Being Smart AND Sessy

Ingredients for this My Time: your big brain, destroying your big brain, a young man, an old desire, "multi-tasking."

I hear you, Honey. It's hard to be smart and sessy at the same time.

Hawking at a CA. sex club

It's hard, but you must. As an elegant, rich woman, it is your duty to present yourself to society as it expects you to be: fabulous, glittering, witty, and a look that says, "Society, I'm a demon in the sack." Oh, but you ask, how do geniuses like Stephen Hawking find the time for a cocktail and three-way? How do glamazons like Geena Davis manage to wax until their body's nerves are gorgeously deadened and keep up a Mensa membership at the same time? Well, I understand your problem. I may not empathize with you (because I'm rich enough to act like a sociopath and get away with it) but I have too wondered how to do this thing that the lowers talk about called "muliti-tasking." Sessy and smart? Can we, ladies, CAN we? As an elegant woman from the upper echelons of society, I only attended the finest private schools and universities before I decided to (continually) marry my way into mo' money, mo' problems.

she didn't learn "multi-tasking"

And then, after so much heartache and so much money and so much balls, so much of them swinging throughout my life like pendulums counting down the days until I become "A Cougar," I moved to Missouri to take a break (read: house arrest) before jumping into my next marriage. While here, of course, I managed to get into a little trouble while negotiating a marriage contract with someone with IBS, and then a fucking classy man. Yatta yatta, amIright? Oh, and then everything fell apart when the fucking classy man left me because he's proud to know his limitations (ta-da! manhood!) or because I'm a terrible, ugly woman and lover or whoknowswhythat'swhyIdrink, and my side-piece RODRIGO! cleaned out my bank account (temporarily: alimony from Huz #2 comes on the 1st, RODRIGO!), and you know what I was left with? Do you, Honey?

A lot of this:

the key is by the question mark

And never enough of this:

my friends!

It's hard to be smart, isn't it? I mean, if you're smart, you can simply critique the sessy right out of your shoulder pads. Well, that's what alcohol is for. I mean, friends. (seriously, you want to click on that link.) I mean, oh whatever, they go hand-in-hand when you're sociopathically rich like me. Anyhoo, it's important to know the real truth, Honey: society doesn't care whether you're rich or sessy unless you're fucking totally godawfully attractive, and that's the truth. Obviously I am (thank you Dr Constanzo, ASPS member 20 years!) which is why I don't stand still unless I'm adorned by attractive men

and why I don't dance unless it's with a lot of attractive AND foreign men.

Notice how my CLUTCHES are holding on to all these stunners, keeping them CLOSE because I'm TERRIFIED of losing them, but also notice how my EYES only say "Society, I'm a fucking demon in the sack." That's smart and sessy, Honey. Keep your enemies close, and keep their balls closer (seriously, when are we going to evolve away from them along with wisdom teeth, hymens, tonsils, and appendixes? It's like, get those out of my face, already.) So, while the truth is that no one cares unless you're fucked-up-good-looking, you can make them care by being smart (holding on to the last pound of flesh you can grab with your life) and by being sexy (never showing fear. Or any emotion really. Just showing FUN. I'M SO FUN AND HAVE NO FEELINGS IT'S SO FUN I'D DO ANYTHING YOU CAN DO ANYTHING TO ME BECAUSE IT'S SO FUN

even in small socks, we must perform

and that's the real truth behind the truth. Oh, but there are those nights, aren't there? Where you can't muster the maniacal smile nor the foreign men to add intrigue to your shoulder-padded amazingness?

no men. no emotionless smile. just dog to stand next to. but this too is ok. you will look sessier than dog. maybe.

Well, Honey, I'm here to tell you: it's ok. It's your prerogative as an elegant women of society (read: town) to have a down night. Only God and Dolly Parton can keep it up all the time. It's ok. You're kind of human, after all, and sometimes being partially human is about feeling. Sometimes you will go out in society and have to work with what's around you and what's in your heart. Let me tell you something that will make you less suicidal about your terrible life: last night at a charity function I ran into the cutest 21-year-old.

