Wetting Your Home Husks

Ingredients for this My Time: Old places, new feelings, old drinks, new hangovers.

Well, Honey, I finally made it. I'm back in the country called Midwest. And you know how I got here? I DROVE. With my feral manx beside me at every turn of Interstate 40, sleeping while I had to "keep myself awake"

I drove for two days, leaving Malibu-Lite, where I only had memories to, well, remember. Memories like my mother smoking a cigarette in front of a fire truck while only wearing underwear, as if the lights signalling danger were her personal disco balls. Memories like hiding hiding various kinds of wipes all over the house we shared as a family so that I could always feel safe. Memories like asking my mother at least 30 times to return the Gucci 1998 shoulder-padded shirt she "borrowed" from me. Memories like driving from LA until I hit my halfway point, my escape that I always seem to return to,

and then arriving to a place that strangely, beautifully felt like home in a way it never has for me before.

Ah, Missouri. My mini-mansion awaited me with open, creepy arms, and the local Taco Bell had almost gone out of business without my charity. One night to celebrate my return WITH EXTRA LETTUCE OKAY a knife fight started in the parking lot, but being the industrious, elegant woman that I am, I simply locked my 'Uar (that's my Jaguar) doors, closed the window that allowed for so much communication between me and the lovely man on the other side of the speaker, and folded my arms. I waited out the knife fight until I got my items.

that's right. It's about my Taco Bell

Look, Honey, sometimes a lady gets so excited that she needs to wake up with iceberg lettuce between her breasts as a reminder of her joy and her mistakes, which are often one and the same.

Now, more importantly that I'm home and feeling all these confusing home feelings, like, why is communication in the Midwestern country so confusing, I get to be home. That last sentence is called circular, Honey. And my birthday is coming up, which means either stab myself AGAIN instead of letting Dr. Rommelstein stab me with the botox needle, or: have an elegant affair for the community where we raise money for the most important local causes that effect women.

Ha ha I kid! You think that I'm one of those hateful, unintelligent rich persons who spends time talking about wombs and making opinions on what I think wombs should be able to do. But the truth is, Honey, when I think about a womb it is only my own.

Much like the drought during corn sex season that the Midwest is facing, my womb is all husk, and no place for anyone's opinion. The dessicated core of who I am, female, has been in a drought for some time, and when a woman faces such husky conditions, she can only work to lubricate her surrounding parts that she may walk in the water of life-bearer metaphysically. What doth female bear? Well, enough lubrication to assure others that she, of all people, certainly should not be a life-bearer.

So what should we do for my birthday? If the options are suicide or shoulder pads, you know it's a hard one for me to decide. If you haven't been here, Honey, you don't know the competition in the upper echelons of society to be constantly nice but not warm, talking but not communicative, friendly but not invasive. It's confusing, and after so many divorces your little Daggy can't just pile of the settlement money and make it communicate for her. So, what does she do? Well, she's frank. But the anxiety such forwardness promotes in me even in asking a lovely young person over to dinner. It's like with every turn if you are a bawdy YET TOTALLY CLASSILY RAD lady,

 you want to scream, "don't worry, I seriously mean to hang out and be buds and I'm totally not trying to sleep with you or make you uncomfortable by trying to hang out, I just like friends and you seem nice and if you think I'm a weirdo it's cool look I'm already over there bye." I mean, why can't we all just roll around on my recently cleaned carpet like tigers and stroke each other's hair and lick each other's paws? That's not inappropriate, right? That won't provoke anxiety, right? Ok ok ok, the truth is, Honey, I feel sometimes. It's confusing when my prescriptions run out and I'm home yet don't really know what it means to not have a home in this world yet, and I want affirmation that comes from human contact. Or animal contact. The truth is I just want to purrrr in sync with some others and roll around on the floor surrounded by a protective circle of selenite rocks and salt. I know as a rich woman that this is not too much to ask, so my goal is trying to be less nervous about things like desire, needs, and purring. I'm a dramatic woman who enjoys a good swoon now and again

and like Dr. Analyst tells me, if you are going to be a TRUTH BEARER,

 you have to have less nervousness about speaking the truths you truthilly speak. You have to toughen up if you're going to be so tough on yourself, and loosen up if you are going to be a lose whore. You know who you are.

