Sunday, November 25, 2012

I know, I know

Honey, it has been forever. But you know, it's fall, aka the holidays, aka, Charity Ball Season, aka, my TIME TO SHINE. So, give me a week, and I will write with all the sordid details. And will continue such writing until my own end. Champers on me then! Dagmar.

Sunday, September 23, 2012

Body Vs Disk

Ingredients for this My Time: THINKING with DRINKING

Sometimes I like to think. And sometimes, thinking likes to devour me.

 When that time comes, I like to drink.

It is as if because I am a woman, Think can consume my body as if it were an object on the economic market to purchase, own, and discard when no longer viable or another upgrade comes along. I mean, whoever heard of a woman's body being a good on the market, a commodity one can evaluate for worth?
Oh. Wait.

This Mr Think often comes to say hello to me, and even after introducing him to Mr Drink, he refuses to leave. Mr Think has some problems with MANNERS. So what can I do to get him out of mi vida loca? I've decided a natural, holistic approach called DIET is the way.

Honey, I'm going on a disk diet. My thinking is that if I eat only while thinking about math, I'll lose this 25 lbs of bullshit I've gained since moving to my mini-mansh in the Midwestern country, and gain that much back in self-esteem. (Insert comment here about how women's bodies are not commodities to be evaluated and consumed). But really, Darling, disks.
"plus one 'Skinny Girl MargaritaTM,' please!"
They're safe. They've got everything they need on the INSIDE while maintaining a demure, white, symmetrical OUTSIDE. They're not hurting anyone, they don't make mistakes, and they feel absolutely nothing. I've been fortunate enough to have my training in being a woman starting early on, with my attentive mother putting me on diets, telling me no one will like me if I don't lose weight, and occasionally instigating a nice cardio session with her fists on my body or a bar of soap to the mouth (one can never be too clean! Lesson number one!). But some women can still learn that "you are what you eat!" And Honey, I've decided that I really don't need another pre-divorce ceremony (wedding) or another alimony struggle if I can simply and finally be: a disk.

What's that you say, Honey? I can't turn into a delicious disk with a slightly toasty BUT STILL WHITE exterior and a sassy, hidden inside that will only be revealed once I'm consumed by someone who has chosen and paid for me? Well, Honey, if my body is a commodity, then I'm a good on the market, and I should be able to upgrade like every other Apple product. I choo-choo-choose upgrading to a disk!
Ah, Honey, only a short time left for me in the Midwestern Country. Where will I go? How will I get there? I don't know. But I do know that my legacy will be the first woman who has finally understood that her body is a commodity. Sure, the feminists might tell you, "boo! Women's bodies are not commodities! We are ourselves! We are not owned by a male-dominant media and world governments nor are we going to compare ourselves to celebrities' bodies or magazine covers that are not real representations of women! We age and we have cellulite!" But here's the thing: our bodies are commodities. BUT GOD THAT'S SO FREEING! You know why? WE CAN UPGRADE! And since I've gained 25 lbs since moving to the Midwestern Country, I'm choo-choo-choosing to upgrade to a disk. A beautiful, thoughtless, changeless-until-consumed- disk. And the best thing about being a commodity is that once we are consumed, we are nothing. Lo, to be Not-Are...the next place I move will have heroin, again, at least. A lady likes to keep her options open!

"i can't stand you too much longer                                               _
can't you see                                                                              _     _
you can use me for some time                                                _           _
then i'm history                                                                     _                _
one more kiss then i'm history                                           _                     _
                                                                                        _                           _
well the sad martyr come                                             _                _               _
i scratch your arms and you won't come                                        _
scratch your eyes so you can't see                                                 _
what it means to feel so dumb                                                        _
one more kiss then we're history                                                    _
what's the point of getting angry                                                     _
over me?                                                                                         _
you can use me for some time                                                        _
it's a game to me                                                                             _
i don't know you where you are                                                      _
like you used to be                                                                          _
one more leap then we're history"                                                  _

