Body Vs Disk

Ingredients for this My Time: THINKING with DRINKING

Sometimes I like to think. And sometimes, thinking likes to devour me.

 When that time comes, I like to drink.

ETHEREAL. PENSIVE. GUSHING.

It is as if because I am a woman, Think can consume my body as if it were an object on the economic market to purchase, own, and discard when no longer viable or another upgrade comes along. I mean, whoever heard of a woman's body being a good on the market, a commodity one can evaluate for worth?

Oh. Wait.

This Mr Think often comes to say hello to me, and even after introducing him to Mr Drink, he refuses to leave. Mr Think has some problems with MANNERS. So what can I do to get him out of mi vida loca? I've decided a natural, holistic approach called DIET is the way.

Honey, I'm going on a disk diet. My thinking is that if I eat only while thinking about math, I'll lose this 25 lbs of bullshit I've gained since moving to my mini-mansh in the Midwestern country, and gain that much back in self-esteem. (Insert comment here about how women's bodies are not commodities to be evaluated and consumed). But really, Darling, disks.

"plus one 'Skinny Girl MargaritaTM,' please!"

They're safe. They've got everything they need on the INSIDE while maintaining a demure, white, symmetrical OUTSIDE. They're not hurting anyone, they don't make mistakes, and they feel absolutely nothing. I've been fortunate enough to have my training in being a woman starting early on, with my attentive mother putting me on diets, telling me no one will like me if I don't lose weight, and occasionally instigating a nice cardio session with her fists on my body or a bar of soap to the mouth (one can never be too clean! Lesson number one!). But some women can still learn that "you are what you eat!" And Honey, I've decided that I really don't need another pre-divorce ceremony (wedding) or another alimony struggle if I can simply and finally be: a disk.

What's that you say, Honey? I can't turn into a delicious disk with a slightly toasty BUT STILL WHITE exterior and a sassy, hidden inside that will only be revealed once I'm consumed by someone who has chosen and paid for me? Well, Honey, if my body is a commodity, then I'm a good on the market, and I should be able to upgrade like every other Apple product. I choo-choo-choose upgrading to a disk!

Ah, Honey, only a short time left for me in the Midwestern Country. Where will I go? How will I get there? I don't know. But I do know that my legacy will be the first woman who has finally understood that her body is a commodity. Sure, the feminists might tell you, "boo! Women's bodies are not commodities! We are ourselves! We are not owned by a male-dominant media and world governments nor are we going to compare ourselves to celebrities' bodies or magazine covers that are not real representations of women! We age and we have cellulite!" But here's the thing: our bodies are commodities. BUT GOD THAT'S SO FREEING! You know why? WE CAN UPGRADE! And since I've gained 25 lbs since moving to the Midwestern Country, I'm choo-choo-choosing to upgrade to a disk. A beautiful, thoughtless, changeless-until-consumed- disk. And the best thing about being a commodity is that once we are consumed, we are nothing. Lo, to be Not-Are...the next place I move will have heroin, again, at least. A lady likes to keep her options open!

"i can't stand you too much longer                                               _
can't you see                                                                              _     _
you can use me for some time                                                _           _
then i'm history                                                                     _                _
one more kiss then i'm history                                           _                     _
                                                                                        _                           _
well the sad martyr come                                             _                _               _
i scratch your arms and you won't come                                        _
scratch your eyes so you can't see                                                 _
what it means to feel so dumb                                                        _
one more kiss then we're history                                                    _
                                                                                                        _
what's the point of getting angry                                                     _
over me?                                                                                         _
you can use me for some time                                                        _
it's a game to me                                                                             _
i don't know you where you are                                                      _
like you used to be                                                                          _
one more leap then we're history"                                                  _


Of course when I'm not thinking too much, I'm blissed out. Instead of eradicating myself from history, I make a place for myself in it. While that feeling hasn't been around for awhile, it comes at times. Like exactly RIGHT NOW. The truth is that I've chosen to be in a non-affirming situation right now to strengthen other things and get a degree. What this degree means to me the closer I am to it is less and less. In order for me to find a balance between oblivion and bliss (and I do enjoy the pendulum of both at times, while with intimacy, music, travel, and vice) affirmation is something that I would like. It helps. Being told one is beautiful (something that hasn't happened to me in the last year or so but was a part of my life for so long that I guess I presumed it would persist) and knowing that the person saying that is sleighed solely by one's body is really lovely. Yet, this feeds into the commodity game that make women suffer so, as well as men who buy into a standard account of the woman's body that can be equated with lust, love, and happiness. And yet, it is helpful to wade in superficials sometimes. The problem, I suppose, is when we lose the difference between superficial and important in our own self-worth, or that we buy into the concept of self in the first place. Me, I feel like the energy I am is more like an avalanche or some forward motion that, because of its motion, chances from one thing to the next via action.

Honey, it's true.I feel forward movement yet without a hill in this Midwestern Country to fall down. It's embarrassing for us all. So I make my hills, hence :

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.

Lying is My Time

Ingredients for this My Time: lying, a computer, working out.

Oh Honey, you're so hilarious. You read my first post and thought, what a racist stuck-up white woman.

The truth is, I'm not married and I actually know what a virologist does, and I presume it has nothing to do with cave crickets or Muslims, although if you know otherwise, please let me know, as I'd be interested in pretending that I'm interested in your point of view. I do live in Missouri, but it's none of your concern why. It has been said that a woman's way to kill is poison, while a man's is blunt force. This is one of the many tales weaved during women's joint My Time. We enjoy a pick-axe as much as the next penis, but that doesn't mean we need to advertise our plans for your future. Instead, we take that hour of typing on the computer as a light cardio workout that cancels out the Cheetos we eat in bed with chopsticks (nay a finger will be stained orange) and our wine spritzers (red: less calories) that we casually test from our sippy cups (it's a spill-free zone, here, darling). The computer it a perfect device for women's My Time as it allows much lying. We all have that larger friend who posts pictures to their social networking sites that are extreme close-ups of their lips, eyes, and nose, as to avoid exposing the actual amount of skin that is taken up by their frame. This isn't lying as much as a form of not knowing that a big girl can get it just as much as a tiny one. For example, examine the stomach rolls on this woman as she gracefully releases a child into the arms of someone who will actually not expose the child to harm, so that she may return to the kitchen bar for more My Time:

The smile says, "oh child, look at you walk like a genius! I love you! I'm so proud of you!" But the stomach rolls and body suit says "I'm ready to sit down for the rest of my life because my life is My Time." Thus, lying can, paradoxically, become a form of light cardio. Yes, that makes complete sense.