CHAPTER 28: The Opera: Act III; Pt. 4 [cont. 4]
From "The Saga of One F**ked Mother
In this section of Chapter 28, Legion discovers that Mirzah, like Jesse, had also had to be captured the morning Herry abducted them to parts unknown. He was slated to be the star defense attorney in his school’s Mock Trials finals competition and did not want to let his classmates down.
Legion is really upset that Herry would take the kids away without even telling them where they were going. She ponders how the “not knowing is the worst” and how so many mothers have to live not knowing, because Family Court allows men to take and alienate their children from them. She calls directory service in every state in an effort to find where he took them. It’s way worse than she feared…
In the last section of Chapter 28, Jesse had run away in defiance of being taken away from his home and his mother, but is soon captured. Herry has not told the boys where they are going so Legion would not find out. She hugs and kisses them goodbye, promising she will find them wherever they are. Herry had sworn in a court affidavit that he would never take the boys out of Iowa and Legion realizes men can perjure themselves in Family Court without consequence.
CHAPTER 28 of Mother-Fucking: The Saga of One Fucked Mother begins with Act III, Part 4 of “The Opera” from Book 3. The Opera has three Acts with five Parts—one for each of the three Family Court and two Appellate Court trials. Chapter 28 covers all of Act III: Part 4: the third Family Court trial and Part 5: the second Appellate trial. [This is a long chapter and will be published in newsletter-sized bites.]
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—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 so make sure to subscribe if you haven’t yet!
TEASERS
Dr. Herod Edinsmaier had succeeded in capturing Mirzah and by Herry’s subsequent imprisonment of him on the interstate and ultimately at their final roadtripping destination, had literally stolen from Mirzah the loyalty to his friends that he so prized inside of himself.
…the evil that Herry did to my children “changes them forever.” The “not knowing” is the worst…I know other mothers live decades like this. Not knowing. How they do daunts me. How they survive this holocaust … How dare they even ever … have to!
BOOK 3: Dr. True's Opera in Three Acts—with Five Parts
CHAPTER 28: The Opera: Act III; Part 4 [cont. 4]
Only weeks later did I know that Mirzah, too, had been captured. Mirzah, my little man of so, so many talents. From soccer to French to percussion to baking, actually making skilled use of, even at just five years of age, the nesting set of Pyrex mixing bowls, to entrepreneurial endeavors, especially ones involving the ‘investing’ of his money, to piano to volleyball to political leanings and leadings to keyboarding and computers just appearing on a very, very few kiddos’ horizons. Except in the form of Nintendo or the few Pacman or Pokémon games before those. And, most especially, and of a truly magnificent treasure to both him and to me, to his mighty fine art for making friends and establishing and maintaining friendships.
All of the Truemaier Boys possessed this wizardly craft. If ever I’d wanted to know who someone was, all that I had to do was query out loud to the thin air, “Who’s that?” Himself suddenly interested also, Zane at three, four, five years of age, would swiftly shift focus from whatever activity he was engaged in, slip‑slide on over to the person in question, look longingly up at her or him and with pinpoint clarity and precise pronunciation the first time he would simply ask, “Who are you?” And then I, too, would know because Zane was so irresistible and, thus, always commanded by his wee, sweet presence the correct answer back!
I so worried about this trait in the Truemaier Boys though; it could be endangering to them all to be so open and unafraid to approach total strangers. It could save their lives, too; but it still concerned me so all throughout their little, little boyhoods. The Boys’ belovéd nanny, Rosemarie, loved to repeat the story of lunchtime one noon in the Hershey household when she’d served up food to the three of them. Rosemarie invented lovely themes, ideas and topics with every meal to foster in them amongst themselves not only camaraderie but also the finesse of fine conversation. During the discussion at this particular repast, she had asked each Boy to individually tell them all collectively assembled around the dinner table what he wanted to be when he grew up. First Zane expounded; then came Jesse’s discourse. When Rosemarie came ‘round to Mirzah poised in his high chair at the grand ol’ figure of a mere 2½ years in age, he paused and paused, eyelids scrunched shut with his right arm and fist doubled up under his little chin, elbow on the high chair tray––just silent like Frenchman Rodin’s so‑famous Le Penseur statue of 1902, thinking and thinking and thinking. Then when she and two brothers by their cocked heads and raised brows in Mirzah’s direction appeared to query him again … he finally opened his eyes, his little arm shot skyward from out its place under his mandible and, with set jawline and princely ceremony, Mirzah exaltedly proclaimed to all gathered therein, “Prezdunt o’da Knighted Tates!”