Of course when I'm not thinking too much, I'm blissed out. Instead of eradicating myself from history, I make a place for myself in it. While that feeling hasn't been around for awhile, it comes at times. Like exactly RIGHT NOW. The truth is that I've chosen to be in a non-affirming situation right now to strengthen other things and get a degree. What this degree means to me the closer I am to it is less and less. In order for me to find a balance between oblivion and bliss (and I do enjoy the pendulum of both at times, while with intimacy, music, travel, and vice) affirmation is something that I would like. It helps. Being told one is beautiful (something that hasn't happened to me in the last year or so but was a part of my life for so long that I guess I presumed it would persist) and knowing that the person saying that is sleighed solely by one's body is really lovely. Yet, this feeds into the commodity game that make women suffer so, as well as men who buy into a standard account of the woman's body that can be equated with lust, love, and happiness. And yet, it is helpful to wade in superficials sometimes. The problem, I suppose, is when we lose the difference between superficial and important in our own self-worth, or that we buy into the concept of self in the first place. Me, I feel like the energy I am is more like an avalanche or some forward motion that, because of its motion, chances from one thing to the next via action.

Honey, it's true.I feel forward movement yet without a hill in this Midwestern Country to fall down. It's embarrassing for us all. So I make my hills, hence :

Sunday, September 9, 2012


Miami > Email

Ingredients for this My Time: Miami is love, being told you're not enough is hard, and they both still let you drink champagne! Basically the ingredients are widespread frustration and champs. Duh.

Oh Honey, I can't remember the last time I felt so "okay" with myself. I'm in MIAMI! I mean, sure, there's still the debilitating lack of self-esteem yatta yatta from getting emails THAT PEOPLE CC OTHER OFFICIALS ON TO PREVENT YOU FROM...WHAT? when you're trying to be "okay" in Miami, like these:

The first email I got explained why I was not right for a position I was in the best position to get--not because of my incredible excellence, mind you, but because of my seniority and work accomplished--that I did not. This email explained to me that I did not get said position because the other person had a strong background in things that had nothing to do with the position as well as understood a group dynamic and was aware of the needs of others. Turn that sentence into one about me and not the other, and you will see where my head went. It was one of the most confusing emails I've ever gotten because it said, "you didn't get this because another person has _______," and basically neglected saying that the decider just felt uncomfortable around me, but wanted me to know how hard it was for them to decide and transparency is what was trying to be achieved in writing this email and CCing other authority members and they so looked forward to continuing a conversation with me about all the things I'm doing that make me a viable candidate for said position.
(was my reaction)
The next email asks if I am indeed ready to proceed after I sent an email saying I was indeed ready to proceed. Of course I suddenly realized that I was not ready nor would I be if I were asked such questions. I have no self-esteem, Honey, and questions that don't start "would you like as your side ____" are too much for me at this point.
(my before/after reaction)
another email spent articulate, paragraph-form time explaining the most basic mistakes I make that prevented me from success. I don't disagree, Honey, but it does make paranoia about a specific thing match up nicely with someone else coincidentally pointing out said thing as a flaw, and then, voila: YOUR ARE PSYCHIC, BUT NO GOOD.
(was my cliche yet actual reaction)

AND then you are reminded of all the past actually crazy emails you had to save to "protect yourself" and not just the ones where someone points out your inadequacies. Those emails had to be saved because when one is in a system, people would rather not step in and help a problem but keep silent long enough until it goes away. I think the logic is polite silence > lawsuits. These emails, Honey, simply let you know what you've always suspected about yourself--that you're basically a fraud who has made it "this" "far" due to others' bumbling way through submission and acceptance procedures because they don't have a rigorous standard. Well, Honey, the thing is...MON$Y. WHICH I HAVE. WHICH MEANS:

If you don't have a bunch of money, you have to listen to these emails, especially the first one, and think about how you are perceived by brilliant, stable, professional Authority Figures who do terrible things but have learned that true professionalism--true engagement with the world and pushing organizations forward into the next century--is to not talk about IT, whatever the IT happens to be that day. But the second you become w$althy you realize that the emotional and mental stakes are so high for a dedication to this kind of criticism--a kind that presumes you have no awareness about "the needs of others" or an "understanding of a group dynamic" that you realize your world can be completely other. I mean, if you have mon$y you do not need these folks to evaluate you for an excellence achieved at a certain level that they have deemed not uncomfortable for them, and demonstrative of your ability to not make others uncomfortable. Ta-da! Degrees! 

