23 October 2015

" Settle Down ... ... "


" ... ... at the hair on my shoulders and the age in my eyes ... ...
... ... more time with m'back to The Wall ... ... "

22 October 2015

. Mama: You WILL lose .

[My advice?  IF you are female and IF you have minor children, 
THEN DO whatever you have to DO 
to STAY with the .EXALTED. Sperm Source until those kiddos are 18 ... ... 
Stay OUT of the USA - courts. Mama:  You WILL LOSE.  
I do not care one whit that you, Mama, that you yourself
actually .grew. your own children IN to the very first selves that they are.
You, Mama?  You according to the judges' decisionings ?   
You are nothing but a crazy and a whore and a liar.  
You WILL LOSE.  ---Blue]
The Great American Custody Wars
by Phyllis Chesler
22 October 2015
I have been battling the Great American Custody Wars ever since the mid-1970s. I could not believe what was happening to mothers then—and when I broke the news, in the 1980s, few people believed me.

The prevailing myths were that women had an unfair advantage in custody battles and that men were discriminated against. This was not true then and it is not true today.

People also believed that only unfit mothers lost custody and that only very fit fathers obtained it. Mainly, the opposite is true.

No one believed that courts actually enabled or legalized incest or removed children from very competent mothers and gave them to exceptionally violent fathers—and then savagely restricted a mother's access to them.

Today, even I have a hard time accepting the fact that things have gotten worse.

Permit me to suggest that you read the 2011 updated and expanded edition of Mothers on Trial: The Battle for Children and Custody, which I originally published in January of 1986. I was savaged in the media, attacked by Fathers Rights groups—and embraced by a multitude of mothers. I organized a series of press conferences, interviews, and unprecedented Speak-Outs on the subject. Popular television programs featured the subject—but little changed.

Therefore, I urge you to read Domestic Violence, Abuse, and Child Custody: Legal Strategies and Policy Issues, edited by Dr. Mo Therese Hannah and Barry Goldstein and just published this week.

I warmly welcome this book. It is an amazing and important work about custody battles in America and features the words of very brave, utterly uncompromising, and dedicated scholars and activists. Dr. Mo Hannah and attorney Barry Goldstein have been pioneer advocates for mothers under siege, especially battered mothers, and even more so for those whose children are being sexually abused by their (custodial) fathers or alienated from the mothers who try to protect them.

Hannah and Goldstein—and all the author–lawyers, author–judges, and author– psychologists—offer devastating and accurate critiques of the system from within which confirm in every way the moving stories of "protective" mothers, children, and their advocates.

The subject is "dark," in the sense that these tragedies are compounded by how the legal system enables them and fails to rescue the most vulnerable children and women from the clutches of evil.

Although I welcome this book, its appearance also causes me some anguish. Surely, by now, one might have expected some progress, some amelioration of the enormous suffering that mothers and children (and sometimes fathers) experience in America.
While some things have improved (for gay parents, perhaps for wealthy couples where money actually exists to be apportioned), many things have actually gotten worse.

This precious book, edited by Hannah and Goldstein, confirms this worsening spiral and describes the gut-wrenching trench warfare that very good mothers must endure in order to fight to save their children. It is a fight that is very hard to win.
One chapter focuses on court-enabled child murders—cases in which judges awarded custody of children to fathers who then proceeded to murder them.

The situation is a scandal. But this book is also written by heroes, by those who risk everything for the sake of truth-telling and who pursue true justice. The stories here are extraordinary: Read Jennifer Collins, a former child "underground," whose mother, Holly Ann Collins, was granted political asylum in the Netherlands based on America's refusal to protect Holly and her children from domestic violence.

Know that Dr. Mo Hannah, who founded the Battered Mothers Custody Conference, is also a hero in that she turned her own long-lasting custody battle into a life work on behalf of women caught up in the clutches of expensive and/or incompetent lawyering; vindictive ex-husbands; and misogynistic guardians ad litem, mental health professionals, and judges—a system that is Dickensian in terms of pace.

Full disclosure: I wrote a brief Foreword to this excellent volume and was one of the four activists whom Dr. Hannah interviewed in her closing chapter.

Child Custody Evaluations: Reevaluating the Evaluators | research on family law politics and child custody = unfrickin'believably silly and absurd "evaluations" against perfectly fit, fine and protective mothers ALWAYS will result in monstrous and violent Sperm Sources winning custody of her children inside family "law" courtrooms. the statement above = found on thelizlibrary.org               Child Custody Evaluations: Reevaluating the Evaluators | research on family law politics and child custody = unfrickin'believably silly and absurd "evaluations" against perfectly fit, fine and protective mothers ALWAYS will result in monstrous and violent Sperm Sources winning custody of her children inside family "law" courtrooms.                         

16 October 2015

Yet again: one more "renowned" "scientist" of the Big I C K FACTOR !

Astronomer Geoffrey Marcy, shown here at a scientific conference in 2015, resigned Wednesday from his faculty position at the University of California, Berkeley.
Astronomer Geoffrey Marcy = http://tinyurl.com/okgpxmu


Embedded image permalink

What Geoffrey Marcy did was abominable. What didn’t do was worse.  
Michael Eisen @mbeisen Oct 14  
First they came for the sexual abusers, and I did not speak out -- Because they're a fucking plague.


And from UC - Berkeley's Dr Ellen Simms on the huge and so - not - hidden muck:  "because none of those cases will ever see the light of day. There is no truth and reconciliation commission, no workable mechanism to undo the past damage.

We remain angry about those forever unpunished transgressions; we’re furious and sad for those who lost their way when they were tossed aside by the great professors or when, too late, they realized the inequity of their situation and had to leave their chosen field and drop out of school, abandoning their life’s dreams. We’re angry at how the papering over of these transgressions belittles us and our importance in the enterprises to which we have dedicated our lives."


