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.