emailing

Ingredients for this My Time: an email account, sangria, a bitter heart pain, resolve.

Oh Honey, you know, I try to keep up with technology and other new kinds of passive aggressive communication, but really, let's get real. Email hurts. You've gotten them when someone should have called you, and you're so panicked when an ex-husband approaches you in public

but your face will never show it. good girl.

by tapping you twice on your shoulder pads like you're a stranger who dropped a Splenda packet from your Gucci bag

while you're trying to stuff a burrito in your face under a sun hat BECAUSE YOU HAVE SHAME that instead of telling him the alimony doesn't take back all those things he did, you throw the burrito and run out of the restaurant. Click click go your perfect heals in your mutilated feet. This is what your Dag did today when an ex flippantly approached her to speak about the ways that everything never happened. Oh, Honey. I threw my food, ran out the back door and walked around the long way of the restaurant so he wouldn't see my kempt rear end high-tailing it to snort calming air off my steering wheel. Had I not just come from my analyst, been sick, been recently robbed RODRIGO!, and completely life exhausted, I could have told him the words every elegant woman of class learns along with her first shoulder pads:

                                                                             Fuck No.

But I couldn't, and ashamed as I was--ha ha, I kid, I have no shame because I was raised with money--I still needed a way to tell him Fuck No. So I spend about 8 hours composing the perfect 5 line email. I mean, "perfect" may be a strong word, but so are: "I can't sleep with a woman and also meet her other needs," "I feel proud to know my limitations," and, my fav "you showed up at my house in a volatile state." I mean, do men know how medicated we are just so we can ignore half of the stupid things they say and receive half of the stupid things they hand us? I couldn't be volatile if I tried! Well, actually, nothing has made me feel as volatile as being called "volatile!" What fun the games men and women play with each other are! SO, I sent an email saying how I couldn't T-R-U-S-T him anymore. Boom! What every man cares about: your trust! Hilarious. Many of them can't even wipe properly, but they can inflict a precise pain like a prehistoric wasp. It was necessary to say, Honey, but oh, what an imperfect system email is. It's basically made for pre-first-sex and break-ups. The warm up and the rejection. It had to be done, but let me tell you, next time, oh next time, with a burrito in my left hand and a pointin' finger on my right, I'll let him have it. Whoever that "him" happens to be. And if I haven't passed out and died yet or you know, become blissfully happy. Well, I have just over 24 hours before I head to one of my villas in the Caribb'. There will surely be no email and a lot of island "time" to not think about all of this, and all the things we simultaneously must and must not say.

Champers on me if you fly your jet down to the islands, Honey!
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.

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.

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

Letting Yourself Go: True/False for Adult Women

Ingredients for this My Time: your 20s, your...later years...and everyone else's 20s.

You know, recently the Angelina Jolie Leg Controversy has got me thinking. What must it be like to have an adult life and legs of a baby praying mantis. She's beautiful, of course, but still, not a muscle on her. Also, it got me thinking about wanting to wear a short skirt, of course, and show off my own ham hocks to the Jolie insect legs. Then I thought, how many  times we women proclaim, Oh Legs! Everyone's genetics are different (of course) and we all have our genetic challenges. Yet, it occurred to me that as me and my girlfriends get older, for the most part, we care less about our genetic challenges. Being in alimony case after alimony case can really make one gain perpective: it's about the money, not the body. When you have the money, you can always wear the Valentino bikini, no matter what. And if I had a mess of kids whose names I can't remember, I would pop my leg non-stop

you own that shit hard. it's yours, it's insured.

Oh Honey, you know I won't judge you. Take comfort in the fact that I simply don't have it in me to care about you enough to judge you. I'm full with other things. So if you want to put on the bikini from when you were 18 and had abs, do it. Your tits may have dropped several inches, your ass might have dimples that a healthy baby couldn't match, and you might be living purely on maniacal hope at this point, but whatever. You know what, I've been there. In many ways, after my most recent divorce--no no, the fucking classy man, not Rodrigo

I'm there. Oh, Rodrigo, that Latin beast who was always like, Dagmar, you're so rich, why don't you donate to these starving villages in Guatemala and I was like, Rodrigo, everyone's starving for something, baby, which is why you're here and why when you're not here, something else is.