13 October 2015

! " the Opprobrious Eight Pages' T R U T H " !

Of this guy ?  From this man ?  This one ?  He is the same old man who crawls up into the bed and eyeballs and sniffs at the chest belonging to his 20s – something, gravida 1 just para 1 daughter – in – law who, there in that same bed right then, is herself not only still bleeding from birthing but is also now bared and breastfeeding her newborn infant daughter.  Sniffing DEhumans this smirking and snide man … … as in the same manner as is mounted by those Islamist terrorists of Nigeria’s Boko Haram.  Or as is contorted by bulls' snouts inside pastures full up of cows' vulvae.  Or as with lactopornography.  That man.

Man and woman breastfeeding baby

from Mother - Fucking's:  Chapter Twenty Seven  pp 279 - 282
An Opera in Three Acts – But 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.

! " the Opprobrious Eight Pages' T R U T H " ! 
= as IN the same manner as Nixon's Z I L C H Memo 
= scrawled in noxious Nixon's very own 1972 handwriting !
= the E X P O S I N G PROOF of ALL of Herry - Daddee's LIES

"""What follows is from Herry’s own script scribbled down onto pages taken from a Pfizer drug rep’s freebie doxycycline hyclate pad left from time to time around the laboratory of the Good and Wonderful Doctor, that is, from out of Dr Herod Edinsmaier’s own hand!  Verbatim! and In Toto!  [except for the bracketed phrases which are my only added comments]:

Fears and Resentment of Legion: 
Fears of Legion.

Fears of other people learning the truth about me. 

Afraid that I am a sex / love / romance addict.

Told Fannie about Murielle / Celeste, animals.  – Affects my self – esteem.  [Legion told, that is; the Good and Wonderful Doctor certainly did not reveal any of his proclivities for incest and bestiality to Ms. Fannie!]

Threatens to beat me in court.  – Affects my self – esteem.

Calls my place a pigpen.

Sends me books and letters.

Legion’s criticism / opinion of me gets into my mind and it is like I hear her and feel unsure of myself or guilty as if I have done something wrong.  E.g., I think what time would she put the kids to bed?  Would
she feed them better than I would?  Am I really a sex / love addict?  Am I really obsessed to the point that
I would endanger the kids?  Am I abandoning the kids?  I fear I am not a responsible parent.  I fear I am not a responsible pathologist.  I am abandoned by the boys.  I will have to live alone without a loving wife.

What I have been doing?
Calling long distance [to Fannie] when I feel down.  Writing many cards and long letters, love letters – but at work.  Saying I am in love, that I love her.  Invited her to Hawaii [medical meeting].  Almost invited her to Minnesota [lakeside with the Boys after their Quaker camp].  Talking of permanence but all we have in common is religion, Irish Catholic mothers with that training especially about sex and high school experience but what did we talk about in high school?  Talked of someone from back then and how it was wrong for me to go after her; if I was so attached to Fannie, then why would I go for her?  I said because I wondered if it would happen again.  Maybe there was nothing at all wrong with my dating her.  Maybe there was nothing at all wrong with her dating my brother, Atwater.  Telling her [Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive] about possibility of moving, changing jobs.  Paying attention to Mary Jane.  Talking of how hard this next year will be. 

What I am promising or advertising:
1) love 2) a hurt that Fannie can fix 3) a father for her daughter 4) acceptance of her appearance / desire for her body 5) “help” with parenting 6) more money / more room / bigger house

Fannie seems to offer:
1) someone who loves me without criticism or reservation 2) a child who chooses to be with me and who is affectionate 3) a home where someone lives; a place to come home to 4) economic security = that old woman friend of hers’ inheritance [ ! ! ! ] 5) emotional security; someone I can love, trust and confide in; outlet for my affection, emotions 6) safety from Legion’s criticism 7) refuge from job and parental responsibilities      [ ! ! ! ] 8) chance to realize and relive a 26 – year – old fantasy [ ! ! ! ] 9) chance to be young and carefree again [ ! ! ! ] 10) driving to Kansas six hours each way 11) making love to her 12) asking about her tubal  13) sending her pictures of me and the boys

What I have done with Mary Jane:
1) told her I like Fannie 2) sent her cards signed ‘love Herry’ 3) paid attention to her, baseball, swimming, pool, bowling 4) returned her hugs 5) gave her advice like I tell my boys 6) bought her gifts 7) openly expressed affection for Fannie 8) ?acted like Dad? 

What she has done / said:
1) she is in love with me 2) I was the first and only one she was in love with 3) she vowed to be abstinent until she were with someone to whom she felt spiritually / emotionally intimate – like me 4) told me about her older, adopted daughter, about being attacked [ ! ! ! ] 5) sent me cards / letters 6) visited me in Ames – her suggestion; it surprised me but I immediately accepted 7) sent me books to read, tapes to listen to 8) told me about her tubal, stapling, medifast [ ! ! ! ] 9) told me she could become certified in Iowa 10) told me in six years she would be ready to quit teaching and work at McDonald’s and she didn’t care where the burger joint was located  