Awash in blonde tones and a budding mustache, he looked exceptional underneath the chandelier. A smart whip, he was even a good conversationalist and a writer. Now, I was having some "feelings" all day that I was "feeling" and even my best friends (read: red wine spritzers) couldn't keep "them" from coming to "the surface." You know what I mean? So anyway, I did what a resourceful woman does. I drank them away. But still, they remained, and I didn't act as though they didn't. I slammed several ex-husbands (large donators to this charity event, but a woman needs some bitterness and scandal surrounding her discourse to be intriguing) along with shots of gold-flaked champagne, spoke of my incredible hopes for the future (hilarious) and encouraged said young man to also experience hope for his future as an attractive, talented penis. Then, Honey, that old desire scrambled through my emotionless veneer at the same time I "got tired" from drinking. At some point while this young man was speaking of his desire for a particular young woman, who did I become?

I was that woman. I simply replied that the young man might like to come home with me instead. Now, because I was TIRED, I don't quite remember his response, but it was something like "You've been very helpful to me. And I'm only 21-years-old, ma'am." Like a woman without ears, I protested and he repeated. Eventually he HAD to excuse himself. Nay a pound of flesh did I have in my clutches that night, even when the world OWES it to me. Sorrow!

Now, here's where it gets interesting. Upon waking up the next morning tangled is 6,000 count cotton sheets, hot sauce packets, and Taco Bell wrappers (I SUBBED LETTUCE FOR CHEESE, OK?) I realized I had no idea if this young man was employing sarcasm or sincerity in his speech. Was I actually helpful to him by providing him with wisdom from my years of foreign intrigue, loving, and heart ache? Or did he find that I had patronized him by suggesting that his young, supple body had years and years of learning and sexing to do? Honey, I just don't know. All I know is that I think I hit on him. And perhaps your loyal Dag is embarrassed that she was TOO TIRED to discern "sarcasm" or "irony" or "youth." And his father is on the board of the charity! Oh, my. So, what I'm saying, Honey, is that being sessy and smart is important, but it's ok to have a night or a lot of nights where you aren't either. Instead, you're a primitive human being experiencing desire and loss, and that's ok, too. You know the first thing human beings find sessy and smart? Being a human being. You are one, you're amazing, and sometimes, sometimes, you're not amazing. But that's ok, too, because you're alive, and that's better than any young tail for an hour, any day of the week. So make sure you stay that way, and we'll worry about your abs and logic later.
champers on me,
Dags

ps--email me with your questions for the advice column, your experiences with hitting on young men, or some feedback on whether or not this young lover was indeed sincere or sarcastic: mytimebydagmar@gmail.com. Better yet, leave some comments!

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.

My Time With Diamond Dave

Ingredients for this My Time: Google, a bottle of champers, and Valentine's Day.

You're welcome.

Dagmar's Guest Blogger: Cindy Marianne, aka, Lone Star

Ingredients for this My Time: tiaras, miniature dogs, Oxycontin

I remember like it was yesterday when Mama stared into my sparkling blue eyes and said, “Cindy Marianne, baby, you’re a star.”  And as she adhered horse-hair to my bleeding scalp and popped perfect pearly-whites in place over my woefully irregular baby teeth, I knew she was on to something.  In my reign as Little Miss Cactus Flower (ages 4-6) I learned just what it means to be a star.  It means knowing how to prioritize, first and foremost.  Maybe Daddy can’t get his cholesterol medicine this month, or he was to watch Wrestlemania at the bar instead of at home.  It’s called SACRIFICE.  Sparkles are expensive, and extra sparkles are just what’s needed to capture that crown.  

Pictured: Sacrifice

It also means answering tough questions, and choosing interesting answers.  When the man asks what you want to be when you grow up, don’t just say “a teacher” or “a doctor.”  That’s for the losers in third place.  Tell the man you want to be a miner or, better yet, a house-plant.  He’ll never believe you’d perform manual labor anyway.  He’ll laugh at your adorable quirkiness and you’ll score a perfect TEN for creativity.  Then, glance to your side at the girls waiting in the wings with their glitter batons and tiny cowgirl outfits and smile in a way that says: “Check mate, bitches.” 