You can choose other things for success--I don't mean emotional, mental success--obviously you have to seek that out at any cost (haha I kid! That's what alcohol's for!)--I mean that your day-to-day life takes on an affirming stability that makes it possible for you to reject seeking out such stability in a field that really, I mean come on Honey, does not think you should be in. It thinks its ideas are better than yours, its discourse is more potent with information and civilization, its globalness promotes a diversity yet a specialization that you do not possess, and its success comes from a standard that you will not elevate to. I mean, I'M NOT SAYING THEY'RE WRONG, as the poor woman inside always acknowledges, 

but let's get real: I got al$mony, Honey. With an amount of money that provides stability and comfort, you wouldn't give a goddamn fuck what people you're striving to demonstrate your specialization in front of think, nor would you think your failings are signs of an overall failure in life. You would spend time getting better at what you want by hiring experts, or moving on to other desires that you've always wanted to pursue but had no means with which to do so. Because with the appropriate amount of stability, one is less anxious, one has the space and time to think about what is happening, one can be bitter sad or whatever before moving on, and one doesn't have to strive to specialize in the art of charity boards, a field more rampant with sexism than the sciences, surprisingly, and really dumb articles saying nothing important about it and personal testimonials encouraging women to deal with it instead of the charity board. You can think it all over with an eccentric activity that helps you get calm.

So, lucky me, I have all this money, thus I don't need to worry about seeking affirmation or maligning myself a failure in the world I've chosen to pretend to be a part of for some-odd years. 




But wait--YOU ARE IN MIAMI! YOU ARE NOT IN AN EMAIL! Oh, I forgot! I was INVITED to a very special hotel in South Beach to give a very well-received talk about "things"  to do with all the m$ney I have! It was fantastic, and I got so much work done of my own choosing.

I worked out/thought about killing myself
I made new friends who taught me some valuable lessons
"One must uphold the spandex quota for Miami, Dagmar!"
I got SO MUCH work done
And I managed to feel a beautiful kind of hazy while allowing myself to gain a sense of humor about getting emails that help me/remind my of my inability to achieve

There's always the fear. Will they think I'm bitter? Mentally unstable? Unprofessional in a "professional" cultural climate? Unintelligent? Incapable of grace? Fill in the blank? Well, Honey, the thing is, women are those things. So are men. I am right now. But I never was before moving to my Midwestern charity board. What is it about the systems we have in place that make women cause more discomfort to others in the system when they are these things? The women who achieve in the system and positions I am in are silent, private, phobic of conflict or engagement until they feel safe to speak. Then they speak about their past experiences with sexism in the charity board. More women charity interns are in the Humanities, but the boards are run more by men. Once that famous male board member stops touching slender women on the smalls of their backs and telling them how good they look, once famous board dude gets to stop hiring mini versions of himself in a well-known charity publication who hires female interns to fuck them (rejecting better qualified but less desirable women on his part), once I'm not told my voice has become "a problem" in me securing a position I'm right for, when a candidate who gets it only does because she is calmer, because I speak to injustice in the system to officials, then, Honey, I'll shut the fuck up. Really, and remember, I'm TALKING ABOUT A CHARITY BOARD OBVS, if one official admitted the sexism inherent in our "charity board," I would finally forever be silent.
"but I do expect that lady interns teach us about men in the charity board canon to get their degrees :)"

Before I came to this charity board I never once spoke up, or "complained," about the departments (of charity functions!) I was in. Not once. Hard to believe? Well I also used to be too scared of losing control to consume alcohol. We all grow the fuck up. So why shouldn't the charity board system?

