Greece on a pearl string

Ingredients for this My Time: the perfect outfit and story to make foreign travel worthwhile.

Honey, I've made it to Greece, am on the yacht...where are you? I thought we were going to hunt for our future ex-husbands together? Oil barons are so in--you know that is so if women half our age are dating them. But for us, marriage is dating, and alimony is where the sweet memories lie. Without you here I've already managed to get into some trouble--hush hush, not that bad, but you know, enough to give me some foreign intrigue that will send those oil-dripping glances my way! First, as you may know, I enjoy understanding what it means to be common, so I've decided to stay in less elegant digs to fit in with the people. But, that doesn't mean that a lady doesn't need to be pampered.

So, of course, I turned my chin up and pranced into one of the local resorts. After parking in a reserved spot to prove that I belong there, I found my way to the restaurant. When I sat at a table not knowing that it was room-reserved, I simply pointed toward the sea and proclaimed that my husband knew what room we were in and I wouldn't bother to examine such details. Thus, I was given a "snack bar menu," instead of offered the fixed on, and let me tell you, that large pizza THAT I ORDERED WITH LESS CHEESE BUT THE REQUEST DID NOT TRANSLATE SO LOOK I TRIED tasted delicious. And god, the Greeks really love their bread. It was like foccacia crust! But that's what bathroom time is for, Honey, and at the resort, the perfect bathroom attendant will hold back your hair as you let the staff know what you think about their "snack bar menu."

To prove that I was a member of this club, I of course walked around with my LEFTOVERS YES I HAD SOME to the pool, the sea, sitting under and umbrella while posing with a scarf IN THE WIND

and then left my pizza box for someone else to clean up, as I am not paid for such things. The next day, well, a riotous thing happened. It was summer solstice, an important day for any woman to remember that her vagina is connected to the stream of the universe or whatever, so I donned a maxi dress (to cover the cellulite of a knowledgeable woman), a fluorite pendant (to connect to those who are lost, like ex-huzzies' bank accounts), and selenite earrings (to keep the heart strong while ex-huzzie shopping).

I went out to dinner with some elegant, rich friends who are already married, and as the one who drove, accidentally drove us right into some local Greek woman's yard! I know, Honey, it's HILARIOUS. JUST THINK OF MY HUMILIATION. I kid, we all know that as a rich woman, shame is not something I care for. Not wanting to continue to ruin the Rolls I borrowed, as I do have some standards, the woman's husband came out and pulled the car out of the narrow drive for me. I laughed and laughed, because it was SO FUNNY.

This is what it's like to travel, Honey. Crazy things happen, and it suits a lady to have a sense of whimsy about it, which, of course, I ALWAYS HAVE I NEVER DON'T FEEL GREAT AND EVERY MAN CAN TELL WHAT A GREAT TIME I AM, EVEN WHILE RUNNING INTO YARDS. Ahem, excuse me, I must have coughed.

Anyway, hurry and get to the yacht. I'm at the inflatable one next to the (slightly) larger one, waiting to show that oil baron ALL that I have to give.

Love,
your 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

Dagmar's Mother

You know, Honey, some things just need to be said outside of a pillow scream and into the far more (in)direct world of the internet. I've invented a drink called Tequila Milk, I've spilled DIET vanilla soy milk all over my NIGHT SHIRT, I've bought an extra container of disinfectant wipes to calm the nerves, I've done something called "downloaded" with something called "apps," I've got the REAL Housewives of Some American Rich Un-City on, and it has happened: the person who calls my birthday "the day Stevie Ray Vaughn died," my mother, has moved. in.

Since childhood, I haven't felt as ashamed of sneaking into the kitchen for a midnight roast chicken, pasta, and cocktail! Having not spent the same night in a house as this lady since I was a rosy, bubbly child of wealth, an she was an elegant duchess of NewWorstDam, the richest region of The Nether Regions, how I worry about being seen. The quiet, sad clicks I am sneaking with my heels...

I leave the country on Friday. Or do I?

You Know It's Been Awhile When...

Inspired by Joey Lawrence joining CHIPPENDALE'S, and can we PLEASE mention how smug he is acting in interviews about it? Dude, you're the "whoa" guy. That's your claim to fame. Deal with it.
Me on the other hand, Honey, I'm fam-us for my games. Emotional, sexual, card and dice, I'm always game. Ha ha see what I did? I used a word as a noun and as an adjective-like thing. That's an adjective, right? Or. Wait. That's another noun, a state of being. Ha ha who am I kidding? I HAVE NO state of being. I'm all adjectives without a noun to associate the characteristics with. Let's play a game.