In the sixth grade now and eleven years old that Fall of 1991, things hadn’t much changed in this regard.
Although they may not have been able to actually come over to visit Mirzah at the daddee’s residence patrolled there as it was by Nottingham Sheriff McLive, Mirzah still made friends as easily as drinking pure water; and, of the collections of people he found himself within, one such group was the Extended Learning Program’s early morning class of ultimate conversationalists, the children there who participated in the Mock Trials project. By 7:15 a.m. since late August and early September, Mirzah had had to be at the Karen Farmer Elementary School two to three times a week and ready to rehearse the courtroom scenes for his group’s involvement in local and regional competitions. The kids at Karen Farmer’s had beat out several other elementary ELP mockers; they advanced to win the locals’ championship! So much so had the ELP sixth‑graders won already that autumn that Mirzah, in two different mock situations, was slated with the other actors of his class to perform their two trials at the regional finals’ competition. On Monday, 28 October 1991, I can only imagine that as Mirzah left the bungalow around 7 in the early morning in the chauffeuring accompaniment of another competitor‑colleague’s parent in order to get to the rehearsals on time, he was totally pumped for both of his roles, one as the criminal’s defense attorney; and in the second trial, Mirzah actually played the part of the defendant himself charged––with murder!
The regional’s contest was not very far away at all. No one from Karen Farmer Elementary School had to travel any further than Des Moines’s own Drake University. Yes, further than the trip to school but not by much more than 15 to 20 minutes or so at the most; and there was obviously no need to carpool out of town or for any such planning as that necessary at all, one of the fine things about living in a bigger sphere with great opportunities. Out of Urbandale proper and into Des Moines officially a child’s parents would have to drive, but the Olmstead Center there at Drake was so close to Herod Edinsmaier’s suburban rental that Mirzah certainly did not think that he needed even to arrange a ride with other teammates to get there. Mirzah would just appear and meet up with everyone else––right there at the Olmstead Center.
Perhaps from his Grandpa AmTaham and I’d like to think also from me did Mirzah learn and hold strongly and utterly to the precept that a person did not disappoint her or his friends. No way. No how. If one is a true friend, then one comes through for the rest of the posse’s others no matter what it takes; and until the morning of Wednesday, 30 October 1991, when Mirzah Truemaier awoke to find himself five states’ distance away and consequently failing to show up at the Olmstead Center of Drake University to uphold his end of the Mock Trial team’s bargain, he had not one time messed up on this … this how‑to‑be‑a‑true‑friend deal, the most important of matters to him ever.
Dr. Herod Edinsmaier had succeeded in capturing Mirzah and by Herry’s subsequent imprisonment of him on the interstate and ultimately at their final roadtripping destination, had literally stolen from Mirzah the loyalty to his friends that he so prized inside of himself. The prize of the Mock Trial Project championship? O well, everyone knows what happens at such times as these. Whether at the mock trials’ competitions or at the city club’s softball game without enough players or with the default on the loan for the family’s next home or “the consequences of all of the other messes he visits upon her when he leaves her home” as John Stoltenberg quotes, the word is––forfeit. Mirzah’s school friends left the Drake University’s Center and returned to their classroom activities at Karen Farmer Elementary without accomplishing one performance because, without its key and starring actor, there was no performance. And according to the Project’s rules, because of this dazzling absence then, the forfeiture of any ranking of the team’s standing in the competitions––was required!
What I have never been able to justify, coming at this specific October scenario with Mirzah in The Opera from Herry’s possible perspective, is how he could have done this to Mirzah. I mean why?! Why not just wait one fucking day––more––before leaving town?! The realization of just the friggin’ timeframe alone of this heinous action consternates me! Blows me clean frickin’ away it does. Even if Dr. Edinsmaier had had to be at work elsewhere, which I soooo do not believe was the case at all, why the fucking hell did Herry‑Daddee dump the way that he did … this horrific mess on Mirzah’s spirit?! One day longer is all!
