Austin is for lurvers

Ingredients for this My Time: Tattinger, a large updo (that's a picked bleached rat's nest, Honey), a side of shrimp, and a foreboding full moon.

Oh, Honey, I KNOW. I don't keept up with my correspondence like I used to. I mean, I have all this TIME, but the difference between now and this time last year is that in addition to having all this time, I've learned how to download the entire oeuvre of Law and Order, I've given up on ever getting married again, and thus human contact is--at best, at times--banal. I mean, Honey, you're special. But let's play the "you vs. Jack McCoy game" for a sec:

Do people call YOU "Mr. McCoy"? Oh, no? Well, it's time to take a long look in the mirror, aka, realize with a seeming new shudder down the back what shame feels like. AGAIN.

Do you balance the line between conservative and liberal so expertly that you try a black poor father from Harlem and a white gentrifying rich woman AT THE SAME TRIAL? Oh...you don't do that? Well, have fun in Polarizing Belief Land with your la la morals and your puppy dog laws.

Do you never, ever once make a pass at the always never not very thin female DA assistant working in your office? Oh, not you? Well, congratulations on all your sexual harassment suits. And see you in court.

So, the point is, Honey, I've been very very very never not free to contact you while watching Law and Order. But here I am, in Austin, Texas, away from my Midwestern Country for a few days, and I decided to write you and say hello. Hello, Love! What are you doing? Oh, wait, I forgot: I don't care. Instead, let's talk about the fact that my most recent divorce, after a long battle in court to agree to terms, HAS BEEN FINALIZED! Now I can use my most recent alimony to start hunting for my next ex-husband! Shall we go to Rio? Copenhagen? Berlin? I think I'm interested in a count this time.

Oh, but here I am in Austin with all the bearded Texans. Where can a lady get an oil billionaire when she needs one, amIright? Anyway, I barely made it here as there were grave matters I needed to attend to. You see, I've become something kitchy called a Next of Kin for someone known as a Victim according to the California Department of Corrections. I know, what kind of charity ball organization is that?! You see, today is March 26th, 2013, and an inmate in a gorgeous orange jumpsuit is up for parole, but my little, tired, bediamoned pointy finger said oh no, Honey! And I made something called a Victim's Rights Video and posted it to Youtube (first $100 and glass of Tattinger goes to the lucky one who finds and manages to watch all 7 minutes of it!) and wrote something called a Victim's Rights Statement. Now, here's the thing about being the perfect victim's advocate/next of kin, Honey: you need to look, play, and meow the part.

So, I've been reading Blaise Cendrars' Moravagine and wondering what it might be like to be Macha, walking for HOURS in stiletto heels, and denying myself simple pleasures, such as one more Xanax, or the "missed local flight and wine bar at DFW happy hour!" Friday. I tell you, Lover, it is hard to advocate and next of kinney. One of the greatest mispleasures I've had to endure, and all who enter DFW do, is the amount of toe rings I've had to see! I mean, blond-haired ladies of Texas! Can we please talk about wearing open toed shoes to an airport, on a place, and making sure to accessorize your dogs before sitting next to someone on a plane for who knows how long who is trying, if at all possible, to not look at your body because said person does not want to acknowledge the proximity of your body to his/hers without consent, interest, or welcome?

And what is it with the women in DFW with giant burnt blown out hair who are wobbling by in their wedges and denim mini dresses, dazed as if just released from a sex prison for the first time in years? I mean, what is GOING ON underground or in a secret parking lot at DFW?

Which brings us back to: victims. While I sip on my Tattinger, eating small bits of fried chicken thigh from Eastside Kings (that I will puke up LATER FINE), "it was then that I realized"

who is a victim, and who is an offender? I mean, PUN.

So my lovely, eccentric uncle, the Earl of Creedence, was murdered in a gentlemanly duel when I was just a girl growing up in a castle in Tallinna. My father, being the younger brother to said uncle, was made forever silent, as if under a sleeping spell, from his brother's untimely demise. Needless to say, this intriguing incident brought much color to my already untarnished upbringing! The men who were less gentlemanly in the duel (CHEATERS) were brought to the Queen's justice and imprisoned. However, 15 years later, the first one is up for parole. You see, my father was the next of kin and would surely speak out against the 60-70 stab marks these bastardly fighters lefts in my uncle, but seeing as how the death of my uncle left my father blind with hopelessness and incapable of speaking, he drank his sorrows away, as any rich, untethered man does. But then, to be dramatic in before my quinceanera

I swore to my father that if he did not quit his rambling about Europe with a brandy in his hand, I would leave the castle for an aunt's mansion in the Highlands. And he obliged to keep forever our family name out of the dirt. Then, and this is where the irony doubles, Honey, he died on the way to an AA meeting! And because he was hit by a Rolls, a company in which his stock was the highest of any! So, let's recap. His brother's death lead to his own will to live coming back which led to a death at a "will to live" meeting, and he died from being pummeled by the same car that had brought us so much fortunate life! I mean, couldn't you just DIE from the humor?!

