Dagmar's Mother

You know, Honey, some things just need to be said outside of a pillow scream and into the far more (in)direct world of the internet. I've invented a drink called Tequila Milk, I've spilled DIET vanilla soy milk all over my NIGHT SHIRT, I've bought an extra container of disinfectant wipes to calm the nerves, I've done something called "downloaded" with something called "apps," I've got the REAL Housewives of Some American Rich Un-City on, and it has happened: the person who calls my birthday "the day Stevie Ray Vaughn died," my mother, has moved. in.

Since childhood, I haven't felt as ashamed of sneaking into the kitchen for a midnight roast chicken, pasta, and cocktail! Having not spent the same night in a house as this lady since I was a rosy, bubbly child of wealth, an she was an elegant duchess of NewWorstDam, the richest region of The Nether Regions, how I worry about being seen. The quiet, sad clicks I am sneaking with my heels...

I leave the country on Friday. Or do I?

You Know It's Been Awhile When...

Inspired by Joey Lawrence joining CHIPPENDALE'S, and can we PLEASE mention how smug he is acting in interviews about it? Dude, you're the "whoa" guy. That's your claim to fame. Deal with it.
Me on the other hand, Honey, I'm fam-us for my games. Emotional, sexual, card and dice, I'm always game. Ha ha see what I did? I used a word as a noun and as an adjective-like thing. That's an adjective, right? Or. Wait. That's another noun, a state of being. Ha ha who am I kidding? I HAVE NO state of being. I'm all adjectives without a noun to associate the characteristics with. Let's play a game.

First, let's prepare for the game. After days of not eating due to an illness caught in Mexico NO IT'S NOT HEP C I've been, as ladies like to say with their calories, "catching up." I have DIET cheese and crackers in front of me, a lazy too-rasiany tasting Italian red in my glass, and a stupid food show on the television that I am inhaling because it's like celery--negative calorie intake. Can you imagine that? Celery is like negative calories. It is truly God and God's other at the same time.

Now, here's a fun game. It's called Shame. I'll start.

You Know It's Been Awhile When...

you put on mascara before going to get a massage.

you have more than one kind of bubble bath in your bathing area.

a man as gay as a unicorn with a rainbow mane and a black leather studded saddle grabbing your breasts made you feel funny

you call your cat "my lover, my baby"

YOU ARE THINKING ABOUT BEING IN YOUR 30S WITH NO MONEY, NO PROSPECTS, SUPPORT BRAS, AND BACK ACHES

you are making a list about your lack


NOSE HAIR!!!!

you spread out on your bed and sigh every night

you hold your Mr. Knife tight under the pillow

you hold a selenite orb in your left hand and act as conduit

you are more magickal because of the last time you weren't in lack

you are watching television without worrying if YOUR SMART LOVER IS JUDGING YOU because, well, you don't have one

you found a line on your face that you think looks cool

you don't care as much what you look like anymore

you worry about dying, sure, but you aren't worried about forcing it

eh, you're fine, so have another drink, because NO ONE IS JUDGING YOUR LACK OF MODERATION, and deal with this, you fucking freak who's having a good time with your games

Mexico And The City (MATC): Revenge of the Sopa

Ingredients for this My Time: Immodium AD, Hint flavored water, bed, an Iphone, a gay life partner.

Well hello there, Honey. What are you doing? Oh, that's nice. Work, vacay, coffee, morning cocktails. Your life sounds so normal and nice. Oh, me? Thanks for asking. I'm here. You know. Here. Let me tell you how it began.

I was in the Mexico City airport, again, as an elegant woman finds herself in occasionally. Whilst before there I had seen a strange yet alluring man playing a ukelele and humming a tune, following me with his gaze while I was trying to eat my huevos rancheros WITH NO CHEESE in private shame, and I thought, who is this strange man, and should I talk to him

Dr. Suess-shaped-face of musicians

it was already too late. Thus, another husband squandered due to your little Dag stuffing her face with LOVE AND SAFETY. While men can do things like compete in "The Biscuit Challenge" for no gain, emotional or physical--just pure prowess and intrigue--we women, as you will see below, have deep emotional bonds with our eating. But this time, I was on a return trip to Los Angeles, or as Shas of Sunset call it, Tehrangelos

I was remembering my incredible arrival into MX City when I found a whole new kind of lover

who I sang to, with all my heart, how you're my best friend, but I am just to close to love you, but I can't stop loving you, but I am too close to love you 

After working so hard on the final chapter of my project, I shoveled that good lovin' in (under a large, expensive sun hat, of course, to hide my shame and orgasmic glory, which often go hand-in-hand), and celebrated a special day in any woman's life who has worked an office job and gets off in time for the happy hour at Acapulco Restaurant and Bar while still wearing tan stockings and a poly-blend suit jacket with diminutive shoulder pads--like only an inch thick--

But you know what I was thinking on this return trip to the airport, on my way back to the Shas who live and love in "the ghettos of Beverly Hills," as they say? I was thinking, no Dagmar. If you ever want to get married again (haha, I kid, I was thinking, if you ever want increase your alimony payments by getting another divorce. haha I kid again, I was thinking about how all I want is love and the roll around my waist named WineChips and the lines on my delicate pale skin will prevent that from ever happening haha) you better learn some manners. So what did I do, Honey? I ordered the clear vegetable soup with chicken broth. Consomme. Can you believe it?