Ah, that felt good. Back to being an insecure mess who thinks her only problem is herself. But that's what marriage and charity boards are for, Honey. Avoiding the problem of oneself.
(champagne, EXTRA LETTUCE taco bell, a hard line on oneself and the board in a blog, and letting it all go)

When this EMAIL JOURNEY is all over in May, that is, if I secure the charity board title I've been vying for for so long and doing twice the work to try and learn from, it will all even out. Because remember, I have so much money, which means, that only the poor have to be in positions to consider how others are evaluating them for success. Blink. Blink. Blink. In the end, it's important for all of us to be able to consider how being given opportunities that come with financial accolades make being alive, accomplishing work, specializing or not, easier. Miami gave me champs, filet, and the ability to share my work while completing it, all on its dime. Whatta town.
my self-esteem was dependent on this pool. alas! it is gone from me

And when I'm feeling my own kind of safe (read: xanax floater in my champs) I love my Midwestern charity board. I learn a lot from it, and I believe in everyone a part of it. They are my community--I chose them even if it feels like no one chose me. I am here, I will get my charity board certification, and I will make my life happy with or without a position that my certification presumes I will try to get. We all try to make ourselves happy in our own ways. I vent the worst parts of myself
to maybe someday find the best.

champers and self-loathing on me! I always have a credit card to get you drunk, Honey.

Sunday, August 12, 2012

Elegant, Anxious Mornings

Ingredients for this My Time: Trader Joe's organic LIGHT whipped cream cheese, frozen bagels, 2 mg Xanax, iced kombucha tea.

Oh, Honey, I love the mornings. I am such a morning person.

It's like, I wake up with so much on my mind, so much to do, so much to see in the world! I get so excited that it's hard to tell what I'm feeling, so I simply have to settle on either 1. incredible depression, or 2. incredible hangover. And every morning lately it's been a toss up. Who knows, I think excitedly! What is it today?!?!
As I prepare my morning banquet of HALF a bagel with LIGHT whipped cream cheese or nothing till 2 pm, hands shaky with--what is it exactly? Vim? Vigor? Nervousness? Debilitating anxiety? Heartbreak? Mistrust of the world? Anticipation?--I think of all the things on my full social schedule for the day.

There's always a few hours of work on my project that needs to be done,

there's the WORKING OUT UNTIL I'M LESS UGLY of the day

and there's the ability to avoid it all with a glass of champs and 2mg of Xanax until all my EXCITEMENT FOR LIFE is calmed down to a reasonable, dignified level. Ah, the mornings. It's when you crawl out of bed while casually considering suicide, and stumble toward your television and find out that there's a show called "Love Handles: Couples in Crisis." Hahaha you think, distracted from your own demise. But wait, Darling, you only have one part of that equation, and not the other. BOOM, thinks your television back to you: BOOM.

Honey, being a rich, rich woman in the Midwestern country is a complicated thing and one can, if one must--and she must sometimes--indulge too much in order to sublimate the confusion that comes along with this culture, and with being a living creature in general, and with being grossed out by being alive with this body and these orifices. Being a woman in this DAY AND AGE means having SO MUCH to do, and finishing something 5-years in the making, like the charity project I'm working on, is just so taxing on the soul. I mean, I don't have a soul or feelings or morality, but you know, it's so taxing on the prescription pad. It's almost like you think, wait a minute, is that a feeling? Am I feeling TOO MUCH? AM I FREAKING OUT? As you turn to your elegant social group to remark on what you might be FEELING and you watch them politely shudder away into a "Hi how are you? Fine? I'm fine. We're all fine forever" part of the charity ball, you are reminded that, indeed, people of our social class do not feel.

You drink alcohol. Sometimes you freak out and eyes are adverted, and other times, everyone is perfectly, richly, JUST FINE. I mean, of course, Honey, we know we're all not. How can we be? We've been working for years on artistic projects and academic degrees that come without love, affirmation, a future, or even collegiality. For those of us in PRE-DIVORCES who are settled into a lovely exchange of legalize, silence, and affairs, I wonder--what keeps us in? What moves our mornings? One might hope that it is, indeed, love

and not the crippling, cliche silence that not communicating about the depression our silencing relationships have wrought has landed us in. And for those of us IN-BETWEEN marriages, well, we vacillate, especially in the mornings, about how lovely it is to finally see oneself looking back, how you didn't seek your desires out with the fervent passion that leads to such drunken exhaustion of getting a PhD, and how sleeping with this knife, with this selenite orb, with this body that you can fuck up how ever you want, well there's something settling about that. I mean, in the upper echelons of society, Honey, I can't tell you how many times someone is willing to fucking kill themselves to finish work with an uncertain future, yet how incapable the same person is of asking someone on a date, or for affirmation, or to speak to their spouse about the incredible sadness that led to so many transgressions. But that degree or tenure line or charity planning--that could get the weight of one's heart. Simple, easier to fulfill, beautiful, sessy desires, not so much.