My history with Legion:
Had ideas about her roommates but never gave any sign [ ! ! !  … JYeah, that is what Herry, of course, wanted to believe:  that I did not know!  But … I knew!  I always knew that he had had “ideas” about my roommates!  All women I know … know this!]  Trying to be a grad student but spending my time frivolously drinking and talking to friends, taking some courses, accepted to med school for Fall ’75.  Worked in lab and had hots for new tech in Bio 101.  Continued living in trailer.  I really thought I might die.  I got sick with Loeffler’s syndrome.  Unable to work in lab or elsewhere.  Spent week at the Iowa City sanitarium and got better; came back to drive batch truck and drop out of grad school.  I thought I would call it off when I went to Iowa City.  I did not expect to marry Legion.  Entered med school.  Went out, girls and booze.  Often lonely; wanted to be as successful with girls as my friend was.  I did not feel committed to Legion but didn’t send her away either.  She came down at Thanksgiving for the weekend; she got pregnant.  I don’t recall ever going to Ames to visit her there.  My birthday she told me she was pregnant.  I spent my weekends with other girls though; best I’d ever had.  Getting by in med school ‘working under half steam.’  Felt isolated from other med students; blamed it on difference in my age from them.  I WANTED ABORTION;  EASY FOR ME TO GET HER ONE at the med school.  Legion’d rejected it outright.  Knew she would; she’d always been for choice but it was her choice she’d always said to keep any baby she’d ever came up pregnant with.  [ ! ! !   ! ! !   ! ! ! Herry wanted Zane ABORTED!  Very usual abuser thinking!  Like it is ever the man’s choice!]  AmTaham came to Iowa City, called me selfish and made threats of what sounded like he was going to try to obtain custody of the baby.  He asked if my parents knew.  I said I would tell them when we knew what we would do.  He replied that if I had not told them in one week, he would.  I contacted student legal services; said there’d be no way he could get custody as long as Legion didn’t consent.  Continued med school.  Rented trailer to friend.  Discussed how a new baby could be managed; Legion couldn’t do it and stay in school.  Dean said I could leave and get back in in a year if I wanted; was subject to any changes in the curriculum was all.  We moved into Pammel Court in Ames; I got work at the factory.  I enjoyed my life and work.  We had lots of sex.”

Back to myself I spat, “Herry!  ‘After you?  Coming after you?!’  How you!  How so narcissistically right on the mark of you, Herry!  It was never about … you.  Never you, Dr. Edinsmaier.  Nor your fucking money.  Not that and not your status.  It was never, fucking ever about you, Herry.  It was about the Boys.  And, yeah.  Yeah, you’re right all right!  And so was Mirzah when he told Mz. CherryBabe Canard.  I would be a – comin’ after them, and I still will! It was never, ‘You call, O He Who Must Be Obeyed, and I do your bidding,’ Herry.  I have the Truth.  Just try.  Just try and hold us mothers back!  ‘Young and carefree again?’  Whaaa’, Herry?  “Carefree again”?!  With three boys and a couple of stepchildren?  Carefree?!  Yeah, riiiight.  Refuge from job and parental responsibilities?’  Well, fuuuuck that!  That’s not even to mention the ‘attack’, or ‘Murielle, Celeste and the animals’, Herry!  You write that you gave “no sign” about my roommates, Herry?  You fool.  You fucking, narcissistic fool, Herry!  I always knew.  We women who are roommates?  We always know!  But … I am a fucked fool … nevertheless!  ‘Fool me twice, shame on me’ – fool!  That kinda’ fool!  Was that that you ‘thought’ you might die when I nursed you for three months’ time back from that pulmonary parasitism’s brink –– or that you ‘wished’ you might die!  Sons, you have no mother!  Mother, you have no sons!’ ???   Uh – uh.  No.  No.  Don’t even go there.  Ya’ got one thing gone straight at least though, Herry:  what you were to me!  ‘There.  Goes.  My.  Sex.  Object.’  But you, Herry?  You take my babies?  Well, you’re in for it then.  Just try.  Just try to hold this ‘girl’ back!  You take my Boys away from me?!  What did you expect?!  What did you expect?!  I wouldn’t notice?! … I’ma gonna NOTICE!  I am!     I am a direct descendant of AmTaham True and, as he had been when at once breathing, am myself a Righteous Ancestor – in – Training!  I.   Am.  Going.  To.  Notice!

Another piece of ‘testimonial evidence’ … another FACT, O He Who Is THE So Great and Wonderful Doctor Herod Edinsmaier!  ONE LAST FACT here, O He Who Is, in veridicality, THE Mother – Fucker:   You demanded of me … Zane’s ABORTION, You Terrorist!  MY BODY.  MY CHILD.  MY CHOICE. 

And what you never –– THEN –– acknowledged, Terrorist Herry:  IF I had aborted Zane, THEN … THEN … there NEVER, EVER EITHER would have existed a Jesse or a Mirzah!  IF I had had Zane aborted, THEN we
–– you and I –– would not have had either the same subsequent unions nor any such future liaison whatsoever at all.  THUS, NO JESSE.  THUS, NO MIRZAH.  Yet you, Abortion – Commander Herod Edinsmaier, you have held onto –– all of this time –– you have possessed and ordered it up, although no longer “legal,” certainly not “constitutional” and NEVER MORAL … the entire World’s “RULE of PATRIARCHAL LAW” at your whimsy, ‘SONS, YOU HAVE NO MOTHER!  MOTHER, YOU HAVE NO SONS!’ ”

The truck pulled up, a Ryder 24 – footer even!  And into its back end on Saturday, 13 October 1990, around about 11:30 am went one bicycle.  Nothing else.  Nothing else had my 14 – , 12 – or 10 – year – old ready, packed or, most importantly, the desire to put into Daddee – Herry’s (literally) mother – fucking truck. 

AmTaham True, with every centimeter of his brain, blood and flesh the Cinque – “only reason I ever was …  is … for Legion now” – physique, stood statuesque and in complete view of us all at the west window to the side of my king bed, its curtains purposefully this time pulled completely back and him poised there in his full ancestral force and regalia watching over me.  Two of his precious progeny climbed into the cab; I let go of Mirzah, and he belted himself up into the backseat of Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive’s red Baretta which had been following her Herry everywhere that daMan led. 

