Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Dagmar's Guest Blogger: Cindy Marianne, aka, Lone Star

Ingredients for this My Time: tiaras, miniature dogs, Oxycontin

I remember like it was yesterday when Mama stared into my sparkling blue eyes and said, “Cindy Marianne, baby, you’re a star.”  And as she adhered horse-hair to my bleeding scalp and popped perfect pearly-whites in place over my woefully irregular baby teeth, I knew she was on to something.  In my reign as Little Miss Cactus Flower (ages 4-6) I learned just what it means to be a star.  It means knowing how to prioritize, first and foremost.  Maybe Daddy can’t get his cholesterol medicine this month, or he was to watch Wrestlemania at the bar instead of at home.  It’s called SACRIFICE.  Sparkles are expensive, and extra sparkles are just what’s needed to capture that crown.  

Pictured: Sacrifice

It also means answering tough questions, and choosing interesting answers.  When the man asks what you want to be when you grow up, don’t just say “a teacher” or “a doctor.”  That’s for the losers in third place.  Tell the man you want to be a miner or, better yet, a house-plant.  He’ll never believe you’d perform manual labor anyway.  He’ll laugh at your adorable quirkiness and you’ll score a perfect TEN for creativity.  Then, glance to your side at the girls waiting in the wings with their glitter batons and tiny cowgirl outfits and smile in a way that says: “Check mate, bitches.” 

Pictured: Victory

When my pageant coach said my career was over at 13 because my cheekbones were “too lifelike,” it didn’t mean I wasn’t a star.  The world’s a stage just waiting for stars, and stars are only stars when other people can see their star-iness.  I mean, that’s just science.  Anyway, I found my new stage at Jingles off of I-10 two days after I turned legal.  I understood that Mama’s boyfriend Rick was getting out of prison soon and he needed my room to practice the lasso for when he became a rodeo star.  Little known fact, ladies.  Men have dreams too, and they usually involve roping things. 

Pictured: Dreams

Besides, since being psychic was one of my pageant talents, I knew the moment I saw Jingles’ flickering neon lights and slightly sticky employees that I would meet my soul-mate there and I did ten months later.  As soon as I saw Ray Steve’s lizard-skin boots as I hung upside-down, my knees on his shoulders, I knew that this was DESTINY.  To commemorate our wedding, he gave me the only two things I’ve ever wanted—a closet for my all of my scrunchies and a life-size portrait of myself, nude.

Pictured: True Love

Busy and successful men want to marry a star, but maintaining success can mean some lonely days and nights for you.  Don’t worry, though.  You can turn that time into My Time, and resist the urge to fill the hours with EMPLOYMENT.  First things first: buy a friend.  I did that right away when I bought Sugar, my Yorkihuhua.  Next, find local places that can accommodate your luxurious needs.  Did you know there’s a place downtown where you can get a margarita while an elderly Asian woman gives you a pedicure?  I bet you didn’t, and now you’re so excited you may explode.  Even if you do explode, Mai Ling will be happy to clean up after you.  She always smiles and nods when I explain to her about Sugar’s dietary needs.  She always gives me an extra umbrella in my ‘rita, too, because I’m her best friend.  Shopping, naturally, is a crucial element of My Time by day.  I can’t tell you how many glorious hours I’ve spent wondering aimlessly through stores looking for the perfect new purse.  The best ones have sparkles, because sparkles are for winners.

Pictured: Winning (Christ Edition)

You can always lounge by the pool after you make yourself a martini of an unconventional color (my favorite’s turquoise!)  and watch Javier trim the hedges.  Just try not to touch yourself when he can see you.  Or do.  It doesn’t matter.  He’s brown, and this is America.  If he tells Ray Steve, you can always just act shocked and insist that he pointed his erection at you.  It would be fitting revenge for the time Javier and Consuela spoke Mexican right in front of you.  People can be so rude.

Of course, the best prescription for My Time is an actual prescription.  Years ago, I sustained a sex-swing injury and my doctor, sensing I was in desperate need of My Time, prescribed me these wonderful white pills.  I can never pronounce their real name, and it’s not polite to talk about such things in public, so I just refer to my time with them as “Time Travel.”  Modern medicine is a miraculous gift for My Time.  They’ve found a way to streamline feeling good by putting it in an adorably musical little jingling bottle.  That way, you can take My Time with you anywhere—to an elegant restaurant, on an airplane, or a funeral.  When you’re feeling sad because Ray Steve’s out of town, or you’re nervous about being in court for a DUI, just do a little time-traveling.  You’ll wake up to a brand new week.  Plus, you know you’re safe because you got them from the doctor.  He’s a professional, for God’s sake.   

It's OKAY.  I have a note!

When night comes, the best My Time can really be accomplished.  You’ll be in no condition to drive after all those Turquoi-tinis, and safety’s important.  Have your limo driver take you through the drive-thru at Taco Bell.  It’s a fact that foods described as “supreme” are best consumed after midnight.  Curl up with your best zebra-print throw, set your Turquoi-tini next to your chrome lion statue, set a tiara on your skull and watch Varsity Blues or Transformers 2.  And as the sugary-haze of sweet alcohol carries you off to “sleep,” gaze longingly at your reflection in the belly of your chrome lion and remind yourself that once they start airing the Real Housewives of Houston, the whole world will know that Mama was right.    

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