Upon arriving to my summer home in Malibu-Lite, I started to feel a little, how should I put it, effervescent on the inside. Having recently purchased a diamond-studded IPhone, I immediately went to text various rich friends to tell them what I was experiencing a little to much of. Realizing my fingers are far too fat to text on the IPhone, I was resolved in my choice to order the consomme. Honey, I said to myself in the bathroom mirror one of the fifty times I was in there, I'm asking you to change your ways. As I tried to punch the fucking so fucking little letter keys with my long, elegant, feminine nails, "it was then that I realized," a phrase spoken on Sex and City almost as many times as I was running to the bathroom (seriously, you want to click on and read that link immediately), that my fingers weren't the problem. My elegance was. I ordered a sopa like a lady. I had long, perfect nails. Why was this horrible thing happening to me? Once I could, I did what every rich, lonely straight (unless we're talking big money) woman does, I texted my gay male life partner to explain my situation. Now, on SATC, if the vapid Carrie Bradshaw had texted her gay male buddy, he surely would have bemoaned her state, sent her flowers, and canceled a date with a model to be with her. Because he'd be rich and for some reason Carrie B. is like a gold-dusted chocolate fountain to everyone in SATC's New York.

Good Job, Sociopath.

But my gayelle life partner, raised in the buffets of Hawaii, the only place buffets in the USA have been shut down by the amount of eating the masses can do, responds: "Hahahahaha." And then, "at least you'll lose some weight." And then, after I explained that this concern is what got me in this mess in the first place, as I ordered soup over nachos, he tells me: "Big mistake. Bitch it's always about nachos."

"It was then that I realized"

It's true; it is always about nachos. And that's the lesson here. I've learned it for all of us, Honey, so you don't have to go through what I am right now. I can't even drink red wine! Sure, a white wine spritzer between runs to the gold-plated toilet seat, but nay a Bourdeaux in my Bourdeaux-hole.

Written upon my deathbed,
Daggy.

Miss me, Honey?

This is just to say that I haven't forgotten you. I've been very busy figuring out ways to not be busy, and I've discovered a lovely manpanion that has kept me occupied (xanax bubble water, grapefruit juice (IT'S HEALTHY) and tequila.

But, don't worry, Honey, this Friday is my some velvet morning. I'm off to St Croix, and I plan on taking you with me. So, wax everything, and get ready to hear a bunch from me next weekend.

Champers on me, Honey.

Dagmar's weekly songs roundup

Ingredients for this My Time: my weekly song roundup, of course! A much-requested new edition to My Time, an important part of your Sunday--a dreadful day, Lovers, of hangovers, regrets, pacifying through drugs, and weighing suicide. With a cocktail match of course! You can't consider living the next day or not without at least a drink to aid your philosophy.

My Time matching cocktail: Cazadores tequila, fresh grapefruit juice, club soda, ice, straw, all in a thermos with a safety lid.

Hello, Lovers. You know, sometimes a day of my life, especially Sundays, plays out like the entirety of my life. EMOTIONALLY.

The first record my rich, kingly father gave me. Limited edition blue vinyl. I sold it the day after he was murdered in an huge CEO merger. If you want to talk to me about my weak, selfish heart, Honey, leave a comment already. Just so you know, this is the first song I played at his funeral, so if it makes you feel better that I'm a person who might feel guilt, just presume this is the time that would happen. That night, at a round circle of common men with 40 ouncers, I had this song, even though I sold the records, guns, and tools. That's what marrying rich is for, Honey! I've never looked back. Ever. I'm maniacally happy. Seriously.

The first band I lost my heart to, and I never got it back. I don't want it. I surrendered long ago. Truly, Medicine, medicine, and a credit card are all I need, Honey, in this tragic world of irony and materialism (philisophically, not actually). Perhaps someday when I marry into even more wealth, I'll walk down the aisle, pumped to veins bursting, antlers on my head, a good throwing knife in my left hand, a selenite orb in my right hand, and an squinted eye toward the (presumably) male who could take a terrifying beauty like me. Hand-made 3-piece suit or Grecian gown? Truly, this is what I wish for now, Honey. Mysticism of pilgrimage to love. Or money. Whatever. You don't think I can float an inch of the ground? Well, you haven't met my pearl-handled jack. Let's get together. Champers on me!

The first song I thought of today when I awoke naked in a 6,000-cotton-count-sheeted-bed of 100 dollar bills and had to hear, while thinking of a young  man I've been eyeing from afar. Of course, like a moral man, he does not look at me while we speak, only when he thinks I'm not looking. A wild, amazonian heart like mine appreciates a distrustful eye. Ah, Lovers, thinking I might still be young enough to lose my heart to a sound. Maybe not to much else, truthfully...but every song, like every Sunday, like every statement of the self, like every drug, needs its anecdote.

Are you listening, Honey? Then tell me. Leave a comment. Join the site. Set your tracks with me. Lay down in the sun on Sunday. Don't get up. True love means taking someone to the tub (again) and waking them up with a cold shower and pinch, or dropping them off at a Simi Valley hospital to get their stomach pumped, at least, while you get fries at Denny's. That's why every time I get married, there's two adrenaline shots in honeymoon suite. I've never had to use one, myself. But I'm not above it. Such is the life of a rich, elegant woman.

Happy Sunday, Honey. Are you ready for Monday?

Songs keep coming, songs keep coming, too much to listen to, will make it till Monday.

your loyal (ha ha, no really. no) friend (seriously, no),
Daggy