First, let's prepare for the game. After days of not eating due to an illness caught in Mexico NO IT'S NOT HEP C I've been, as ladies like to say with their calories, "catching up." I have DIET cheese and crackers in front of me, a lazy too-rasiany tasting Italian red in my glass, and a stupid food show on the television that I am inhaling because it's like celery--negative calorie intake. Can you imagine that? Celery is like negative calories. It is truly God and God's other at the same time.

Now, here's a fun game. It's called Shame. I'll start.

You Know It's Been Awhile When...

you put on mascara before going to get a massage.

you have more than one kind of bubble bath in your bathing area.

a man as gay as a unicorn with a rainbow mane and a black leather studded saddle grabbing your breasts made you feel funny

you call your cat "my lover, my baby"

YOU ARE THINKING ABOUT BEING IN YOUR 30S WITH NO MONEY, NO PROSPECTS, SUPPORT BRAS, AND BACK ACHES

you are making a list about your lack


NOSE HAIR!!!!

you spread out on your bed and sigh every night

you hold your Mr. Knife tight under the pillow

you hold a selenite orb in your left hand and act as conduit

you are more magickal because of the last time you weren't in lack

you are watching television without worrying if YOUR SMART LOVER IS JUDGING YOU because, well, you don't have one

you found a line on your face that you think looks cool

you don't care as much what you look like anymore

you worry about dying, sure, but you aren't worried about forcing it

eh, you're fine, so have another drink, because NO ONE IS JUDGING YOUR LACK OF MODERATION, and deal with this, you fucking freak who's having a good time with your games

Mexico And The City (MATC): Revenge of the Sopa

Ingredients for this My Time: Immodium AD, Hint flavored water, bed, an Iphone, a gay life partner.

Well hello there, Honey. What are you doing? Oh, that's nice. Work, vacay, coffee, morning cocktails. Your life sounds so normal and nice. Oh, me? Thanks for asking. I'm here. You know. Here. Let me tell you how it began.

I was in the Mexico City airport, again, as an elegant woman finds herself in occasionally. Whilst before there I had seen a strange yet alluring man playing a ukelele and humming a tune, following me with his gaze while I was trying to eat my huevos rancheros WITH NO CHEESE in private shame, and I thought, who is this strange man, and should I talk to him

Dr. Suess-shaped-face of musicians

it was already too late. Thus, another husband squandered due to your little Dag stuffing her face with LOVE AND SAFETY. While men can do things like compete in "The Biscuit Challenge" for no gain, emotional or physical--just pure prowess and intrigue--we women, as you will see below, have deep emotional bonds with our eating. But this time, I was on a return trip to Los Angeles, or as Shas of Sunset call it, Tehrangelos

I was remembering my incredible arrival into MX City when I found a whole new kind of lover

who I sang to, with all my heart, how you're my best friend, but I am just to close to love you, but I can't stop loving you, but I am too close to love you 

After working so hard on the final chapter of my project, I shoveled that good lovin' in (under a large, expensive sun hat, of course, to hide my shame and orgasmic glory, which often go hand-in-hand), and celebrated a special day in any woman's life who has worked an office job and gets off in time for the happy hour at Acapulco Restaurant and Bar while still wearing tan stockings and a poly-blend suit jacket with diminutive shoulder pads--like only an inch thick--

But you know what I was thinking on this return trip to the airport, on my way back to the Shas who live and love in "the ghettos of Beverly Hills," as they say? I was thinking, no Dagmar. If you ever want to get married again (haha, I kid, I was thinking, if you ever want increase your alimony payments by getting another divorce. haha I kid again, I was thinking about how all I want is love and the roll around my waist named WineChips and the lines on my delicate pale skin will prevent that from ever happening haha) you better learn some manners. So what did I do, Honey? I ordered the clear vegetable soup with chicken broth. Consomme. Can you believe it?

