry Crowrook: Appellate Court judge
Judge Pansy Shawshank: Appellate Court judge
Jazzy Jinx: Legion’s Family Court lawyer who sold her out
Shindy Scheisser: Herry’s lawyer [shindy = noisy; scheisser = German for shithead]
Li Zhang: Herry’s Aussie affair
Dr Freddie Goldstein & Ella: Herry’s colleague and wife
Mick: = Herry's acquaintance from high school; best man [not in Herry’s life after that as he had no true friends]
Varry Wussamai: Herry's AA sponsor (not a real friend) [I am a wuss backwards]
David Humes: nursing student; classmate of Legion's, y1968 - y1971, New York City
Edmund Silver: Legion's boyfriend pre-Herry
Braemore St: where Legion and her family lived, y1983 - y1986
Havencourt condominium: Legion's Ames apartment; after separation
Zephyr: tabby cat of Zane's, Mirzah's, Jesse's [pronounced “Zay – fear”]
Rex: Jesse’s pet Eastern Florida Kingsnake, female
Lady: Zane's pet Zebra Finch, female
Madonna: realtor
Larry Brouhaha: court-mandated marriage counselor
Carlotta Klutz: Legion’s Family Court attorney
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: District Court judge on first two trials
Judge Harley Butcher: District Court judge for third trial
Dr. Shark: Herry’s residency supervisor who fired him
Carrie Canard: twice judge-mandated custody evaluator
Author: Dr. Blue, aka Ofherod, BSN, DVM, PhD = Commander Edinsmaier's Handmaid (Commander reiamsnidE's Handmaid)
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