Pictured: Victory

When my pageant coach said my career was over at 13 because my cheekbones were “too lifelike,” it didn’t mean I wasn’t a star.  The world’s a stage just waiting for stars, and stars are only stars when other people can see their star-iness.  I mean, that’s just science.  Anyway, I found my new stage at Jingles off of I-10 two days after I turned legal.  I understood that Mama’s boyfriend Rick was getting out of prison soon and he needed my room to practice the lasso for when he became a rodeo star.  Little known fact, ladies.  Men have dreams too, and they usually involve roping things. 

Pictured: Dreams

Besides, since being psychic was one of my pageant talents, I knew the moment I saw Jingles’ flickering neon lights and slightly sticky employees that I would meet my soul-mate there and I did ten months later.  As soon as I saw Ray Steve’s lizard-skin boots as I hung upside-down, my knees on his shoulders, I knew that this was DESTINY.  To commemorate our wedding, he gave me the only two things I’ve ever wanted—a closet for my all of my scrunchies and a life-size portrait of myself, nude.

Pictured: True Love

Busy and successful men want to marry a star, but maintaining success can mean some lonely days and nights for you.  Don’t worry, though.  You can turn that time into My Time, and resist the urge to fill the hours with EMPLOYMENT.  First things first: buy a friend.  I did that right away when I bought Sugar, my Yorkihuhua.  Next, find local places that can accommodate your luxurious needs.  Did you know there’s a place downtown where you can get a margarita while an elderly Asian woman gives you a pedicure?  I bet you didn’t, and now you’re so excited you may explode.  Even if you do explode, Mai Ling will be happy to clean up after you.  She always smiles and nods when I explain to her about Sugar’s dietary needs.  She always gives me an extra umbrella in my ‘rita, too, because I’m her best friend.  Shopping, naturally, is a crucial element of My Time by day.  I can’t tell you how many glorious hours I’ve spent wondering aimlessly through stores looking for the perfect new purse.  The best ones have sparkles, because sparkles are for winners.

Pictured: Winning (Christ Edition)

You can always lounge by the pool after you make yourself a martini of an unconventional color (my favorite’s turquoise!)  and watch Javier trim the hedges.  Just try not to touch yourself when he can see you.  Or do.  It doesn’t matter.  He’s brown, and this is America.  If he tells Ray Steve, you can always just act shocked and insist that he pointed his erection at you.  It would be fitting revenge for the time Javier and Consuela spoke Mexican right in front of you.  People can be so rude.

Of course, the best prescription for My Time is an actual prescription.  Years ago, I sustained a sex-swing injury and my doctor, sensing I was in desperate need of My Time, prescribed me these wonderful white pills.  I can never pronounce their real name, and it’s not polite to talk about such things in public, so I just refer to my time with them as “Time Travel.”  Modern medicine is a miraculous gift for My Time.  They’ve found a way to streamline feeling good by putting it in an adorably musical little jingling bottle.  That way, you can take My Time with you anywhere—to an elegant restaurant, on an airplane, or a funeral.  When you’re feeling sad because Ray Steve’s out of town, or you’re nervous about being in court for a DUI, just do a little time-traveling.  You’ll wake up to a brand new week.  Plus, you know you’re safe because you got them from the doctor.  He’s a professional, for God’s sake.   

It's OKAY.  I have a note!

When night comes, the best My Time can really be accomplished.  You’ll be in no condition to drive after all those Turquoi-tinis, and safety’s important.  Have your limo driver take you through the drive-thru at Taco Bell.  It’s a fact that foods described as “supreme” are best consumed after midnight.  Curl up with your best zebra-print throw, set your Turquoi-tini next to your chrome lion statue, set a tiara on your skull and watch Varsity Blues or Transformers 2.  And as the sugary-haze of sweet alcohol carries you off to “sleep,” gaze longingly at your reflection in the belly of your chrome lion and remind yourself that once they start airing the Real Housewives of Houston, the whole world will know that Mama was right.    

Your '90s Valentine

The Ingredients for this My Time: too much sax but just enough love, and of course, protection.

