Austin is for lurvers

Ingredients for this My Time: Tattinger, a large updo (that's a picked bleached rat's nest, Honey), a side of shrimp, and a foreboding full moon.

Oh, Honey, I KNOW. I don't keept up with my correspondence like I used to. I mean, I have all this TIME, but the difference between now and this time last year is that in addition to having all this time, I've learned how to download the entire oeuvre of Law and Order, I've given up on ever getting married again, and thus human contact is--at best, at times--banal. I mean, Honey, you're special. But let's play the "you vs. Jack McCoy game" for a sec:

Do people call YOU "Mr. McCoy"? Oh, no? Well, it's time to take a long look in the mirror, aka, realize with a seeming new shudder down the back what shame feels like. AGAIN.

Do you balance the line between conservative and liberal so expertly that you try a black poor father from Harlem and a white gentrifying rich woman AT THE SAME TRIAL? Oh...you don't do that? Well, have fun in Polarizing Belief Land with your la la morals and your puppy dog laws.

Do you never, ever once make a pass at the always never not very thin female DA assistant working in your office? Oh, not you? Well, congratulations on all your sexual harassment suits. And see you in court.

So, the point is, Honey, I've been very very very never not free to contact you while watching Law and Order. But here I am, in Austin, Texas, away from my Midwestern Country for a few days, and I decided to write you and say hello. Hello, Love! What are you doing? Oh, wait, I forgot: I don't care. Instead, let's talk about the fact that my most recent divorce, after a long battle in court to agree to terms, HAS BEEN FINALIZED! Now I can use my most recent alimony to start hunting for my next ex-husband! Shall we go to Rio? Copenhagen? Berlin? I think I'm interested in a count this time.

Oh, but here I am in Austin with all the bearded Texans. Where can a lady get an oil billionaire when she needs one, amIright? Anyway, I barely made it here as there were grave matters I needed to attend to. You see, I've become something kitchy called a Next of Kin for someone known as a Victim according to the California Department of Corrections. I know, what kind of charity ball organization is that?! You see, today is March 26th, 2013, and an inmate in a gorgeous orange jumpsuit is up for parole, but my little, tired, bediamoned pointy finger said oh no, Honey! And I made something called a Victim's Rights Video and posted it to Youtube (first $100 and glass of Tattinger goes to the lucky one who finds and manages to watch all 7 minutes of it!) and wrote something called a Victim's Rights Statement. Now, here's the thing about being the perfect victim's advocate/next of kin, Honey: you need to look, play, and meow the part.

So, I've been reading Blaise Cendrars' Moravagine and wondering what it might be like to be Macha, walking for HOURS in stiletto heels, and denying myself simple pleasures, such as one more Xanax, or the "missed local flight and wine bar at DFW happy hour!" Friday. I tell you, Lover, it is hard to advocate and next of kinney. One of the greatest mispleasures I've had to endure, and all who enter DFW do, is the amount of toe rings I've had to see! I mean, blond-haired ladies of Texas! Can we please talk about wearing open toed shoes to an airport, on a place, and making sure to accessorize your dogs before sitting next to someone on a plane for who knows how long who is trying, if at all possible, to not look at your body because said person does not want to acknowledge the proximity of your body to his/hers without consent, interest, or welcome?

And what is it with the women in DFW with giant burnt blown out hair who are wobbling by in their wedges and denim mini dresses, dazed as if just released from a sex prison for the first time in years? I mean, what is GOING ON underground or in a secret parking lot at DFW?

Which brings us back to: victims. While I sip on my Tattinger, eating small bits of fried chicken thigh from Eastside Kings (that I will puke up LATER FINE), "it was then that I realized"

who is a victim, and who is an offender? I mean, PUN.

So my lovely, eccentric uncle, the Earl of Creedence, was murdered in a gentlemanly duel when I was just a girl growing up in a castle in Tallinna. My father, being the younger brother to said uncle, was made forever silent, as if under a sleeping spell, from his brother's untimely demise. Needless to say, this intriguing incident brought much color to my already untarnished upbringing! The men who were less gentlemanly in the duel (CHEATERS) were brought to the Queen's justice and imprisoned. However, 15 years later, the first one is up for parole. You see, my father was the next of kin and would surely speak out against the 60-70 stab marks these bastardly fighters lefts in my uncle, but seeing as how the death of my uncle left my father blind with hopelessness and incapable of speaking, he drank his sorrows away, as any rich, untethered man does. But then, to be dramatic in before my quinceanera

I swore to my father that if he did not quit his rambling about Europe with a brandy in his hand, I would leave the castle for an aunt's mansion in the Highlands. And he obliged to keep forever our family name out of the dirt. Then, and this is where the irony doubles, Honey, he died on the way to an AA meeting! And because he was hit by a Rolls, a company in which his stock was the highest of any! So, let's recap. His brother's death lead to his own will to live coming back which led to a death at a "will to live" meeting, and he died from being pummeled by the same car that had brought us so much fortunate life! I mean, couldn't you just DIE from the humor?!

And now, the person who forced the actual next of kin/victim into a "righteous life" is the one who is morally obligated to "speak" in the death of his mentor, which caused his own death ultimately. I mean, it's enough to make a lady want to party at the DFW forever, never to be seen by society again and to compete with true Texas divas as they work that toe ring over a joint or bump bump bump-it that hair to the heights beyond sex trauma!

So, instead of going in person, which I will do for the most serious offender in 2018, I submitted a glamour shots video where I explain something called DEATH'S UNDYING IRONY. Get it? And to truly drive home how much I want the heads of these men, I'm staying in Texas instead of California, where the death penalty is tre chic. Oh, the death penalty energy I gathered for my video! Of course, when one completes this video, one must be weary of all the pounds gained on film, so I only ate shrimp for a week to prepare for my glamour. And now, sadly, Honey, I bid you ado while I snuggle up to Jack McCoy, the warm electricity line leading from my computer to the wall wrapped tightly around my neck to keep me warm, so warm, so warm that I go cold. But before passing out with my Life Alert heart monitor so that Butler can find me before the end, I loosen the cord a little, because after all, Honey, how can one not be so grateful for the ability to speak for all the loved ones who are no longer, who died when they should not have, who could have made me a little less of who I've become? Shrimp diet to speak for the lost ones any day, Doll.

champers and an orange jumpsuit on me!
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

Miss me, Honey?

This is just to say that I haven't forgotten you. I've been very busy figuring out ways to not be busy, and I've discovered a lovely manpanion that has kept me occupied (xanax bubble water, grapefruit juice (IT'S HEALTHY) and tequila.

But, don't worry, Honey, this Friday is my some velvet morning. I'm off to St Croix, and I plan on taking you with me. So, wax everything, and get ready to hear a bunch from me next weekend.

Champers on me, Honey.

In Need Of My Time Gift-Wrapped

Hola, Honies. I have to tell you, after having my bank account hacked last week, then my wallet stolen by drug addicts this week, and a year of surgeries, deaths, divorces, weight gain, Taco Bell nights, loveless weekends and railing weekdays, I have to tell you...it might be the sobriety (which reminds me, I should fix that asap), but I need something good. Like something better than alimony. Perhaps it is your lil' Dagmar that needs to write into an advice columnist? I haven't had a therapist since Dionne Warwick (analysts don't count), and don't plan to, but Honey, like Richard Ashcroft says, the drugs don't work. Honey, I'm telling you: the crystals aren't working.

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!

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.