Upon arriving to my summer home in Malibu-Lite, I started to feel a little, how should I put it, effervescent on the inside. Having recently purchased a diamond-studded IPhone, I immediately went to text various rich friends to tell them what I was experiencing a little to much of. Realizing my fingers are far too fat to text on the IPhone, I was resolved in my choice to order the consomme. Honey, I said to myself in the bathroom mirror one of the fifty times I was in there, I'm asking you to change your ways. As I tried to punch the fucking so fucking little letter keys with my long, elegant, feminine nails, "it was then that I realized," a phrase spoken on Sex and City almost as many times as I was running to the bathroom (seriously, you want to click on and read that link immediately), that my fingers weren't the problem. My elegance was. I ordered a sopa like a lady. I had long, perfect nails. Why was this horrible thing happening to me? Once I could, I did what every rich, lonely straight (unless we're talking big money) woman does, I texted my gay male life partner to explain my situation. Now, on SATC, if the vapid Carrie Bradshaw had texted her gay male buddy, he surely would have bemoaned her state, sent her flowers, and canceled a date with a model to be with her. Because he'd be rich and for some reason Carrie B. is like a gold-dusted chocolate fountain to everyone in SATC's New York.

Good Job, Sociopath.

But my gayelle life partner, raised in the buffets of Hawaii, the only place buffets in the USA have been shut down by the amount of eating the masses can do, responds: "Hahahahaha." And then, "at least you'll lose some weight." And then, after I explained that this concern is what got me in this mess in the first place, as I ordered soup over nachos, he tells me: "Big mistake. Bitch it's always about nachos."

"It was then that I realized"

It's true; it is always about nachos. And that's the lesson here. I've learned it for all of us, Honey, so you don't have to go through what I am right now. I can't even drink red wine! Sure, a white wine spritzer between runs to the gold-plated toilet seat, but nay a Bourdeaux in my Bourdeaux-hole.

Written upon my deathbed,
Daggy.

Sunday, Sunday, Sunday

Ingredients for this My Time: natural phenomena, wistful thinking, scheduled drinking.

Hola, Lovers. It seems like the farther along I get with my project, the less I am able to connect with my "fans." It is atrocious of me, I know. And if I had a human heart enough to care, I wouldn't be using this sentence to pretend that I care. But hear me out.

My pure bred, feral linx got sick, and I was with her in the exotic animal vet. Then, I drove across the country to one of my summer homes in Malibu-Lite, then all these boys visited. Boys! They came from the muscular farm sun of Missouri and the mysterious clouds of Washington, with Iphones and tight jeans, with proper shaving and nice white shirts, with lisps and foul mouths, with cocktails and appetites. It really brought me back.

After being so long in my project that I was sure I would not gaze upon such greased up gorgeousness again, I was just dumbstruck. I drank margaritas, I smelled their hair when they weren't looking, I thought about all the things they could say to boss me around, I ate their hand towels, I worshiped at the altar of the patriarchy, and loved every minute of it. While they watched other women, I lasciviously watched them. I devoured their desires through breath and, as if exhaling is having, I made them my own. I imprinted them on my body, and like that, it was if their desires for the women around us were desires already writing on my skin.

That reminds me, I need to cash another alimony check...if I won't ever be able to fall in love again--ha ha, I kid--I've never loved anyone except God and Mr Grey Goose--ha ha I kid again--my heart is so fragile that it breaks like each marriage egg and fucking fries, Lovers, fries like a bad simile--

then I will spend their fucking money. Which reminds me. You know how I really knew my marriage was over with the fucking classy man? Well, beside the fact that he played Everything But The Girl at dinner parties? Well, and beside the fact that he was already married, thus leaving me with no alimony after it all went kaput? When we started going Dutch. I mean, who are these Dutch people with their awful rules for women? How dare they think I'm dignified enough to pay for my own lobby and champers. As we all know, I have no dignity. I want no dignity.

So, I'm in Miami-Lite, soon to leave to Oaxaca for one of seven weddings this year of the rich, fabulous people of the world that I'll grit my teeth through. I kid. I love a good wedding. So much free al-co-hol. And what woman, whose womb is as dried as a dead batch of corn, and who doesn't trust men as far as she can fuck 'em, doesn't love attending wedding after wedding and seeing something in this world work out? I strap on a bra, throw on a dress and a sun hat, etch lipstick on my face, and voila, I'm in another country at another wedding with less money and more opportunities for scandal. My life is fabulous.