Lovers, sometimes on Valentine's Day when I am without an Argentinian lover yatta yatta, I think about one of my favorite guilty pleasures. When I examine that history of such guilty pleasures (and I'm lucky that mine is one of the best live acts ever), I am filled with jealousy. Why can't a cult or a drug addiction or a stage accident come AFTER ME? There is a cult in Los Angeles that worships the color purple, between Downtown and Korea Town, and often, on the way to a walk through skid row, eventually to the American Apparel Factory Outlet (I liked to watch the teenagers on cocaine wade in the kitty pool), I lingered outside this cult headquarters...sitting...posing...wearing various shades of purple...and, nothing.

(purple vagina.) ...as a rich woman with no empathy, it has occurred to me that a cult, an addiction to heroin, or falling off of a stage (Honey, remind me to tell you of an ex-stripper friend who RETIRED to Vegas from LA, divorced her husband [who strangely looked like he had leukemia and was in a band named after a backpack] and thought she was stretched enough to go dance on that bar stool: broken leg) would be a progressive move toward liberalism for me. I digress. Anyway, no cult members ever came out, and all that sought little Dagmar out was this man who ALWAYS pulled up to me in a van in skid row and told me, nonchalantly, "just get in the van, ok?" The side door would open, magically, by the hand of another man hiding in the depths of back, and you know what, Honey? I considered it. But it was no purple worship. And lo, ahead of me was the kitty pool to watch.

So what do we say to days meant for global love and sexing? We take ourselves out on the date we always wanted to go to, as feminists with no particular grasp on appropriate, banal, professional reality would, and drink a martini per man we wish to curse/bless. We dye our hair red as a demon, grab a selenite orb,

and we welcome sentimentality as a protest against intellectualizing corporations like Hallmark (boring!). Play your favorite 90s love songs, drink yourself under the table, and don't spare any expense on you as your lover: wear that expensive french perfume, get that bottle of Imperial, and work it, you elegant beast. This involves comparing yourself to a hunter at some point, obviously, as there's nothing a Midwestern man enjoys more than hearing whispered into his ear, like a red-tail hawk woman, I would bring home fresh meat for you:

If you're not going to kill yourself AGAIN, join a cult, or develop a drug addiction, let the town that loves you, that welcomes you back to the bar stools with hoots and hollers when you've gone too long, that has never met but respects and toasts your father, allow you to be a 90s sentimental punk beat hot mess right out of Brian Eno's fantasy land. Since your childhood with dad was basically an Eno/Beefheart mindfuck anyway, you're on the right track, Sweet-De-De. Remember when your father brought you roses he cut from others' lawns every Valentine's Day, sure with a blade and revolver hung from his black leather fanny bag? Oh, Honey, you don't remember that? Oh, sorry. I forgot. I'm not a real person. I've lost who I am. So that must be a fake memory. It is times like these I wish my father (in my fake memory) hadn't died at the age of 39, and long before digital images existed across the classes. I mean...I was RAISED RICH and my father, a senator, went into witness protection. Anyway, he had an FBI agent send me flowers on the Day Of V. It's so hard to lose oneself.

But I'll still invade the body of a real woman this Feb 14th and work it for all it's worth. Give me that Old Time Religion/without your new afflictions: it's good enough for me. Happy Guilty Pleasures Day to Everyone, from your blessed admirer (seriously, can you please let me join your cult?),
Dagmar Ottenham.

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.

A Public Appearance. For the Fans.

Ingredients for this My Time: public appearances, looking and sounding fabulous no matter what.

Oh Honey, sometimes you just have to appear in public no matter how you're feeling. This is the price of being in the upper echelons of society and therefore being totally kind of famous. So this week your little Daggy gave a public interview on the famous (infamous?) Vile Jelly Radio show. It was for Valentine's Day. It was for crystal talk. It was for astrology. It was for satire as a means of artistic experimentation that leads to shedding skin like a nice chemical skin peel and coming out the other side starkly sober but knowing one does not have to be. It was for a mirror, it was for the heart, and Vile Jelly Radio is about the heart. It was for the person who isn't me. Which is me. I am Dagmar Ottenham.

Remember: you can always email me questions for The Advice Column or about anything else (but remember, a lady never tells her measurements!) at mytimebydagmar@gmail.com.

