"reflection"

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."

"OVER A HUNDRED! HAHAHA HHHHAAAAA MANIACAL LAUGH I LOOK GREAT IN A THONG I BATHE IN GOLD I'VE NEVER POOPED HAHAHAAAAAAAAA."

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"

You don't want to be asked HOW YOU ARE. YOU TRY TO STAY "ARE,' AND NOT "NOT ARE." THAT'S HOW YOU ARE.

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!

In Need Of My Time Gift-Wrapped

Hola, Honies. I have to tell you, after having my bank account hacked last week, then my wallet stolen by drug addicts this week, and a year of surgeries, deaths, divorces, weight gain, Taco Bell nights, loveless weekends and railing weekdays, I have to tell you...it might be the sobriety (which reminds me, I should fix that asap), but I need something good. Like something better than alimony. Perhaps it is your lil' Dagmar that needs to write into an advice columnist? I haven't had a therapist since Dionne Warwick (analysts don't count), and don't plan to, but Honey, like Richard Ashcroft says, the drugs don't work. Honey, I'm telling you: the crystals aren't working.

THEFT of My Time!!!

Honey, it's not enough that the men take my heart (and other...less metaphorical parts), the robber takes my money (RODRIGO!), the authorities takes my fairy dust powder, women take my leftovers and longed-fors, and now, and NOW, some fake philosophers have taken MY GODDAMN IDEA with an online dating site for men and women over 50.

If any woman used for advertising on that site is over 50 and any man is under 60, I'm a fucking sober happy virgin. "Our Time" sounds ridiculous. If anyone meets someone on Our Time and literally has sex with them instead of satirically, they deserve what they get.

How dare you, America.

Banking With RODRIGO

Ingredients for this My Time: talking to bank tellers, wondering how to get money, RODRIGO!

Oh, Lovers. Your little Dag woke up this morning to a terrible thing before the appropriate hour of noon: a ringing phone. Who was it? I shuddered to answer. But eventually, meekly, I did.

Who was it, you ask? Well, Honies, it was The Bank calling to tell me that all my account(s) had been wiped out after some "system" was something called "hacked." And what did this hellion do with all this money, alimony payments (signed in blood) and credit card information? Well, Honies, he spent it all ON CHARITY called "March of Dimes" and then, and only then, bought himself a nice little gift on QVC for his good deeds.

Oh, lovers. This wreaks of my ex-lover RODRIGO.

That man was always trying to get me to help: Dagmar, send my family some money so they can eat, Dagmar, send me to cooking school, Dagmar, the world could benefit from your generosity.

Oh, really, RODRIGO? Clearly in a moment longing for Little Daggy, you decided to teach me a lesson, didn't you, RODRIGO? I can smell a scheme from that Latin sailor a mile away. (well, after we dated I could, but not during.) So someone spent thousands of dollars on March of Dimes and then bought themselves some nice little kitchen gadgets TO HELP WITH CULINARY PRACTICE, DIDN'T THEY, RODRIGO?

 Well, Honies, surely this will work out. And if it doesn't, it is only a matter of time until I receive another hefty alimony payment from my ex-husband, the fucking classy man, which I DESERVE AFTER EVERYTHING.

your dream "man," minus the fucking class

Ingredients for this My Time: a fucking classy man, learning how to settle for less and/or more

Oh Honies, you've been told that he is out there. You've been told that it doesn't matter that you spent countless hours on your last one, a fucking classy man, listening, watching, perceiving, engaged in pointless cunning, rubbing his scalp, trying new things in new places, burning thousand year old lemon oil to help him sleep, rinsing his seed from your delicately permed up-do, cooking him tacos to eat while he tells you of his masculine achievements in self-love and self-knowledge, drinking on someone else's time but not dime, whittling away your dignity

before you decide in one triumphant benzo haze to try and feel proud yourself by strapping on those shoulder pads and telling him what you think...well, he won't talk to you so you call...well, he won't answer so you email. Yes, yes, you explain your needs over email, triumph, pride, testimony, everything! But then, like little wood chips, your one moment of Shoulder Padfemdom falls on the ground at his feet, with his words, his sophistication, his fucking class: "Dagmar Ottenham, you've inflicted thousands of words on me. Thousands."

What a fucking classy man. What's an elegant lass to do? Obviously, LEAVE. DON'T LOOK BACK. RUN. CLOSE DOWN THE RIDES. CROSS THOSE LEGS. THE CAT STORE IS CLOSED! Or, until that one check comes in the mail, practice another life lesson in which you set up for yourself 6 months from now the ability to look back and say, "never again, Honey. Never a man with so much fucking class." Really, it'll all work out the same anyway yatta yatta.