Then, Herry could have hired a freakin’ truck driver for the Truemaier Boys or the household’s moving van––or for both!––if Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive wasn’t up to any of it herself! And fuck––Herry for himself? Shit!––Herry could’ve taken a goddamn airplane out of Des Moines to said destination of new job five states away, could he not have?! I know. I know. This planning was work––the work of parenting. And Herry loathed it. Herry had always hated all manner of the preparing and of the arranging that it took to help make everyone else’s lives––ordered! Only his own life was of importance enough to warrant any such of his own labors and time. And in that own life of his, he so wanted, too, to make damned, friggin’ certain that I was fucked. If Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, Pillar, personally saw all of my Boys out of town, then he personally saw to it, also, that I, at my end, was indeed mother‑fucked in possibly––at all––trying to stop him from doing so. Despite the irony that there is in all of the weeks and weeks and weeks of preparing and of arranging that it must’ve taken Herry Edinsmaier to keep so secret his impending plans for his own life, still so great was Herry’s neediness to know the Pussy, Legion True, was completely fucked that this is the only explanation which I can come up with as to why Herry Edinsmaier committed this slash‑and‑burn on Mirzah Truemaier’s so‑prized loyalty to his friends. It never should have happened.
* * * *
My life was and was not fucked. Herry would have, I am thinking, been disappointed to know. To know that he had not quite finished the task of that. I did commence rocking again; that I did do. And it was, once more, so cold, … November now; and as in previous years, I did not start the furnace’s pilot light to even begin to be able to turn on the heat source. That alone would save me $15 a month, just its pilot light unlit. It was back to the 2 percent milk, baked potatoes with butter for main and only course and bananas with sprinkled sugar crystals on top for dessert. Sometimes a certain molar acted up in the upper right. Sometimes to the point, in fact, of forming an eruption which I could not only palpate in my cheek from the outside but could also visualize it enough orally in order to be able to actually drain its pus on the buccal aspect of the mucosa and reduce it completely. Till––of course––the next time the abscess ballooned out.
No wonderful job prospects, not surprisingly. For sure—not after Herry’s sabotaging shenanigans with his sending all around everywhere that evilly ‘prepared’ and purposefully mother‑fucking Ames Tribune article of Tuesday, 25 September 1990, its front page featuring that all‑crazed and whoring witch‑twat which was the thing in its screaming headline who was me. The junk mail factory was laying off—right before the holidays. This included Dr. Legion True, too. I’ve, like I said, never seen Ms. Phillipa Chance again. I have just read about her in that rib joint’s fire, but every so often that scene at her countertop, supernatural she was in her head and obviously in her heart, too, kind of like my Truemaier Boys’ brains’ and hearts’ wiring, just sometimes in order to give me comfort and to take for myself a refresher in compassion, I actively conjure up––her lovely image that late October afternoon there on the factory floor.
I couldn’t move either. I didn’t know to where to move away––in order to be near my Boys, and I didn’t have 50 cents with which to do that anyhow. I suppose I should’ve lived out of the Ol’ Black wagon once it was learned where they actually were, but I wasn’t brave enough to do that then. Other DEhumans run and, very, very often, like 50,000 or so—annually—in only America alone as I’ve referenced, these mamas flee with a child, but I had no support network in the form of Mehitable nor in my many Ames and Iowa friends who simply themselves had nowhere near money enough to lend to me in huge chunks that could carry a person through more than a couple of weeks. I wasn’t about to ask Wyman for more. While I don’t know exactly why––it probably had all to do with that Midwest‑finishing and ‑solvency thing in me again.
The Wednesday when Mirzah was absenting the performance of his lifetime both in fulfilling the tenor of that of true friend as well as of defense attorney and possibly convicted murderer, I read in the weekly free flyer a small box advertisement for help wanted. Another temp position so no benefits at all but the pay was $9.08 an hour, and I didn’t have to telesurvey at minimum wage, something I was already doing and loathing every second of for the University’s Sociology Department––in sporadic droplets of four‑hour sprints in between trips to the junk mail time clock.
Rural sociologists, the ones here at Iowa State anyhow, just loooove asking people of tragedy zillions and bazillions of questions about how they are coping after this flood or that tornado or this barn fire or that drought. I sat on my tuchus for hours on end with only a total of from three to eight people surveyed by the finish of the four hours –– utterly captured and tethered because of my wired headset connection to the computer screen –– asking these soooo‑saddened folks all of those soooo‑scripted questions. Precisely as written the queries had been asked –– so as for us questioners to appear … unbiased. It seems to me—still—simply quite ridiculous for one … to fear if her voice isn’t flat enough or drone‑like enough, to fear prejudicing the stranger’s response back to me! Fuck! I soooo could have answered for every single one of the farmers! I full – well knew … exactly … how they’d all be a‑copin’, didn’t I, Jury?!