Honey, let me be open with you. If I tell you some of the scandaliso! things I've done, you'll surely feel better about how disgusting you are. Right now in the cultural mecca I'm living in, Missouri, there's a fabulous annual charity event called True/False happening. A part of this event is to watch things called "documentaries" or "nonfiction films" and sit in the dark. Lonely, isn't it? Well, your little Dag' decided to make the most of darkness. What did I do, you ask? Well, honey, I pulled out a mini-skirt that I hadn't worn even in my first marriage it is so old. I crossed my legs this way and that, cross, uncross, pop left, pop right, leg leg leg! I was on fucking fire. In the dark. Of course I had on my turquoise, selenite, shells, and mother of pearl. I was fucking shiny and one fire in the fucking dark.

But, Honey, you know what? Darkness usually doesn't last forever. So I emerged into the light. There was a mirror. What did I see? Under-eye bags, cellulite, and dimpled knees. And still, I had a ball to attend, sure to be filled with beauties of all shades (but generally one size and age-range). What could an elegant woman do? Now listen to me, Honey, because this is important. So, what could an elegant woman do?         

   Fucking suck it up and pop it out

That's right, Lovers, sometimes you have to be an adult. And sometimes being an adult is drinking beer LITE and looking at all the beauties around you in their 20s, nay with even one marriage or a spoken need or an reverent orgasm under their belt, and remember, you had those abs when you were "modeling." Your tits used to look toward God. Your skin was smooth and supple. Your hair was a lioness's mane. You posed by a lone sandal and still, and still, you looked "amazing."

ok, maybe you never didn't have cellulite...but your face was less fat

And now, sure, you don't look as amazing. You have lines, indents, those "yoga poses" you used to get into don't quite work because you can't twist that way when you have a roll (or two) around your mid-section. Your hair has faded. Years of mourning, love, loss, hope, and effort you have embodied.
You feel like, like,

You in your long sweater. Your baggy skirt. Swilling beer because that'll help your stomach's Ab Situation, won't it? Well, honey, I'm here to tell you. Last night for this True/False thing that's really quite amazing, I felt amazing in my mini-skirt. Even if I didn't look it. I was an adult, I sucked it up, and I popped by amazonian thighs to the left to the right pop pop boom bitches out of my way, I don't have to show my ID at the bar, pop left pop right go outside in the wind pop pop. Sure, I saw a recent FunMistake who was speaking to young, beautiful women, but then I remembered, what did I tell him in the bedroom?

I may have wanted to snort some of his skin cells to see if they'd regenerate my own, but I certainly didn't want him to talk to me. Who did I want to talk to about sex and philosophy? My girlfriends. So we hoisted on our elastic pants, got a bucket of margaritas, and quesobrated.

queso plus celebration= quesobration

We ate the shit out of some cheese dip.  In sunglasses and trench coats of course, because we are old enough to have shame, after all. I JOGGED AND DID YOGA BEFORE, OK? But you know what I never consumed when I was younger? Queso. Rarely an alcoholic bev. Sugar. Oil of any kind. Fats. And with my abs and hot body, you know what I never had? An acknowledgment that my young, healthy, awesome body was even awesome. Insecurity plagued me. I could have ONE MORE AB I thought. Thank god I got over that. I may have missed out on another hubby while I was shoveling the delicious beige dip in my face, but let me tell you, Honey, you see those indents in your thighs more than any man will because he doesn't look close enough. He's too busy thinking about all the important, existential things he has to do in his Man Forest. Unless he's gay, of course. Then he'll judge you to the floor but get queso with you afterward because he was most likely a fat girl on the inside when he was a child (holla, my gay hubby, JRT!).

As a famous burlesque dancer I know says, "I'm going to swing these tassels until my tits hit the floor." God bless that woman. And god bless being an adult. I still have those abs, they're just hidden under...other stuff. And one thing I have now that I never had then is the ability to not be scared of who I am, who I'm becoming, what I need, and what I want. Right now, between husbands, Honey, I'm trying to take myself lightly and my path seriously. And god bless the women who have joined me in adulthood who do the same.

we see your punches, Life, and we punch back. Coordinated, too.

These big round shoulders are going out again tonight, and they won't be alone.

Happy True/False, ladies, I hope it's an amazing affair, even if your genetics don't keep your tits pointed toward god. Who wants to be simply our parents, anyway? Let's show those "nonfiction films" some nonfiction body. Suck it up, pop it out. Left. Right. Queso pop! Beer lite pop! Adult body pop!

a reminder that all images are copyrighted by dagmar ottenham and her nonfiction creator. unless of course they are borrowed google images, which possibly have their own copyright.