AnyWAY, it's the just way of things. Of life. Sometimes it takes a little sip to get to the bottom of your night, and sometimes it takes a night of drinking to get to the bottom of your relationship. Exactly, you see? Life, sometimes, in its winters and with copious supplies of blues, is really an opportunity to take all the things The One called you that show his own unwillingness to know you beyond your 80s-hot-bitch-in-a-soap-opera-exterior--volatile, losing yourself, unloved by him, not above suspicion, incapable of being the whore in bed he wants because of how nice and fun you are to those closest to him--and become those things. Oh, you can't bang me because it's complicated for you? Then I won't be bangable. Oh, I'm volatile? Now (and this is my favorite) I don't mind punching you in your fucking classy nose, so mind yourself. Oh, I'm too close to the people you're close too, as in, I'm too close to you to actually see you? Then a spell will keep your mind on my proximity. Oh, I'm losing myself? Well, if I'm gone then I'm untouchable. Oh, you aren't in love with me? Then I'm unlovable. Oh, I'm not above suspicion? Then I will use satire to be: suspicious.

Ex of suspicious behavior:

But this brings us, Honey, to what to do after you've powerfully transformed yourself into how he sees you. Sure, there's the whole eventually needing to ground yourself, be healthy, use alcohol like any normal person to soothe the anger, and move on yatta yatta, but for now, Honey, for now, how does it feel to Not Be You?

It's fucking classy: it feels inhuman. It feels safe. It feels safe without ankles and toes. And with a wad of cash and sophistication. This month's alimony check goes to only plastic jumpsuits, so you can become what he has always wanted you to be: mouth open but soundless, no feet to stand up for yourself to him, arms always open yet incapable of closing around him, quiet, distant, a fucking classy woman to match his own class, yet distant, unreachable, unknowable: loveable.

Oh wait. Wait. What's that, Honey? Is something else on your mind? Are you pensive, even through the destructive, brilliant haze of your "medicine?"

There were all the other things he told you? Oh. Oh. Huh. Oh, you mean those things. About how it was hard to understand if he was in love with you because you've changed his life so much, his conception of reverence. Then later, that he did love you, that he was in love with you. That you would be a good mother (something your background in the upper echelons of society made you dispute so much that you like to snort a line of The Pill along with your daily allowance). That all he wanted to do was sail around the world with you. That he couldn't go that long without seeing you. That he could argue with you late into the night and love you at the same time because he was a fucking man, that you body was like drinking from a stream, that you were good. So good. Cue the fucking air guitar.

Confusing, isn't it? Well, well, how we often find clarity in paradox. Or acid tabs. Ladies (and all you men who read this elegant site in order to learn about women from the top 1 percent: I know who you are, you fucking classy guys). There are some words that can never be unsaid, that leave imprints on your body. And when you feel a fucking classy man start a sentence that is going to amount to one of those body stamps, breathe in, because even when he says that he doesn't remember saying those other lovely things, that he never felt lovely things, that you break and inflict, that you are not above suspicion...well, you remember. Which says a lot, Champagne Sally. But balancing a dude's words against a dude's other words isn't the point, really. It's about your words. Have you ever said anything to your one and only that would imprint his body with a bruise? Fuck no. And do you ever want to? Nope. My my, this post has gotten lost like a round, light blue mixed in with a bunch of oval whites. Anyway, he may, in all pride and self-knowledge (oh Honey, isn't it hilarious when a warlock says a spell that only reveals its opposite? It's called a "revealing spell," or as the witches from the west say, a "proud man." Exactly) and terrifying lack of empathy need to stand up for himself, but Honey, a proud man is like a dead man.So much honoring himself. Well, he can applaud for himself, too.

And you, you with all your bitterness, closed vaginal signs, fantastic destruction and memory of his loving words, ie his love. Fucking classy love. It's like you're two people, one who is mourning the loss of that possible life like mourning the last Gucci show (oh, Honey), but also, you're the one with the alimony check. You got a hand and heart full of dolla bills (seriously, I had a surgeon put money in my heart. IT'S SYMBOLIC), and 8 lines out into the world with it and it's not fucking classy, it's fucking real as fuck. It doesn't matter that Adult Male played take-backsies with his affection or experiences with you because you're like not an adult. Besides the drug addiction(s) and house slide (most women went stripper pole. Me: slide, every time) you're not fucking classy. You're something else. So for the mean time, balance the memory of the good words with the bad ones, the want to manifest his stupid accusations with the knowledge of where your rich ass always is (safe, sound, and oh so hardcore: duh), calm the fuck down, and find your own temporary dream man.

They make blow up dolls for women and gay dudes too, don't they? Oh, but ha ha Honey, who wants to signify to one-up what the men want. It's like those women who try to look and act like dumpy men to attract women. Sporty Dykes!