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!)

Dagmar's Guest Blogger: Revolutionary Mothering L.L.C.

Ingredient's for this My Time: less is definitely more; under no circumstances have either your cell phone or car keys on your person.

Any lady who has seamlessly slipped a tiny human out of her vagina (TA DAH!) can attest to the fact that once The Internal Baby becomes The External Baby it can be a touch more difficult to find room in one’s day for adequate amounts of My Time. 

Contrary to what countless misguided “parenting books” would have you believe the fact is that there are only two fixes for this dilemma: 1.) throw money at the problem or 2.) education.  Anyone who knows me well can confirm that I will rarely resort to a reliance on filthy lucre - no, I have always been a fashionably steadfast advocate of education.  The children are our future.

In keeping with the strength of my convictions, once judgmental nanny had cleared out for the day, I determined that it was time to teach Penelope to drive.  The situation had become absurd; ever since giving birth to her 17-months prior I had been chauffeuring HER around!  The irony was two-fold: she HATES her carseat and being driven about was previously a much-beloved form of MY TIME.  Yes, by teaching Penelope the ways of the open road I would be shoring up countless future hours of My Time.

With a mischievous wink I tucked her car keys (what fun I’d just given her her first car!) into the pocket of her onesie and within a heartbeat there we were, she poised for action in the driver’s seat and I, feet up, reclined in the passenger position!  Imagine my angst when I saw how far her feet dangled from the pedals.  In fact she had to stand on the seat just to peer over the steering wheel.    

“God DAMN it!”  But no, I am a mother, so I did not curse nor did I break into the uncontrolled tears of Dreams Dashed.  “1-2-3 Rainbow RELAX!” and Rainbow Relaxed I was.  Instantly.  The Rainbow gave me the clarity to see that although I might still need to man the pedals this needn’t necessarily infringe on My Time; both of my hands would still remain free for beverage-holding.

But from the moment we hit the road Penelope showed absolutely no self-discipline – not only would she not keep her eyes on the road but her right hand was constantly fiddling with the radio!  She wanted to play the WORST music at a constantly shifting volume.  “The road, the ROAD KEEP YOUR EYES ON THE ROAD YOU’RE GOING TO WIND US UP DEAD IN A DITCH THERE’S THE DITCH TURN THE WHEEL TURN THE WHEEEEEEL!!!!!!!”  Pen started to turn the wheel but too late and by the time I hit the brakes there we were, already half in a ditch.  It occurred to me that Penelope had zero regard for the value of her sporty-yet-wildly-oversized SUV.  “Kevin and I have spoiled her, we’ve given her too much, too early,” I reflected.

Unfortunately, as is often the case with these less-than-poised mother-daughter moments, there was a power-walking neighbor on hand to witness the scene.  Stare hard retard.  The plebian wisely chose to keep on a-walkin’ although he didn’t refrain from shooting a couple of incredulous glances our way.  Revolutionary mothers are often misunderstood and I began to worry that whispers of this incident might eventually tickle the ear of the Neighborhood Committee.

Having safely seen this busy body off I, ever nimble as a sprite, sprung from our vehicle the better to assess the situation.  The American-make SUV was now stalled at a rather daring angle which unceremoniously caused the driver-side door to in fact hit my ass as it slammed shut on my way out.  Unfortunately it was at this very moment that Penelope turned the full force of her Toddler Attention on the car keys and, with one decisive thumb stroke, locked all the doors.

Rainbow Relax.  “Look at mama Penelope, push the UNLOCK BUTTON, the UNLOCK BUTTON Penelope…”  Penelope was indeed looking at mama with slight concern but her stubborn thumb refused to shift from the lock to the unlock button.  She locked, locked, and relocked the doors as I, in order to convey a sense of calm to my offspring, continued to Rainbow Relax like a fiend.  For good measure I tossed in my WASP-on-campaign-trail smile.  Penelope seemed to buy my campaign promises until fate guided that tiny thumb to the Panic button.  With the car alarm now in full swing her jaw began to slacken and eyes fill; Watergate was fast encroaching and I could sense that My Time was just as quickly slipping away.   Far away.