On the other hand, those of us IN-BETWEEN marriages think, a marriage presumes love, commitment, later alimony, and empathy, doesn't it? And isn't that something to be jealous of? How do we get there? Will once again, one day, we too see a naked body? And ALIMONY? Will it be like our previous times or will we be able to get there through a frank accounting of our desires, needs, and a willingness to communicate openly despite fear of rejection, thus landing us with a more suitable, and courageous, mate? That is what we hope, Honey, 'tis. Until then, there are these hard mornings where no matter the heat, the familiar cold moves through your shaking insides.

But like my favorite "gay husband "from The Real Housewives series (this one: Vancouver) reminds us, "Maybe you've had a hard life. But you don't need to show it here. No one needs to see that on your face."

So the best thing about being IN-BETWEEN marriages is that your mornings are yours. And later, when you go out to prepare for another tragic morning, your freedom is knowing that when you contemplate suicide, it's yours. When you have your HEALTHY morning kombucha tea with a Xanax floater, no one needs to know how it smooths the sadness away from your pursed lips, and really, Darling, bouncing back and forth from the complete bottom to the very top of SOCIETY has made you incredibly stable. You can contemplate suicide and communication and your own shaky hands, but you have been and will be strong enough to live day-to-day with your testimony. Which is to say, Honey, Dagmar always asks out the gorgeous men, even when she knows they'll say "no," and feels fabulous more than anxious about doing so. Which is to say, Honey, there is no ladder we can't climb if we are our desire, and we speak frankly about what we want, and what we're never willing to put up with again. Everyone presumes you're too intense, crazy, and own a trampy mouth anyway if you speak your mind without reserve for gentile politeness, so why not??
"I was married to 2 very irritating men. I deserve the money."

And that is what makes it possible for me to lounge through the morning until the later possibilities of the day. Of course, Sundays are the worst, so double everything in the My Time recipe to taste.

Champs on me, later, Honey, and maybe I'll propose, too:
Dagmar Ottenham

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

Wetting Your Home Husks

Ingredients for this My Time: Old places, new feelings, old drinks, new hangovers.

Well, Honey, I finally made it. I'm back in the country called Midwest. And you know how I got here? I DROVE. With my feral manx beside me at every turn of Interstate 40, sleeping while I had to "keep myself awake"
I drove for two days, leaving Malibu-Lite, where I only had memories to, well, remember. Memories like my mother smoking a cigarette in front of a fire truck while only wearing underwear, as if the lights signalling danger were her personal disco balls. Memories like hiding hiding various kinds of wipes all over the house we shared as a family so that I could always feel safe. Memories like asking my mother at least 30 times to return the Gucci 1998 shoulder-padded shirt she "borrowed" from me. Memories like driving from LA until I hit my halfway point, my escape that I always seem to return to,
and then arriving to a place that strangely, beautifully felt like home in a way it never has for me before.
Ah, Missouri. My mini-mansion awaited me with open, creepy arms, and the local Taco Bell had almost gone out of business without my charity. One night to celebrate my return WITH EXTRA LETTUCE OKAY a knife fight started in the parking lot, but being the industrious, elegant woman that I am, I simply locked my 'Uar (that's my Jaguar) doors, closed the window that allowed for so much communication between me and the lovely man on the other side of the speaker, and folded my arms. I waited out the knife fight until I got my items.
that's right. It's about my Taco Bell
Look, Honey, sometimes a lady gets so excited that she needs to wake up with iceberg lettuce between her breasts as a reminder of her joy and her mistakes, which are often one and the same.