True it was: I wholly loathed this position and “work”––even more so than the destruction I had wrought to trees and to people by my manufacturing mail that was effing rubbish. Try asking heartbreaking questions without any feeling or emotion in your tone to already heartbroken individuals. An ordinary and reasonable human or DEhuman being wouldn’t even need to start from a fucked mother’s so sorrowful standpoint to feel like pure shit for doing this to others. Let alone, for money. Not to mention in order to accumulate for intellectual hoo‑hahs whom I didn’t even really know either … reams and reams of dissertational research material and subsequently, from that, a couple of PhDs and all of the publishing and other accolades that go with those. A form of ‘collective’‑aprovechar over at The Ivory Academe. Come to ponder on it, Unempathetic Herry’d be a natural, a whiz‑bang at this speech form and could, pell‑mell, churn out of those poor unfortunates telephoned just a whoooole passel of entirely uninfluenced survey answers, I am thinking.
The United Parcel Service was hiring, through the folks over at the state’s local Job Service HQ, a very few drivers’ helpers for its upcoming holiday frenzy, the wee flyer’s ad stated. Application itself took the form of a series of three testing sessions over the next couple of weeks and another one for processing all of the scores of hopefuls. Work began the Monday after Thanksgiving. I was the only DEhuman put on at the Ames center that season. The rest were all men, farmers of the surrounding counties done with harvesting mostly and a few others about whom I didn’t know a thing. We temporary helpers were each issued the lovely standard chocolates right up to an oversized, lined carcoat under which I still needed to pile on layers of flannel and thermal in order to stay warm enough, all of which livery was required to be turned in late christmas eve night––or else the last paycheck withheld until such time as the center recovered from me its toggery.
In between episodes at the Sociology Department’s carrels especially equipped with surveying technology and the proceedings that tested my parcel delivery locating abilities, I began a calling and address discovery campaign of my own. For which, of course, I not only received no income but had to, instead, outlay some of my last few precious dimes. Directory assistance of any of the A. G. Bells and all other major telecommunication companies costs. I don’t know how much now because I never use it anymore—what with wonderful telephone book banks and happily helpful reference desk catalogers at the Ames Public Library or with internet access to folks’ number information, but it also cost back then in late 1991. Perhaps 60 cents or so per dial‑up. I began with the state of Maine and not Washington believing that the earlier weeks’ undercurrent chattering within the Edinsmaier 69th Street household specifically about Wenatchee might have purposefully been loosed upon the Truemaier Boys as a decoying direction. I spent 3½ weeks speaking to different accents from the country’s most eastern rim instead––while working the map westward.
“Yes, thank you. Have you a listing in your region for a Herod Edinsmaier or a Ms. Fannie McLive, maybe just F. McLive? Any at all for either Edinsmaier or McLive. That would be E d i n s m a i e r or M c L i v e.” I didn’t know, of course, how long it took from placing an order for telephone service before one’s name and number appeared upon the operators’ sheets of new listings so if I’d called and there was no record at present, perhaps, if I “were to call back in a week,” I was told repeatedly, why then … “there may be one later on.” Too, I didn’t know if Dr. Herod Edinsmaier would choose to keep unlisted the home residence number entirely; but I banked on his not at all doing this––because of his ego. He too much wanted to remain accessible to anyone who might want to find him—other than I—yet still, for anyone he might think to term ‘an associate’ or ‘a colleague’ such as Varry Wussamai or those other Des Moines‑area alcoholics anonymous gangsta‑thugs of which there was a large number, he did not want to do the work of letting them all know the specific changes in address and telephone. After all, others might inquire about more than he wanted to reveal on why the changes; and, besides that, I had always done this detail for the family after all of those moving stints before. King Herod wasn’t about to issue Ms. Fannie McLive a fiat to contact Mehitable, for example, and perform for him this mundane part of moving herself, that is, of also informing Mehitable and AmTaham of what he’d done by taking Mirzah, Zane and Jesse even further away from me––especially after the fiasco of Herry‑Daddee’s Columbus Day weekend caper just the month before. If she, Mehitable, and others wanted to put out their efforts to find him, that would be all right; but Dr. Herod Edinsmaier wasn’t about to expend any orderliness on anyone else.