“We’ll see allya’all back here in just a little bit.  I promise,” and I smiled and waved.  Off the Good and Wonderful Doctor spirited this True mother’s three Sons.  They were gone from my sight around the corner at the top of Havencourt in less than a minute’s time.  I went back inside to Zephyr, Rex and Lady, their tomkitty, serpentine kingsnake and zebra finch, all three of the Boys’ pets never in the custody of … and, most assuredly, never the work of actually loving and caring for them wanted by … Herry the Daddee.

*     *     *    *

Come to find out, Herry had no job anymore either.  Not here in Ames he didn’t.  He had vacated his and Ms. Fannie McLive’s apartment complex in Ames’ west section and moved her and Mary Jane once again. Down to a two – level bungalow on 69th in Urbandale, a northwest suburb of Des Moines, and 65 minutes of interstate driving time door to door from mine.  Apparently it was his ‘plan’ to practice pathology around that metro in a per diem, locum tenens capacity at various laboratories while all the while seeking permanency with an outfit that suited him.  Guess the White Law Firm outta Kansas City, the buckos who represented the legal concerns for the Downshim Pathology Laboratories and its branches, of which the Ames one had been, had had their full – up fill with Slacker Herry’s base and boorish bunkum –– his tardiness, his contrariness and Dr. Edinsmaier’s outright absence at inappropriate times –– as, er, with deeply anesthetized and, therefore, very unconscious women! –– and … shall we say, had “released” him.  Something else that never seemed to much matter to the High Aggrandizier although Judge Seizor did know, too, of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s work habits.  Or, rather, Herry – Daddee’s such dearth thereof! """

26 September 2015

... On DECONSTRUCTING the DEhuman ... ---- .Even After the Divorce.

pp 284 - 291, Chapter 27:  An Opera in Three Acts – But with Five Parts ... ... Acts One and Two: Parts One, Two and Three ... ... of Book Three in Mother - Fucking:  The Opera --- We Were Mothers Once, And Young

I myself?  Alone?  I smacked about as much sway with the blank – suited broncos of downtown Des Moines’ gazillion law firms as a soggy noodle smashed into one of its sidewalks.  None of us mothers do. That’s present tense:  none of us mamas do

I rocked.  The chill grew deeper.  Weeks passed.  Nights and days and nights and days and nights and days.  I rocked. 

Lady stopped laying and ruffled and furled but by my recoiling her cage further up nearer to the ceiling, she wasn’t too, too cold I thought. “How could Herry not even ask, let alone not demand, to take the Boys’ belovéd pets with them all?  How could an alleged ‘loving father’ not even want to take the kiddos’ kitty with him?!  O JYeah!” I reminded myself, “there would have been with Daddee’s taking ‘primary – care custody,’ too, of all of the Boys’ animals … the work for Herry Edinsmaier of just having to remember … about them!” 

I saved enough from the alimony for Rex’s groceries! … for her two mice every three to four weeks was all now.  And went to meals for myself of microwaved baked potatoes featuring fake butter and salt and pepper and, for dessert, sliced bananas under sprinkled sugar nestled in skim milk.  I cashed in every single one of the IRAs accumulated to date so far, all of them the traditional kind since there weren’t any such ones at the time as the Roth type.  The tax and penalties due on that deed the next year as my punishment for this too – early liquidating exploit of mine there in the winter of 1991, I gave not even one thought to.  And on a life insurance policy, the one on me, I took out a loan. Creative financing?  Hmmm.  Hardly that.  Yet –– then or since, not a one of any funding government’s pennies have I ever taken in charitable welfare!  For anything.

There was still intact, of course, that other insurance policy where I was the benefactor and also, most fortuitously, its owner as well and about which Mr. Jazzy Jinx had simply put an index finger to his pursed and very, very closed lips.  The insured was Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, and the policy was only a term one for $100,000; but Lawyer Jinx advised me that Herry’s Fancier Schmancier Attorney Shindy Scheisser had apparently altogether missed it! on the previously court – ordered disclosures which had been my answers to the Interrogatories and tothe Production of Documents, a massive mistake which he, that is, which Mr. Jazzy Jinx extolled, er, boasted about himself to me that he never, ever made.  “Ya’ just don’t wanna let these stay,” he’d taught me, “in case, something dreadful comes up happening after the divorce. No, no, no, these don’t stay intact.  These policies a punctilious and forthright attorney’ll always look for and have them all either dropped, cashed in or nullified –– ya’ know, made void –– as part of the dissolution settlement cuz ya’ just can never know.  Ya’ know?  You can never know who to trust afterwards!”  Mine on the Good and Wonderful Doctor Herod Edinsmaier, single – engine prop pilot to the Midwest’s wild blue yonder?  

Mine was so intact and as Wizened and Wise Friend Frieda had quite often passionately besot me to keep it utterly unbroken … was so going to stay, for always, exactly that way –– intact!  No matter what! … I vowed.  To myself and to Frieda.  This I had promised!

Linda from her workplace brought to me a blank copy of the SF – 171, that dastardly hideous application for employment at any job … federal!  For anything federally connected or for services that I perform wherein my paycheck is given over to me through the auspices of the United States Congress, an SF – 171 must be filled out.  This was not the first one I had ever completed, but that I did do –– arduously on the old black Brother electric typewriter through a ridiculously herculean total of 17 supplemental pages of education and experience history –– and turned it in to the National Veterinary Services Laboratory and to the National Animal Disease Center and to the National Veterinary Biologics Laboratory, there being –– at the end of this 1990 year –– not one local university professorship opening in veterinary microbiology advertised nor available to application. 