Now, more importantly that I'm home and feeling all these confusing home feelings, like, why is communication in the Midwestern country so confusing, I get to be home. That last sentence is called circular, Honey. And my birthday is coming up, which means either stab myself AGAIN instead of letting Dr. Rommelstein stab me with the botox needle, or: have an elegant affair for the community where we raise money for the most important local causes that effect women.
Ha ha I kid! You think that I'm one of those hateful, unintelligent rich persons who spends time talking about wombs and making opinions on what I think wombs should be able to do. But the truth is, Honey, when I think about a womb it is only my own.

Much like the drought during corn sex season that the Midwest is facing, my womb is all husk, and no place for anyone's opinion. The dessicated core of who I am, female, has been in a drought for some time, and when a woman faces such husky conditions, she can only work to lubricate her surrounding parts that she may walk in the water of life-bearer metaphysically. What doth female bear? Well, enough lubrication to assure others that she, of all people, certainly should not be a life-bearer.

So what should we do for my birthday? If the options are suicide or shoulder pads, you know it's a hard one for me to decide. If you haven't been here, Honey, you don't know the competition in the upper echelons of society to be constantly nice but not warm, talking but not communicative, friendly but not invasive. It's confusing, and after so many divorces your little Daggy can't just pile of the settlement money and make it communicate for her. So, what does she do? Well, she's frank. But the anxiety such forwardness promotes in me even in asking a lovely young person over to dinner. It's like with every turn if you are a bawdy YET TOTALLY CLASSILY RAD lady,
 you want to scream, "don't worry, I seriously mean to hang out and be buds and I'm totally not trying to sleep with you or make you uncomfortable by trying to hang out, I just like friends and you seem nice and if you think I'm a weirdo it's cool look I'm already over there bye." I mean, why can't we all just roll around on my recently cleaned carpet like tigers and stroke each other's hair and lick each other's paws? That's not inappropriate, right? That won't provoke anxiety, right? Ok ok ok, the truth is, Honey, I feel sometimes. It's confusing when my prescriptions run out and I'm home yet don't really know what it means to not have a home in this world yet, and I want affirmation that comes from human contact. Or animal contact. The truth is I just want to purrrr in sync with some others and roll around on the floor surrounded by a protective circle of selenite rocks and salt. I know as a rich woman that this is not too much to ask, so my goal is trying to be less nervous about things like desire, needs, and purring. I'm a dramatic woman who enjoys a good swoon now and again
and like Dr. Analyst tells me, if you are going to be a TRUTH BEARER,
 you have to have less nervousness about speaking the truths you truthilly speak. You have to toughen up if you're going to be so tough on yourself, and loosen up if you are going to be a lose whore. You know who you are.

Honey, a lady is always triumphant, thus will be my shoulders on the night Leo meets Virgo and I WET MY HUSKS.
With lubrication and (pretend) love,
your Daggy.

PS--god, the things I try to think about and the extent to which I avoid my charity work when I'm having one of "mommy's headaches."

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Online Dating

Ingredients for this My Time: killing yourself only after deleting an internet account.

Oh, Honey, Honey, Honey. Let me tell you. I had heard recently from a friend about something called "online dating." She wanted a change, and she's a real go girl, so she went online.
I'm the "problems" on the right, you see...
Anyway, to alleviate some of her problems, which seem to be that men dig her and she's awesome, said classy woman joined an online dating site and had this to say about her first day of this experience: "guess how many men contacted me the first day? guess."

So, after several months of waking up with Taco Bell lettuce in my bosom after drinking two bottles of A VERY SENSIBLY PRICED BORDEAUX HA HA HAAA THIS IS HOW I LAUGH THIS IS MY PROBLEM HA HAAAAA THE TACO BELL PEOPLE KNOW WHO I AM

Which, by the way, Honey, if one were to be a woman, and one were to be a woman going to Taco Bell on Valentine's Day around midnight, and one were to order 4 items WITH EXTRA LETTUCE, one would expect that the EMPLOYEE wouldn't ask something like "how is you V-Day going?" without said woman responding with how dare you ask me that which one woman might have already done. To start the yelling which proceeded over the mic, that is. When all you want is some base comfort, Honey, something cute that loves you through your champers and food hole (mouth) and wants to say to you, "hello, M'Lady, eat me! Cheerio! I love you! When no one else is there, I am,"
"We love you, Dagmar! xoxox"

Anyway, so I decided that if I plan to marry for money again, I better put myself into the new, real, sad world. So about ten minutes ago I filled out a form on an online dating site, and guess who my first "match" was? And guess what was written next to this man's name? It was my ex-huzzie, the fucking classy man, and "responds often" was by his name.