But then my phone sounds!  TRIUMPH, my CELL PHONE, why didn’t I think of it earlier, WE’RE SAVED…oh look…my cell phone is ALSO locked in the car…  Penelope drops the keys (and thus any hope that her thumb might deactivate the car alarm) and seizes upon the phone.  Through the window I can dimly make out a text message from Kevin: “Home in 30.”

This ladies, perfectly illustrates yet another strike against securing Revolutionary Mommy My Time: selfish daddy insists on going to work as often as daily in order to “make the money that we need to live.”  

“SLIDE THAT LITTLE ARROW THING TO THE RIGHT BABY COMMON BABY JUST PUT YOUR LITTLE FINGER ON THE ARROW AND SLIDE IT TO THE RIGHT AND THEN HOLD THE PHONE UP TO THE WINDOW SO THAT MOMMY CAN SCREAM INTO IT…”

I begin to worry that perhaps I won’t be a shoe-in for The Mother Of The Year Award after all, indeed images of Britney Spears driving with countless babies seated on her lap begin to flash through my head and before I can use my WASP powers to suppress these images I begin to make troublesome comparisons between Spears and The Self, and I think I might faint.

Penelope hits the Unlock button, a monkey infinitely typing in outer space finishes the Complete Works of Shakespeare, and I realize that what I’ve just experienced while grappling outside the car was in fact an invigorating session of Revolutionary Mommy My Time!

  

Poor Grammar and Content: Now With Friends

Ingredients for this My Time: writing a blog that balances humor with pain, sarcasm with love, a past with a future, and hope with a martini.

Oh, Honey, I hear you. It irks you when someone doesn't edit for spelling and grammar. I mean, we live and love in a society for God's sake! And, worse, when someone puts inappropriate content on the internet, when they're trying to be a professional, like Ogden? (minute 1:36 is important.) How dare she? Who does she think she is, anonymous, another person, writing under a pseudonym? Doesn't she live in a society? Lordy. Yet...

Of course I'm not a pseudonym! It's me: Dagmar! Remember me? The little girl from a humble Tallina castle who was the umpire and commissioner of a sporting league that celebrated and defiled her own, and all, bodies?

Mmm, white wine in a box and a look of reverence, even in the rain! Looks like a healthy lass. And one that is appropriately covered, OK, in what seems to be an outdoor bathing vessel I've heard of called a "hot spring" which poor, leathah-y desert wanderers go to.

The thing is, Honey, that it's a wonder in this society that I can pry my lips off the pie pan or stop them from enclosing around little bitty pills like a fish to food long enough to write an ungrammatical, inappropriate mess. I mean, how can I live and love in this society when I know that I'M THE PROBLEM with it? I mean, I'm an amazing mess! Look at me! I'm incredible and terrible!

 So pat yourself on the back for being so good, such a good soldier and/or lover, and deal with this.

FYI: no one has actually said anything to lil' ol' Daggy about how her terrible grammar and content bother them. But, Honey, we know it's always safer in the upper echelons of society to frame everything--before anyone gets a chance to--as a kind of pre-apology.

Ha ha ha--that last one was sent to me as an "e-card" recently because I took in a lover named Daveed from the Cayman Islands. I thought he was Benecio Del Toro! My girlfriends laughed and laughed. I just LOVE my FRIENDS. Of which I HAVE SO MANY I'VE ALMOST MANIACALLY CAPITALIZED FRIENDSHIPS OF THE WORLD. Why? Because we're rich and amazing and gorgeous. They love you, they hate you, they are human, and so are you.

Like an Eastern European discotekka, sincerity and irony have merged in our world, and it's OK to start a project of testimony and art that has no clear outcome, nor a clear conscience. To support such ends (ha ha--I mean NO ENDS), Dagmar has asked some of her most sessy, fabulous, rich girlfriends to write about their My Times. Look for upcoming regular posts (and possibly nude photos!) by "Mommies' My Time," "The One-Percent's My Time" and "The Scholar's My Time" We're all so sorry for your loss, and we know you love to watch us turn ours into real wins. Let's all pretend not to know about each others' secrets and pains the next time we meet up, OK? Champers on me! Love, Daggy.