I so counted on this predictability in Herry Edinsmaier; and 3½ weeks into the same script that I recited to approximately 70 or 80 different directory operators, struck paynim pay dirt. Atheist that I am, Jesse, Zane, Mirzah and I had been missing to each other for what felt like to me an eternity of hellfire. Oprah Winfrey periodically offers up on her television program what would seem to be a fairly common piece of wisdom to get, to understand, to know on one’s own: that the evil that Herry did to my children “changes them forever.” The “not knowing” is the worst; I already felt this and had experienced it in my core, of course, every day the Boys were in Urbandale so the not knowing—until I did know—until I did know that they were so far, far away, 890 miles and five states’ distance away, seemed interminable. I know other mothers live decades like this. Not knowing. How they do daunts me. How they survive this holocaust … How dare they even ever … have to!
I immediately phoned all of my friends to let them know I’d found that which was lost––well, not exactly. It was waaaay, way worse than we’d feared––the ‘finding’ of the lost children. Maybe Chicago or Saint Paul or Omaha or Kansas City, even possibly Milwaukee. We had all thought, “Well, he and she both have family around here themselves and Herry’s already done the coastal living thing—with Legion herself when Mirzah, Jesse and Zane were so, so little—so, no, it’ll probably be around here somewhere. Worst it could be is the big city, ya’ know, Legion––like Chicago or Saint Louis.”
“What’ll ya’ do, Legion?” Grace asked, “Are you headed out there, do you think? How could that man have thought—that—a good place for your Boys? Why, Legion, I’m from the South, and while that place might be in the South, too, our schools are not so bad in Tennessee. But there?! Where he took them?! Why, its schools truly, truly do suck, Legion! You don’t think, Legion, do you?! Naw—surely, surely not! That … ah, ya’ know, cuz she herself was a teacher at one time, ya’ don’t think she’ll homeschool them all, do you?! Om’god, Legion, ya’ know, he just might tell her to do that! It’d be like her own classroom—that kid of hers plus all of yours, too! Om’god, Legion, surely not!”
Fuck, I didn’t even possess one credit card, no. I in November 1991, was headed at the next month’s Winter Solstice into beginning my 44th year, and I had always and only done all of my deals in cash. Never, never credit––an opposite of sorts from AmTaham and from most farmers with whom I’d grown up … as a matter of fact. One time my father told me when I was a young adult, maybe 29 or 30, when he and Mehitable finally had had to leave the farm for good that he and she were $88,000 in debt. I remember myself there in his beater sedan’s front seat hearing this figure and my jaw dropping and determining from the lines in AmTaham’s forehead that I myself would never, never, never have to repeat words such as those to someone, least of all to my Truemaier Boys, about my financial circumstances––and, so far, despite the iciness inside the condominium in which I was indeed existing and the utter absence of life lessons in such solo debt ‘protection’ for myself from either AmTaham or Mehitable, I had not had to. I was in debt all right, four different dentists’ bills and that horrendous SpaChezResort Hotel hospital bill which Homeland Terrorist Edinsmaier had viciously incurred for me by way of his orchestrating and, then from behind his so‑pillared judicial curtain, remotely conducting Commander Stout’s misogynistic threatening.
But I was whittling away at each at $15 a month per recipient and, since these came due every 30 days’ worth long before any such online bill payment options were in place, dropping off the payments on my walks around town every month saved—as well—on the postage stamps even. And as part of my entire savings plan, while it had no pension nor stocks in it and the IRAs to date had all been cashed out, it did include absolutely no credit extended to me from anywhere else. Dealings only in cash money. On the barrelhead now. So, consequently and purposefully, I had had not one credit card issued to me––ever.
No card? No temptation then. One reason, however, that I also could not just climb into Ol’ Black and go barreling forth to seek after Mirzah, Zane and Jesse … either. How would I reserve hotel rooms or buy gasoline or, for that matter without a credit card, rent a tiny car, for example––in order to stay clandestine––that didn’t have on it Iowa license plates? If I had run with all three Boys, why I definitely would have had to possess a credit card and probably several, but that hadn’t happened because of the fact that there, indeed, were three of them and not just one child. Consequently, I just had never even applied for any kind of a credit card. Yet.