Within moments of turning in this tome, well, a few January days and nights of rocking really, and bedecked in the very same L.L. Bean cinnamon tweed pencil skirt suit in which wool I had earlier landed the Kansas State assistant professorate post almost exactly five years to the month, I was in a veterinary laboratory’s conference room … interviewing.  Other than I, only men present.  Regarding a rather attractive governmental position with a GS – 11 or – 12 classification at the NADC –– one at which I was to work on microbes of the generaSalmonella and Chlamydia.  And at all of the mighty sweet federal benefits, of course, with $31,900 to start and “… when could that be?!”   

“Hhmmm, this is lovely!  I’ll be back in touch just as soon as I check on something,” I replied. 

The something that needed my attention right then was the conditions of the offer to me by those other federales:  by some other men over at the Biologics Unit, a position even more to my liking –– that is, vaccines and bacterins and the development and production of veterinary immunizing agents –– smack in line with my PhD program actually!  This one even went so far as to promise me that I would be almost exclusively working with bovines again, either dairy or beef, and perhaps some dealings with swine, too, and “ … will that suit?!” 

“Hell, yes!  That will soooo suit!”  Same ranking, same bucks essentially. The cattle and hogs after the thousands and thousands of mice and rats first, of course.  O well.  In this town that was the name of the game.

Good, good news all of this!  Truly mighty fine news –– since, hey, there were no more IRAs nor any other pieces of paper worth one damn dollar lying anywhere around our little condo that I could find. And it was such a very, very cold February 1991.  I motored right down to the outskirts of Urbandale, more accurately off to the periphery of the soccer and football field and the baseball diamond there at its middle school.  When Jesse and Zane caught sight of me, we all moseyed on over to the parking lot of the suburb’s public library adjacent to the school grounds and talked.  About the great good fortune about to befall us all! 

We four met like this almost every afternoon –– in the station wagon at the library lot or inside it at a table behind its stacks near the window where I could view the main artery leading in to the library building or below the bleachers at the sports fields.  For 2¼ hours per weekday I wasn’t rocking because I was on Interstate – 35 headed to the Mixmaster interchange onto I – 80, then west to Merle Hay Mall and onto Aurora Avenue and an itty bitty stretch more westerly again.  And back – roundtrip.  To … All My Children.  Mirzah and I grazed at McDonald’s once, but somehow Ms. Fannie McLive learned of our rampaging cheeseburger escapade so his teacher’s aide commenced to accompanying Mirzah to the curb in the afternoons … at where Mirzah just turned ever so slightly in my direction, the Shitbox and I parked three blocks over north before my fifth – grader stepped away from my sight and up into the schoolbus.  There was only ever that one adventure with burgers and fries for Mirzah and me.  I usually drove Jesse and Zane to within a couple of blocks of Herry’s 69th Street bungalow or once in awhile as the days lengthened and warmed, even walked them nearly home.  Jesse had a good soccer schoolmate, DeAndré Taylor, who accompanied us on our strolls from time to time; he liked anthropology and lived on 68th and south one block, and Jesse and I both had his home telephone number. 

I saw the Truemaier Boys more … than “Custodial Parent” – Herry did. 

Dr. Herod Edinsmaier was not at home.  Herry – Daddee wudn’t home.

Not because of his supposedly working any of those long, long per diem locum tenens hours either.  

Herod was not at home because he was gone, gone, going and gone –– outta town.  Out … of town!  

Dr. Edinsmaier’s Great (work – of – parenting) Escape!  As per … usual!

Apparently the temporary pathology positions within the largest of Iowa’s cities were about as plentiful and capable of sustaining and uplifting a household of four pre – teens and teenagers plus the Next Cunt in Daddee’s Stash as the temporary veterinary microbiology ones were in Ames!  But I had to carefully and continuously surveil the streets around the schools because Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive in her folie à deux – posturing as the Sheriff of His Majesty’s Nottingham patrolled them either in the red Baretta which
Ms. McLive had brought to the wedded union or with Mary Jane riding along with … mother and adopted daughter side – by – side as yet another folie à deux – posturing inside the newest vehicle, their Chevy #2, which Ms. McLive and the Kingdom’s highest monarch, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, had subsequently then purchased together.  The AM General Corporation’s equivalent of a family Humvee, a faux woody, white paddy wagon of vintage remoteness, the thingy had eight or ten or a hundred cylinders and about 15 seats or something.  An armored tank from which –– for sure –– to fight off attacks from … The Mother Legion!

Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive held for me only one mystery.  Otherwise her and Ms. Canard’s male – identified persona of female read, for me, like an open book –– which it probably was:  that is, that of Mehitable’s text for such women –– full – up of those deferentsoft and serviledirectives of my mother’s.  I wondered how it was that Ms. McLiveappeared to be getting away with it:  with smoking cigarettes. 

Herry as Herry had drunk, all right, barrel loads of brew to be sure and even drove drunk innumerable times, those times all crimes, of course; but Herry as Dr. Edinsmaier loathed tobacco.  And I mean: loooooathed it.  All cigarette, cigar and chewing forms of it. 

I should know.  I was a “recovered smoker,” an ex – smoker of both cigarettes and cigars, those little cigarillo kind, Swisher Sweets without the filter –– which I inhaled and … adored.  Devin, of Edinsmaier’s and my mutual friends Abby and Devin, had quit with his tobacco addiction altogether by first switching from cigarettes to those wee cigarilloSweets and had in just two months’ time completely weaned himself totally off nicotine.  I was so impressed that he, an ex – Viet Nam War marine who drank the quantities that Herry consumed could accomplish this, quit the beer and lose 20 pounds all in less than six months’ time that I was sure Devin’s plan would work, the no – nicotine part of it at least, for me, too.  I threw away the last Pall Mallnon – filters’ cellophane, empty of course, and purchased my first five – pack of the Sweets and, well, … five years later! voila! on Wednesday, the 10th day of August 1983, I smoked up and inhaled in … my very last one of those, too.  Finally.