Why signify on what we're all ready to be done with? So let's avoid the whole blow up doll enterprise. Hmm, let's see, something without a dumb face, something that will hold me without a sharp prick into my thigh, something that isn't trying to make me feel anything except what I'm feeling, something that won't take it all back, proudly...

Well, well, well. It's the Dream Man Arm Pillow!!! Like a gift from the gods, this guy has got everything to make you ladies feel awesome. Let's examine the differences between this guy and the man's preferred blow-up doll: no stupid face, an arm that will actually bend to hug you--not just be received, a stupid work shirt cut in half, and hands that are clearly meant for holding, not just self-applause. The blow-up doll takes a man's semen, while the Dream Man holds and is held. This man isn't fucking classy, he's fucking there. Are you saying to yourself, finally, someone's listening...oh yeah, well read some of these 143 reviews!


"The pillow exceeded even my wildest expectations. I'm told the pillow was modeled after Brad Pitt, and I believe it!"--oh my, a sure and confident woman!


"I bought it to give my husband the "cold shoulder" for some long forgotten misdeed. However, was I surprised to find that this is the most comfortable pillow I've ever owned."--and "he" educates! 

"I can't begin to tell you how much I love this pillow. I love it so much I named him Paul! Paul goes well with my mullet, so much that I don't ever plan on cutting it. It fits so well into the armpit slot and I will never feel lonely again. Paul, you're the greatest!"--well...I guess that's ok... 

"I really like this pillow. It allows me to fall asleep comfortably each night. I feel safe when I am sleeping in my own bed now. Before, living as a single woman in an apartment by yourself, you never truly feel safe."--huh...that doesn't sound good...

"My life is pretty lonely sometimes. I live in the woods alone, and it gets really cold. I try to find someone who will cuddle with me at night but it's hard when people call you names like "Bigfoot" and "Yeti". I guess I'll give up on love."--Whoa...whoa now. What the fuck?

"My husband died tragically and suddenly this summer. A few days after his death, my 5 year old daughter saw a commercial for this product and said "mommy , I want that, it's a daddy pillow" I proceeded to order 3- one for her, one for my 4 year old son , and one for myself. They have brought great comfort to me and my children during this horrible time. We dress them up in daddys shirts and we just tuck the extra sleeve into the arm. WE will be travelling with them soon. It was a great buy. recommend for anyone who lost someone or misses someone at night, not just a boyfriend."--holy shit, that's really getting into the stark reality of the matter and speaking one's need for comfort/safety and getting it fulfilled for oneself and one's loved ones in a badass and humorous way, isn't it? (drinks deeply, returns)  

So, maybe all this has to do a little more with you than a fucking classy man? Hmm. On second thought, let's go back to basics.

Tonight in bed will be: cheetos, wine spritzer, Mr Knife, a selenite orb, and not a nasty thought about any "real" man. It's sometimes necessary in order to distance oneself and spend all that alimony money without shame or even purpose, but right now, after reading those reviews, there really is no comparison. Love is hard, love is complicated, love is being able to be mad at someone and still know that you love and will be loved (a fucking classy man taught me that, who knew). Love is knowing that even though he's gone, you remember. And you're here. Which is also, here.

Emergency Contacts. Hello? Are You Out There?

Ingredients for this My Time: finding the email of a required-to-list emergency contact that isn't an ex boyfriend!

Everyone knows that ECs, if you're fabulously single AND LOVING IT and in the upper echelons of society IE RICH, are old people, old people who bestowed upon you such family money, and who don't have email. They have that one AOL account (that nephew Billy set up for them so he wouldn't feel bad when they died and he never hung out with them but still hoped he'd get a ton in the will) that they never touched again. If anyone wants to be my Emergency Contact in case I get stuck up in a tree with Keith Richards AGAIN, please let me know. I guess Keith can't be my EC anymore. We usually need ECs when we're together. And our accountant refuse to be our ECs anymore. God, it's like they think their only job is to watch all our money instead of turning us over on our side so we don't die on our own vomit...

Your Daggy has admirers, lovers, shoulder pads, and enemies (as every elegant woman must) all over the world, but in this little country I am currently court-mandated to stay in until my divorce with Mr. University is finalized, Missouri, there are no ECs for me, Honey. And you know what it's like looking back on all that stuff with so-and-so and feeling ever so bored (after 2 blues and a glass of red have dulled the rage, self-disgust, and confusion about where that lost check book is, that is).

I'll be taking the names of new ECs through my email, mytimebydagmar@gmail.com. Think of all the treasures and weaponry you'd get to rifle (baby's first pun!) through if you are my EC and I die in a plane crash! Which is obviously likely. Bulbs as bright as mine don't burn strong for long. God bless the pharmacist for keeping be dully alive one day at a time...the first fur coat is for you, Honey.