Greece on a pearl string

Ingredients for this My Time: the perfect outfit and story to make foreign travel worthwhile.

Honey, I've made it to Greece, am on the yacht...where are you? I thought we were going to hunt for our future ex-husbands together? Oil barons are so in--you know that is so if women half our age are dating them. But for us, marriage is dating, and alimony is where the sweet memories lie. Without you here I've already managed to get into some trouble--hush hush, not that bad, but you know, enough to give me some foreign intrigue that will send those oil-dripping glances my way! First, as you may know, I enjoy understanding what it means to be common, so I've decided to stay in less elegant digs to fit in with the people. But, that doesn't mean that a lady doesn't need to be pampered.

So, of course, I turned my chin up and pranced into one of the local resorts. After parking in a reserved spot to prove that I belong there, I found my way to the restaurant. When I sat at a table not knowing that it was room-reserved, I simply pointed toward the sea and proclaimed that my husband knew what room we were in and I wouldn't bother to examine such details. Thus, I was given a "snack bar menu," instead of offered the fixed on, and let me tell you, that large pizza THAT I ORDERED WITH LESS CHEESE BUT THE REQUEST DID NOT TRANSLATE SO LOOK I TRIED tasted delicious. And god, the Greeks really love their bread. It was like foccacia crust! But that's what bathroom time is for, Honey, and at the resort, the perfect bathroom attendant will hold back your hair as you let the staff know what you think about their "snack bar menu."

To prove that I was a member of this club, I of course walked around with my LEFTOVERS YES I HAD SOME to the pool, the sea, sitting under and umbrella while posing with a scarf IN THE WIND

and then left my pizza box for someone else to clean up, as I am not paid for such things. The next day, well, a riotous thing happened. It was summer solstice, an important day for any woman to remember that her vagina is connected to the stream of the universe or whatever, so I donned a maxi dress (to cover the cellulite of a knowledgeable woman), a fluorite pendant (to connect to those who are lost, like ex-huzzies' bank accounts), and selenite earrings (to keep the heart strong while ex-huzzie shopping).

I went out to dinner with some elegant, rich friends who are already married, and as the one who drove, accidentally drove us right into some local Greek woman's yard! I know, Honey, it's HILARIOUS. JUST THINK OF MY HUMILIATION. I kid, we all know that as a rich woman, shame is not something I care for. Not wanting to continue to ruin the Rolls I borrowed, as I do have some standards, the woman's husband came out and pulled the car out of the narrow drive for me. I laughed and laughed, because it was SO FUNNY.

This is what it's like to travel, Honey. Crazy things happen, and it suits a lady to have a sense of whimsy about it, which, of course, I ALWAYS HAVE I NEVER DON'T FEEL GREAT AND EVERY MAN CAN TELL WHAT A GREAT TIME I AM, EVEN WHILE RUNNING INTO YARDS. Ahem, excuse me, I must have coughed.

Anyway, hurry and get to the yacht. I'm at the inflatable one next to the (slightly) larger one, waiting to show that oil baron ALL that I have to give.

Love,
your Daggy.

Foreign Travel & American Entitlement

Ingredients for this My Time: getting the fuck out of 'Merica, little bottles of tequila to bring on the plane (thanks, Tay), hiding places, exta-lift bras.

Honey, my little pure-bred Siamese cat is safe with her sitters, my mother and brother have successfully moved in and one has gone to jail for insider trading (one down, one to go! I kid. It's actually sad. If I hadn't removed my tear ducts after my first divorce to keep the world from knowing my profound pain, I would cry), I've hidden my possessions, I got a bad attitude, and cut half my hair off. So, being that I'm a woman of the world, from nowhere really, I'm ready to go, and terrified of leaving. But, a good bra can make any woman lift her chin an extra inch into the air to provide a reasonable space between tit and face. Honey, I may have a bad attitude, but this bitch's chin is lifted. Where you from?

Which reminds me, because you see, Honey, I have some feelings that seep out sometime when I'm not looking for THEM, and I heard through the rich person email listserv that an authority figure (of wealth) recently said that peons, like me, a mere millionaire, are too entitled and complain too much, while when he was working through his millions to billions, he would have never complained about some such nonsense. Honey, only in 'Merica does meta complaining happen. Well, this elegant gash is getting out of this shit pile to another richer, oil baron country where instead of men complaining about complaining they complain about real things, like, why are you so fat? Why isn't your shirt off yet? Why are we still talking? Do you like yachts? Why don't you get a Brazilian? Are you good at keeping secrets? How much? Only a system that facilitates complaining as a way to avoid dealing with actual messes has the luxury of complaining about complaining. That damn gym! How I loathe and need my workout amongst billionaires! How I crave their mildly polite attention in a socially cold climate, but how I suffer from the inability to workout in my heels, without irony, just complete, pure sincerity at work that needs a pat on the back while I work toward my goal! I will never succeed in this small world of working out...

Me, I'm just all out there and terrible, as is 'Merica, but it simultaneously has its lips pressed so tight that they blister. Me, my lips couldn't be looser. Haha I kid--of course I've had rejuvenation.

It's probably because I'm entitled that I can't see the forest for the mentally ill trees. It's probably because I'm a tall, naked monster. It's probably because my next husband will be consumed through my teeth-bearing vagina and puked out in gold coins through my mouth while I scream for Sum Gratification.

my body is a nightmareland

Now that, Honey, will be a hard day worth complaining about, over champers for all the 'Merican billionaires on me, of course. If my plane doesn't crash, see you at the gym in July, Honey, and Authority: I just might see you again. If not, I'm sure your life will be much easier. If we must meet and you must smile accordingly, I expect a pretend-hug and champers toast in crystal goblets. I promise to never complain about the blood soaked towels and noodles in the toilet of the gym again. Because those things are so normal.

Seeing as how all of this has made complete sense, I now depart. I have many hats and low-cut bathing suits to pack for my foreign travel.

love,
your Daggy

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?