That Thursday I quit cold turkey and, at the time, this –– smoking cessation –– this was the hardest thing that I had ever done.   I had done it most unwillingly as well –– to which almost all nicotine – addicted people can attest.  I loved smoking.  Every damned thing about it I loved; and I don’t need to name all of those things because every smoker, and every single ex – smoker especially, knows already what these are. 

When I first met Herry, though, what I loved most about my smoking was knowing that, with him as my boyfriend, I wouldn’t ever have to fucking quit!  Why?  Because we had our own folie à deux thingy going on:  Herod Edinsmaier drank and Legion True smoked.  I didn’t drink but maybe one glass of Chablis every month or two if out to dinner, and Herry never smoked a Sweet, not even now and then.  A meerschaum pipe –– yes –– but Pathologist Edinsmaier slickly and easily and quite out loud rationalized and justified, let alone, in his own thinking construed this specific aristocratic posturing … as, for him anyhow, a healthful activity!

If Dr. Herod Edinsmaier drank the way that he did, to distraction, why then I quietly understood that I could unyieldingly albeit inexpressibly enjoy my own fucking addiction.  It was when Herry quit the actual beer intake that I, for five further years, had grown truly uneasy about my continuing to light up anything.  I no longer had my cohort in external chemical substances’ addictions, let alone, the tacit awareness that neither one of us would come down on the other for it.  I continued to smoke up until there exploded a straw in August 1983, the brokeback kind, the type that breaks camels’ humpbacks, that genre of jolting straw.

At the age of 35, 17 years out from the first Kool which I had inhaled as an 18 – year – old truckstop waitress at the Landmark Restaurant just off Interstate 80 at the Williamsburg exit –– and a damned good one there, too, which I totally loved doing, I might add –– kind of a Diner – Diva Louise Sawyer type I was, only younger –– of Thelma and Louise–– and besides all of the obvious reasons to quit, the pulmonary, circulatory and cardiac assaults, why had I?  Why had I actually ceased using all forms of tobacco?  

Because Herry had threatened to leave me –– and to take all of the Truemaier Boys with him back then already –– if I didn’t.  If I did not quit smoking!

I have to spit now at remembering Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s shaming and browbeating.  The pathological scene so typifies Herry:  Mirzah, Jesse and Zane sound asleep, we are in bed ourselves, Husband Herry’s just made the utterly respectful, honoring, loving, tender and amorous advance of stating straight up to the blackened ceiling of the Manhattan, Kansas bedroom that he’s thinking it’d be a good thing for the two of us “to screw” as in, to the mother of these three Sons, “Ya’ wanna screw?” –– then immediately and blasély augmenting that one with this next romantic overture, “O, by the way, you have to quit smoking or I’m leaving you and taking the Boys.  I won’t be saddled with a respiratory cripple, and I can already tell jus’ from listening to ya’, Twat, that you’re headed for emphysema.  I don’t give a shit if you get lung cancer, Cunt; that fuck’ll kill ya’ outright.  But if you develop emphysema, you might hang on for 10 years or more, and I’m not gonna do that.  So.  Lemme fuck that pussy.  O wait a minute, where’s the mirror?  I wanna flash that penlight up it and get me some strange.”

So.  How Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive had managed her “pre” – emphysemic ruse and seemed to actually be pulling this gimmickry of hers over on Herry was indeed puzzling to me.  From Mr. Shindy Scheisser at Act Two Part Two there’d been accusation after accusation flung at me on cross – examination about how I had damaged my three, “count ‘em … three” fetuses! –– as indeed I had done.  And as to how even more evil a mother I had been for continuing to model that dragging and puffing behavior around my sons! –– as indeed I had done.  So my thinking now went something like, “How is Herry Edinsmaier’s Next Cunt apparently ‘getting away’ with this?!” 

From afar I had seen his Next Cunt for myself –– out leaning and inhaling away on the residence’s front stoop, a scant three steps with one black railing going down to the bungalow property’s front sidewalk.  Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive hadn’t even bothered to try to hide it from the neighbors by, say, exhaling only out in the tiny backyard amongst the garbage cans or herself all encased inside its detached but camouflaging garage.  As a matter of fact, though, she did not seem totally relaxed about it because I don’t recall seeing her ever sitting and reposing on the steps of that stoop, only upside the railing, dragging and dragging and then back inside –– with ashes, butts and all other telltale evidences gone missing from the front of the house, I would imagine.  The neighbors?  Well, if one herself isn’t at all neighborly, then there’d be no concern on that account either.  Still, the teeth and the fingertips and the smell:  how did she denature, dilute out and neutralize those?  Even if Dr. Edinsmaier wasn’t at home or even for days and days and days in Urbandale, then how did she disguise all of this odor and onerousness when actually having to put herself around my Truemaier Boys?!

Local job scarcity gave the Good and Wonderful Dr. Herod Edinsmaier another route of accountability escapement.  I guess, like the Elton John lyric in The Opera in a classic tenor solo of arrested development in a 40 – something manipulator, Herry was just “gone up around the bend” –– bent upon fleeing from the five others to whom he had only just fastened himself less than a full half year earlier.  Weekends King Herod was home, and I was not in Urbandale because of it.  I had me some serious rocking to do to make it through the cold of those Saturdays and Sundays. 

On the late Friday morning of 08 February 1991, I placed another telephone call; but this one was a local,      no – fee one and finally not a toll call to Ms. Carlotta Klutz at all.  Ms. Klutz –– on Wyman’s and three other Natures’ precious dimes, er, tens of thousands of dollars actually–– was allegedly hard at work, at least at ‘work’ on her acting role in The Opera at any rate, on ‘my appeal’:  Part Three.  I am of the official opinion, now, that that consisted primarily of Klutz –– sitting and waiting –– after about 20 or 30 words to that effect on my behalf, initially set down most probably by her able assistant Dee Dee! had been file – stamped somewhere inside the state’s Capitol Building. 