Oh, look, Honey, there he is. The man who could never pay enough alimony to make it count for the times he said he loved you, lying through his teeth, just to prove something to himself just to play "taksies backsies" later with the ol' "I can't have sex with a woman and also meet her other needs. I'm proud to know my limitations." I mean, do some god damn sit-ups instead. And get over this childish pursuit called "pride" and enter the part of adulthood known as "shame" like the rest of us. Anyway, Honey: Account. Deleted. Too bad. I was planning on using this photo as my "come get me" pic to show them how fun I really am, fun enough to be drunk alone in Estonia on Father's Day and performing a photo shoot with HATS:
i. am. a. good. time.

The thing I love most about this experience besides the fact of all the things I love only to keep me from killing myself is that my ex-husband's ex charity board member is the one who told me about all this glorious online dating where men flock to your vagina with hundred dollar bills and champagne, promising you rose gardens and dignified silence. So, he's "on" there while she's "on" there, and if I ran into him, surely they've run "into" each other. The point is, Honey, that clearly it's only me doing the running in this world, and it's not into a penis wrapped in a gold marriage proposal.

Where am I running? To whom? Well, that time I was in Estonia was my second. The first time I was there alone, also, running. The first time I went I was married to a rich gentleman from the Midwestern country--the first time I had heard of or been to such a place. I was living and loving in Seattle, near the water and draped in furs. This man showed up in town in a 3-peice suit and a lot of wealth to share, so I left with him in his limo to finish something called "tour." I awoke the first time in Wyoming for the sunrise, then in Ogallala, Nebraska for an exchange of last names. I was sold. Where's the preacher, I thought. Of course Estonia alone was clearly the place that was smartest to go, right? Wrong.
The second time I went was the third time I had bought a ticket (this has happened to me with Italy, too. Blast that country for my inability to make it back!). The second time I bought the ticket was to Finland in the middle of winter. I decided to go to the Arctic Circle with some yoga pants and a hoodie for Xmas, and thought that maybe I wouldn't ever come back. I would say goodbye to my mother country, Estonia, and journey north and slip into the sea, the snow, the white, oblivion and stillness. That's when I ended up in a "rest home" for "rich women" and realized that I needed, more than anything, for someone to tell me to stay. Which is no one's job, of course. Oh, JOBS! What's having one of them like? I wouldn't know!
You know, Honey, most folks would say that I'm a pretty boisterous, say-what-I-think kind of rich gal. I am. But I'm also a runner. Not that kind, with your feet. I wear heels. It's not that I fear intimacy--hell, it's the only thing I'm really good at. It's that I run from showing how good I am at that to folks who are going to fuck me with a pre-nup. Which is another way to say, maybe online dating in a small town isn't for me. When I saw him, with a long, sincere description next to a picture of him looking pensive and DATEABLE, I thought, I'm going to throw up. Then I thought, I'm never getting married again. Then I thought, my vagina. MY vagina! What did I do to her? Then I thought, run run run run. But my vagina had already run, Honey. I didn't even click on his profile. I couldn't. Without a complete profile even, it was me that wanted to be already always clicked on.

Which is another way to say that I want a lot, but whatever. If I could trust a man enough to marry him again, maybe then I could have a clear button to click on. But the truth is, I've never not trusted anyone, which is why I escape. I throw everything up on someone, wait for them to run after me as I run run run run, and before I know it I'm in Estonia for Father's Day, researching where my family is from, what is true for us. I escape, and I'm not happy, but I'm safe. Which is a kind of happiness. Which is another way to say, HATS!