Honey, a lady is always triumphant, thus will be my shoulders on the night Leo meets Virgo and I WET MY HUSKS.

With lubrication and (pretend) love,
your Daggy.


PS--god, the things I try to think about and the extent to which I avoid my charity work when I'm having one of "mommy's headaches."

Eating from bowls for maximum calorie satisfaction. Or: Courtney Love

 Ingredients for this My Time: food in a bowl, Behind the Music Courtney Love, a bottle of red, Chinese "calm soul" pills, and 4 pillows.

There are some women who are disdained no matter what they do, often women I like to think of as the "ten pound flip-floppers." I mean, one look at Brittany Spears' neck when she was a teenager told you that her body wanted some cheetos. She looked hot, but her body clearly wanted to be bigger. A part of enjoying My Time is knowing that when one needs to make a "Run For The Border" that it is indeed something to be proud of as you shout EXTRA LETTUCE on your double-layer nacho supreme Doritos taco bowl. If it comes in a bowl (or a bowl-like object), America teaches us, it is less calories. After Courtney's husband killed himself and left her with the ability to have much less My Time, seeing as how she had a child, drug addiction, money managers, and the paps, America still has never seemed to ease up on her. While watching the "documentary" (really, can any woman be fairly represented by a television channel that chooses to be known by a short letter-number combo that doesn't even equal an acronym?) and eating a frozen pizza out of a bowl while an orange sat nearby in a smaller bowl, lonely and surely to be uneaten, I realized (not in a Carrie Bradshaw way, but in a "there are no good answers" way) that this woman named her band Hole, not Whole, and has a sense of humor about herself that is witty and undebatable. When Dave Chappelle  lost his ability to experience My Time in private, he went to a magical place he calls "Africa" which is apparently a country where everyone understands roots and coming back to them. That's right. Africa is one place. It's a country. Courtney, on the other hand, enjoyed Rohyphnol and made where ever she went the Country Of My Time. This is a perfect opportunity to comment on Fredric Jameson, a man I met at the Sorbonne in the 70s, who became my lover. I explained to him the importance of a woman's hole as one that can, through material reality, paradoxically defy any conception of nationhood as material. Indeed, any hole is surrounded by physicality, but as we all know, it is how to fill the spaces in those holes that matter most to people, whether they are seeking a material experience or a mystical one. No one knows what awaits you when you enter any place that can be described as a hole, an absence surrounded by non-absence, and like the Soviet Union, when being inside the hole, or being the surrounding non-absence of said absence, nationhood becomes imaginary. No Estonian I've known has forgotten the material world they knew existing as a hole, an absence of physicality, at the same time. This all relates back to calories of course, where the struggle with desires about what holes to fill and with what items becomes a philisophical conflict. Which brings up back to the bowl, a physical hole, really.  Oh, Dagmar, you do digress when speaking about old lovers. Don't even get me started on Sam Elliot.

As the sun began to rise in a Missouri winter, I went to my freezer and looked for more food that I could microwave in a bowl and opened another bottle of wine. What's the point of breaking down if you can't do it in an Anthropologie piece of ceramic?

And I choose to follow Courtney's path. Get the money and understand there is no return. There is no motherland because, honey, the motherland is full of fucking wars, and your Anthropologie Senegalese sweetgrass basket ain't changing your broken heart at 4 am nor what Senegal will be called ten years from now. This bitch looks fabulous. I believe the reverence in her eyes are focused on the lit-up mecca of Taco Bell after the show. Fill your holes any way you can, Honey, because the absence they exist as are easy metaphors for all the material beauty you can surround yourself with and in.