The veterinary researcher on the other end of the wire answered my call transferred in to him by the federal agency’s all – round receptionist, “No, the NADC will not be needing you to report Monday.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“No, you have no job here, Dr. True.”

“Whaa – aat?”

“I’m certain you heard me and understood, did you not?  You will not be coming onto the premises next Monday morning nor at any other future time.”

I hadn’t signed anything –– true that was –– but the purpose of my call, the reason that I had telephoned in was to confirm that the date of the 11th was not for the NADC, indeed, a federal President’s Day holiday, its being freethinking, atheist Abraham’s real birthday then … Tuesday, 12 February, the very next day. 

That I would, wouldn’t I, find open and operational my office and my desk and my laboratory – to – be?  “But, Dr. Jones?!”

“The point is moot.  I am hanging up.”  Click.

From out of where had that stun gun just fired its slug bolt between my ears?!  I went down.  Right down. Knees buckled.  And I crashed to the floor, the result, too, of the crushing reality of Rachel’s backlash. 

As The Opera was playing itself out, the Biologics Unit, bequeathing me with their mask of feigned solace the hour before, had responded to my very same phone inquiry into its building with their “fact” that funding sponsorship wasn’t “at all” what the men had expected for “the project” soooo …, consequently, there was no bovine bacterin development post available now … after all, and all of the guys there, of course, well, they were in no position, “probable upcoming hiring freezes and all like that there,” to even know if or when that “situation” could change. 

I couldn’t go to Urbandale that afternoon.  I couldn’t do anything that afternoon.  I was hemorrhaging. 

Fully bleeding out so it seemed. 

The last thing in the room that my Truemaier Boys needed to see lifeless … was me. 

Accompanied by the buoyancy and spongy porosity of my blankets and comforter I floated from the deep end of the ocean that was my king mattress on the upper level down to the cushioned rocker in the condo’s front room before my raggedy heart attempted the arresting sidestroke of the roundtrip lap back up again and into the bed.  While not medically thriving under the absence of blood glucose, a DEhuman’s brain is fortuitously her last organ to shut down.  Must be because of our near immediate metabolic and physiologic switchover instead to usable ketones by way of oxidation of adipose, our fat deposited during babies’ growths in and of us.  The glorious and glorifying and life – forming and life – giving fat.  That fat.  Even within the midst of the angst of a soooo unplanned … bleed – out.

Linda Kincaid, as I have said, worked at the agency; she served there as secretary for several federal researchers among whom included Dr. Jones.  Past tense, that is worked, was key here; within moments, well, within a few February days and nights of my rocking really and of her hearing of the ramifications to me of a certain piece of paper, my new true friend confirmed for me what was developing inside that drained brain of mine.  actually that TWICE AGAINBy the end of the next week it was clear that again –– –– the 25 September 1990 Ames Tribune article, cut out and complete with my headlining picture and both the front page and the rest of it on page two, had … “somehow” … “anonymously” … surfaced at both the National Animal Disease Laboratory and at the National Veterinary Biologics Laboratory:  All of that hard – copy mother – fuck had personally crossed the desks of not only Dr. Jones but also that of the Biologics chieftain.  As she did with all of his daily mail and stamping it with the date received, of course, Linda had been the employee to actually open up the manila envelope addressed most directly to Dr. Jones himself.  Enclosed within that envelope and accompanying the documents meant for Dr. Jones existed several more copies of the Tribune’s woman – loathing slam as well –– apparently those extra copies of it … intended for whomever besides himself Dr. Jones deemed in need of another one. 

A second phone call to the Biologics man with whom I’d initially mostly dealt corroborated there what must have been nearly the same scenario over across town at the NADC with Dr. Jones –– but with an addedandrocentric and angering yet sooo, so typical twist.  It seemed that the Biologics chieftain, as a matter of fact, remembered that a woman in their front office received a telephone call –– previous to mine –– coming in on the morning of the 11th.  The man on the line stated that he was calling long – distance from Des Moines and asked the woman if she would please send to him at his law firm written verification or documenting proof of the specific starting date and accepted annual salary plus benefits for one Dr. Legion True who was involved in a lawsuit in which he was “a representing attorney.”  Her expediency in this matter, the Des Moines lawyer had explained, would save them all the trouble of his first obtaining a subpoena and her agency then being served with it.  The woman, Biologics man confirmed to me, had straightaway faxed over to the telephoning counselor’s firm –– right off … all of that requested ‘human resources’ information on Dr. True.  The worker begged off her culpable stupidity by moaning that she never knew that … the male voice had not at all belonged to my attorney of record, that … daMan directing her wasn’t Dr. True’s “representing attorney.”  She’d just assumed, of course, that …daMan was!

With a little bit of seniority and a whale of a lot of secrecy, Linda Kincaid put in for and obtained an internal transfer.  She was struggling in an appeal for Bazil herself; the last thing she needed was to fight the utter and societally entrenched mother – you’re – so – fucked, boomeranging backlash as well. 

I was finished. 

And I hadn’t even begun. 

It was early 1991.  I was a mama.  I had not been an academic researcher nor a professor of veterinary microbiology nor a clinical practitioner since before July 1987, now almost four years out. Crashed, crushed and burned, and I hadn’t even been the (multiple!) small planes’ owner – pilot; Lavish – Spending Hoo – Hah Edinsmaier is that person.   

In four years’ time the number of newly minted and superbly fresh PhDs cranked out across this country, Eurasia and Australasia is beyond my wanting to count them, and all of the ones with post – graduate veterinary microbiology fellowship experience on their résumés beat out … me.  I had had exactly zero days of post – dissertational fellowship education or experience back then … or since. With genetic engineering and gene mapping burgeoning and exploding in arenas so massive that even I could not have imagined them all, I had no chance.  None.  Not now I didn’t.