And now, the person who forced the actual next of kin/victim into a "righteous life" is the one who is morally obligated to "speak" in the death of his mentor, which caused his own death ultimately. I mean, it's enough to make a lady want to party at the DFW forever, never to be seen by society again and to compete with true Texas divas as they work that toe ring over a joint or bump bump bump-it that hair to the heights beyond sex trauma!

So, instead of going in person, which I will do for the most serious offender in 2018, I submitted a glamour shots video where I explain something called DEATH'S UNDYING IRONY. Get it? And to truly drive home how much I want the heads of these men, I'm staying in Texas instead of California, where the death penalty is tre chic. Oh, the death penalty energy I gathered for my video! Of course, when one completes this video, one must be weary of all the pounds gained on film, so I only ate shrimp for a week to prepare for my glamour. And now, sadly, Honey, I bid you ado while I snuggle up to Jack McCoy, the warm electricity line leading from my computer to the wall wrapped tightly around my neck to keep me warm, so warm, so warm that I go cold. But before passing out with my Life Alert heart monitor so that Butler can find me before the end, I loosen the cord a little, because after all, Honey, how can one not be so grateful for the ability to speak for all the loved ones who are no longer, who died when they should not have, who could have made me a little less of who I've become? Shrimp diet to speak for the lost ones any day, Doll.

champers and an orange jumpsuit on me!
Daggy.

A woman. An American Woman. In combat. It's called 'feminism.'

Ingredients for this My Time: equality, at least one functional vagina and womb, a bottle of champs, DIET gummy bears, and the world at large and your little lonely apartment.

Oh Honey, did you read THE NEWS? That's right, American ladies, we get to go to combat now along with our penisy counterparts! Oh, and did you hear?

"The move could open hundreds of thousands of front-line positions and elite commando jobs to women."

elite commando

FINALLY. A new stripper name I can get behind. And really, Honey, I get so sick of being rich and spending all my money on things other than preserving my virginity with knife skills, attendance to a despot who is the only leader in the middle east who doesn't disparage sub-Saharan Africans, and equal involvement in the politics of my country. Well, that despot is dead (the world sings in praise!) even though his death was a pretty hue distraction to real problems, and his despot level (don't worry, Honey, I'm making a chart) wasn't anywhere near despoto superior. I mean, he's as good as the USA is, right? He had an army full of WOMEN. See? EQUALITY.

Just look at that dude. He slept on roofs when he traveled to other countries. A roof in Paris. Because that was his tribe's tradition. Well, unless he's in the USA, because we have better ways of dealing with despots. Channels!


I mean, Honey, to be an American woman is to be polarizing. And to live in Missouri and be in the charity board business, looking for a tenured position in charity, is to experience this intensely and have less conversation about it. How do you know that?

A My Time Fun Game:

If you are a curvy, downright fat, sharp-faced, somehow not ideally attractive according to porn and/or MTV standards, repeat the two sentences above about polarization to your colleagues or the cool guys at the bars you hang out with who, you know, would never call you to hang out with them and the other cool guys, but are nice nonetheless and you all consider each other friends. Blink. Blink. Do it. Really. Or if you do fit into an ideal idea of beauty and piety for women, have a busty, chatty gal-pal do it instead. Here's you or that woman:

Now, if you're lucky, here's the best response you can get:

then he backs away into a corner with a Slim Jim

 But chances are you'll get some polite incomprehensible response that is akin to telling you to fuck off, if you were from the planet that could recognize that.

And ask a very petite, slender, quiet (and/or COY DEPENDING ON THE AMOUNT OF ALCOHOL) light-haired lady whose face looks smiley and voice is quiet to say the same sentences, but in the form of a question.  She wonders what they think! That might be you, so you can take this position. Here's this other lady, and the presumption is that you aren't one or the other type, but that if women are polarizing, society NEEDS SAFETY and types you for such occasions:

 Here's what she gets:

"I just like looking at you. You're nice. This other bitch told me her sure opinion on the matter and it was really offensive and unfair. I'm glad you're not like her. Look at my man brain-light head gear."