“No, no. Umm, I won’t be moving out there, Grace, I can’t. I want to. For chris’sake I so want to, but I just can’t. Not nearly enough money, but I’ll certainly start to learn everything I can about the damn place. That’s for sure. Hope? JYeah, I soooo hope that just even for a little while, while I try to figure out what to do, that the schools and the fact that they’re some older, well, I just have to hope they’ll know something of what I taught them, enough to get by in one piece for a little bit anyhow. Shit, I so hope just for that little. And not for much more, Grace.” And I set about doing just exactly that: finding out––again––and … learning.
I have to say, however, that in hindsight, we mothers specifically and DEhumans in general are so fuckingly addicted to hope. To a distraction, especially inside family law courtrooms. To a very big fault in us. It is an addiction. It is such a mistake to start far too, too many sentences of ours with that phrase, “I hope … ” and then fill in the blanks with whatever. It’s like saying, “I believe in the father and the son and a goddamn ghost, for chris’sake. Who is male, also, that holier‑than‑me ghost is!” when one really needs to sit up and place belief and strength and … protection … “Yes, Mehitable and AmTaham!” protection for oneself out of one’s … own being. Out of one’s own essence. Out of one’s own damned ghost! Out of one’s own ghostly spirit! Hence, why the teaching to our littlest human beings of the lessons of self‑reliance and self‑protection, the preparations that will last them for all of their adult years––instilling in and imbuing the kiddos with reality, with its realism, with hard work, rationality and reason!––must, for certain, take place during their very, very youngest ones.
Sure, I loved holding and comforting and mothering my Boys when they were tiny, as I do now that they are adults and men; and I do not, in any way, mean to imply that that should lessen because I do not believe that that should … lessen. I do not believe in “mamas’ boys” or smother love; I don’t believe it exists, that is. I don’t believe DEhumans are over‑anything. I do believe that males choose to be under‑loving themselves because i) either, like Herry, they want to be this way usually as a manipulative, aprovechar/swindling out of and taking the greatest advantage of sort of defrauding violence, a passive‑aggressive tool for their own selfishness and self‑aggrandizement or ii) they were under‑loved as little humans themselves and that “the standard measure of all things guided by” is not, but should be, the guiding loving possessed, accomplished and demonstrated to all children by DEhumans.
An editor of Iowa State University’s student‑run paper, a student herself of course, once wrote that, about the Y2003 Iraqi War, females were “overly emotional,” “too emotional” and “just hysterical” when she described that war’s protestors. I had to respond.
“No!” I said in my published letter to her, its editor, “your assessment is as false as that which operates on the patriarchal premise that all things human are only all things androcentric and male‑approved and male‑oriented. Your assessment is smack in line with all of the male‑identified lies that diss the emotions, feelings, sentiments and the utter essences of all of us female humans. It is, in fact, DEhumanization and, for mothers specifically, a fucking.” “Instead,” I continued, “we DEhumans possess and display, for the human species, for all of the human condition, just exactly the correct amount of emotion, the correct amount of hysteria and the correct measure of all things human and, most especially, when those things actually mean blood‑and‑guns‑and‑guts‑and‑graves war.” That males themselves actively choose to not possess, to not accomplish and to not at all emote in an enough of a measured amount simply … because they can.
And that leads me back to the hope thing: hoping accomplishes for us DEhumans exactly squat. Because it cannot! It is again the sitting back and the being passive, servile, deferent and so, so soft, the blindly abiding by the Mehitable‑sort‑of poor me– poor me rule and role which many, many males and seemingly all male‑identified females such as herself choose not only for the females in their lives but want to also put onto all of us other DEhumans. And for long, long millennia now, this hoping deal has been––as well. Hoping is an opiate, an addiction––and an excuse, an escape from accountability––like religion is. And we DEhumans especially would do so much better to get on in our lives without it, that is, by losing it! By losing the “O, I so hope … yada, yada, yada” dithering.
[to be continued…]
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dr. Legion True: One Fucked Mother
Dr. Herod (Herry) Edinsmaier: Legion’s husband/Sperm Source [“re: I am snide” backwards]
Mirzah Truemaier: Legion’s son
Zane Truemaier: Legion’s son
Jesse 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]
Mary Jane: daughter of Fannie Issicran McLive; stepsister of Zane, Jesse, and Mirzah
Legion’s Friends: Margaret, Mona, Yanira, Stormy, Lynda, László, Jane, Kincaid, Joseph, Sheryl, Abraham (Quaker elder), Frieda
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 first Family Court lawyer
Carlotta Klutz: Legion’s second Family Court attorney
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
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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