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.    

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!

  

Guest Bloggers

Ingredients for My Time: girlfriends.

This blog has invited girlfriends, some divorced, some married with children, some married on the beach of a small Caribbean island by a Rasti and unclear if the marriage is at all legal, some alone, some with rooms dedicated to unicorns, some without any problems, and all with bottles of vodka in their past or future. Look forward to the loving advice of women who elegantly wear shoulder pads as they pass out in bed--something a model aspires to be able to make look as elegant as some of the women I know--who will share with you new ways to experience your own time as My Time. Signed your ever faithful adviser in a Gucci hat, Dagmar, from a cruise boat with a swarthy captain who I will save for another post about the importance of swarthy men in My Time.