Girlfriends, compare notes over a bottle of Tattinger. If you're both straight, question what it will be like to have sex with a man again after your little experiment.

Or, maybe your vagina provides such polarizing pheromones into the air that you literally can't remember the last time a straight man tried to have straight sex with you.

That's ok, girl, that doesn't mean your opinion doesn't count. It might mean that you are highly unattractive to your polarizing community, EVEN IF you got laid a lot before. I mean, Honey, that was probably a different time and a different place, i.e. you were younger, hotter, less willing to speak your needs, and there were a lot more men in the cities you lived in. Don't worry, Babe, it'll happen. A lady has ways. Maybe you can enlist a girlfriend for help with this, too?

OH BUT WAIT. I forgot after getting all caught up in my story, Honey. YOU ARE EQUAL. YOU CAN FIGHT IN COMBAT WITH THE MEN. Let's forget that gay folks were allowed to do this before you even though they can't even get married in most US states, because that might remind us that the "right to combat" is actually a rhetorical gesture designed to put undesirables at risk while making them feel they are integrally a part of the physical, spiritual, and cultural essence of our nation. Drink that one away--another bottle of Tattinger, Doll! And let's forget that female people as well as those not in the one or other sex denomination our culture allows for do not en mass engage in war, rape, genocide, profit from them, or encourage them. BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE SEXIST YOU SEXIST LADY, YOU! Remember, sexism is simply stating the facts about the differences in the sexes. Blink. Blink. It's not actually instilling defamatory and destructive reactions to a biological sex or chosen gender. That's just fun!

Oh, am I a Bitter Betty? Er, a Downer Daggy? I'm sorry, Honey. Back to the topic at hand. You now have the right to combat. Women fought hard for this for you. Because female officers fought for that right, that means it is an award for women across this country. That's what feminism is. And you're welcome.

Before we all head off to combat, can we have one last drink? And honey, because it isn't said enough intelligently, the males we know have to deal with the exact same problems about presumptions that we do. But it is also worth saying that males are the ones that destroy the planet and humanity at large and yes, that's a polarizing opinion. But you know what, Honey? It's worth discussing, with men, women, and those whose chromosomes read across a spectrum of in-betweens and others. As you know, I love men. Too much.

THE THINGS I've done when they've asked.

THE THINGS they've done when I've asked!

So, for me, combat as equality makes sense. I fight with them. I die with them. I don't have to love them. I am one of them now. We have a common enemy. It's simple, easy, and I want to kill myself less when I think this way. I've finally found the answer to my suicide prevention: die at war. It is a good day indeed, Honey.

It's a win-win for the USA and women everywhere today!

champers on me,
Dagmar

Ah, The Lovely Mornings of God

Ingredients for this My Time: Taco Bell, Netflix account, your owned damned body

Oh Honey, it's OK, no one knows. No one is here except you and your cat. BECAUSE YOU'RE ALONE, YOU DISGUSTING WENCH. Ahem, I mean, because you are a feminist and don't need anyone except strong shoulder pads!

So when you wake up and realize that Taco Bell bits are scattered in your bed, and beside you sits the evidence bag and a bottle of hot sauce, just throw them away, worry about the sheets later, and climb back into bed. Clearly you had a long night after running into a recent-past lover while you were drinking tequila alone at the rock show where he excused himself to "bring drinks to friends" and you screamed (on the inside) "I HAVE FRIENDS, TOO"

so give yourself a break. You DESERVE IT. You can clean your 5,600 count cotton sheets and not-yet-released Macbook 17 (with beans on it) streaming Law and Order reruns later.

If you don't remember eating it, clearly the calories don't count, do they?! Go back to sleep. You still have your mascara and lip stain on, so you look fabulous--if you died right now upon passing out--I mean, falling back asleep--you'd be a specimen of perplexing feminist perfection. Just your naked body with shoulder pads attached, and your gorgeous, never-a-bean-did-smear-lipstick painted, dead face.

(btw, google predicted that after I typed "beautiful dead" that the next word I would type would be "woman," and just so you know, apparently everyone and their maid wants to see "beautiful dead women" because not only do you get thousands of real photos of these women--clearly of the lower classes and grade D celebrity kind, but you get thousands of alive women posing dead with perfect lipstick on. Isn't technology amazing?! We're all so lucky to live in this world we've created!)