Well, mission accomplished.  King Herod’s tyrannical reigning mission accomplished.

The King with the folie in the form of his sexual addiction masqueraded as alcohol abuse instead, the King with the folie in the form of his shyster and all that that “legal” wrangling meant, the King with the folie in the form of his High Aggrandizier and all of the fucking mother – loathing power and control that daJudge had sooooUNconstitutionally … had unbelievably … crowned upon Herry, the King with the folie à deux in the form of his dictates’ implementer and enforcer, the Sheriff of Nottingham, Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive. With all of those follies, er folies, why The Opera, King Herod was confident, was drawing to a vapid closure.  And a rapid one:  Legion True was lifeless.  Stopped.

“Hell, if Legion can’t find work, even as a politico, a mere minion for the county, then she will not be able to support herself!  If she can’t work, she sure’s hell can’t provide for any one, two or three of the boys, let alone, hide any of ‘em away somewhere.  Even if one, two or all three of them decide to run away back to her –– and they are now of the age where this idea has more than probably crossed both Zane’s and Jesse’s minds, if not also materialized inside of Mirzah’s.  If the Ex – Cunt can’t work in her specialized fields, why then she is, for certain, fucked over as a custodial mother when it comes to her inside a court of family law thinkin’ that she’ll ever again be able to come after me and prevail!  Ha! Fuck her!”  Dr. Edinsmaier to himself dreamt … so … to Employee Scheisser paid him off … to conspiratorially act … at Herry – Daddee’s beck – and – call behest.

I could not return to nursing even.  With a bachelor’s degree in it conferred from ivy – covered Cornell University, I had been quite a nurse anomaly working in the three, small, Midwestern county hospitals.  

But just as soon as I’d been accepted into veterinary medical college, probably around the very damned and fucked day when Herry and I had first – ever met at that campustown dance club, I placed myself onto the State of Iowa’s inactive list for its registered nurses.  The cost of maintaining and renewing an active state license – what, with continuing education credits and all – I just could not then afford and,as well, pay veterinary school tuition.  I didn’t really need it officially operative in order to be working part – time with animals as a veterinary central sterile supply technician nor even as the anesthesia and surgery nurse for the college’s small animal clinic so I purposefully had let it lapse but not before first securing, I had thought, a safety net by properly requesting to be placed onto that inactive roster. 

Someone with a lovely voice –– a nurse’s voice for sure I remember thinking upon the return call –– from the state’s examining board got back to me nearly right away.  There was a shortage then, just as now, so perhaps my initial inquiry would prove fruitful, but rationally I did not hold out much realism.  I had not practiced nursing nor even been officially active since the spring of 1974, while earning weekends and some nights to finish the prerequisites of organic chemistry, genetics and physics.  To secure top grades in physics in order to get myself accepted into veterinary medical college I paid a tutor. To pay the tutor I, maintaining in my larynx the required nice nurse’s voice, injected many an androcentric buttock with anti – gonorrheal penicillin on Saturday and Sunday mornings at the University’s health center, those buttocks attached to student athletes –– for whose tutors you and I and the rest of the entire State of Iowa paid.  These asshole, literally fucking men received their tutors at noooo charge!  But throughout all of those weekends’ administering labors of mine when I was soooo not free to enjoy my own earned and fully paid – for fucks, “Nice voice now!  Use your nice voice now, Nurse True!”  Talk about the honor and the respect, or more honestly, the utter absence thereof … in and for real and hard work!

The upshot in the spring of 1991, now some 17 years out from active nursing duty, was for me most grim.  

A shortage there indeed was; that meant not in health care personnel for me and my concerns but just in bucks alone to buy the rent and food, let alone, for gasoline to Urbandale or to pay for both my appellant and my personal attorney’s fees.  Seventeen years away, why, reality so kicked in:  the examining board truly had for me no safety net news, “Hmmm, that long, huh?”  The sweet tone remained resolute, “We’d have no choice then.  You’ll have to take two years of refreshers, ya’ know, like at DMACC or … or, ah, Boone’s branch’d be closer to you, right?” 

Two years more to reactivate my nursing license?!!  Whoa!!  That was a no – brainer.  How the hell did she propose I pay, tomorrow, to live while paying them or some close – by community college to get me “back up and running,” so to speak?  Just exactly how was that going to come about?  State – required refresher training to aid in the diminishment of a nursing shortage did not involve any fellowships or grants or scholarships, not to mention, any noncustodial and unemployed mothers’ paid sabbatical leaves –– in order for mama to be able, “in just a short two years’ time,” that now very annoying, even disgusting voice blithered at me, to punch a clock hanging outside some emergency room’s service entrance. 

“Legion will not have money incoming.  That’s for mother – fucking sure.  I have seen to that, and she’ll never be able to touch me.  Fuck! She can’t even move away to find work!  Where’ll she ever get the money for that besides the start – up costs like just the beginning utility payments or even an extra month’s rent for the security deposit?!” I reckoned Revenging Herry to himself crooned in a descant’s decrescendo about now. 

Anything further that Dr. Edinsmaier sang, through particularly the duets with Lawyer Shindy Scheisser or the aria with Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive, would just be icing on The Mother – Fucking Opera’s cake.  I mean I was already down and dead.  How much more insult to injury need Herry muck onto my cadaver after that!?!  With May came the promise –– and the threat –– of classes out soon and the Boys’ first summer with her.  

And with Herry, but … with Herry as Dr. Herod Edinsmaier so that would actually define as a summertime … with Daddee – Herry gone … and absent!  As one without Herry.