But today, the wretched day of the week, Sunday, the day when it seems that all hope with fail, a solar eclipse awaits us. I, of course, will be with fabulous (and some foreign!) people on the roof of a Los Angeles LOFT, staring directly into what keeps me alive and might blind me. I don't buy the whole don't look directly bull--my strength and my problem is that I always, always, look directly into it and walk away with less sight but more vision. Of course, while others are looking I plan to stand behind them and suck their energy in through their ears, keeping my gorgeous, youthful skin that much more so. And cocktails, cocktails, cocktails, Honey.

The world can't keep a loveless wench--I mean a tender, romantic soul--it's so hard to tell sometimes when one's spirit is a pendulumm and one's life seems to follow--like me down if it can't keep its own sun.

Talk soon, Honies, champers on me! Ha ha I kid--on every ex who paid for breaking my heart.

The Truths About Elegant Women

Ingredients for this My Time: Innuendo, listing, a Puglian red.

Honey, you know it's true. A lady on the verge of summer, and experiencing the hours of lights down there, likes a few choice things:

1. Ladies like innuendo. Give them some. Then deliver.

2. They also like gifts that express YOUR FEELINGS. But, they don't like it when you present such gifts then try to be like "cool, whatever, I have a penis, doh-duh-doh" about them.

3. Halter dresses with boob support, botch.

4. A summer of spankings!

5. Ladies like when you order food for the table with the word "stuffed" in it. Ladies do not like you not knowing they do not like to point these food items out and/or order them themselves.

6. A lady always starts a meal with a cocktail before she can bare to look at the dinner menu. AND SNACKS.

7. Ladies like foreign travel, and foreign intrigue.

8. Ladies do not like your ironic pants.

9. An elegant lady always has a strand of real pearls, and can wear a "pearl necklace."

10. No, don't do that. Whatever you're thinking of doing for some "effect" you've identified, just stop.

11. No, seriously. Stop.

12. Drinking before 5 pm is the new black.

13. An educated swarthy man always orders the lady an moderately priced bottle of champers ($100-$60) to not be a show off and to also presume that a lady has had fine things, but might come from less fine things, OKAY?

14. We want to join your stupid band and harmonize up the yin yang.

15. A man told me once "You think differently from anyone I've met, and I love it." Let's examine how this is the right move. 1. He didn't say the typical, "wow, I think you might be smarter than me..." and he didn't compare me to other women, but other people. Re-examine number 9.

16. We want to have sex, like anyone else. But an elegant woman has no problem packing it in at the dinner table. So plan to have an hour ahead of time where you get it on. We'll thank you for it later, before we pass out after a bottle of reasonably priced champers and creme brulee.

17. I once had 3 creme brulees in one week. An elegant woman will present this fact to you without comment.

18. We've seen men, once they get comfortable, jump up and down to show how their items down there can flop up and down. So you don't need to show us again.

19. An elegant woman loses her shit. This is a sign that she has a ferocious heart. It's terrifying. It's crazy. It's hard. It's not fun. It's arousing. It's a woman who can speak her needs. It's right.

20. An elegant lady celebrates the anniversaries of the men she has lost. An elegant woman embraces ritual and magic and love and loss. 

he was Will Oldham before Will Oldham, and DUH, so much more

The best you can do is proceed, willingly and gracefully. Grace is something the elegant woman still might be learning.

It's been so long...

Honey, it has been awhile. I have no excuse. I mean, I'm just sitting here with my sippy cup of sangria under my Hotel Collection down comforter, wearing a t-shirt with an anchor on it, watching tasteful pornography, and eating DIET CHIPS.

mmm, pink

The truth is, Honey, I'm busy. It's hard being a cold bitch, teaching old men how to wipe their own asses, cashing alimony checks, and meeting new men to go on dates with that make a wistful woman think, what if this one has learned how to wipe that. That in addition to eating queso, leaving for my Beverly Hills condo in 2 weeks (for 3 months! What will the country Missouri do without my money in its pockets?), and writing two full length books about 1. my time with Mick and the Boys:

twice as fuckable with Brian

and 2. my childhood as a rich rouge daughter:

Once the summer starts, I'll be writing tons more to you. You, Honey, after all, are what keep me from attempting to kill myself one more sweet time, to my own sweet degree. How could I off myself with so much money to spend?

Champers on me!
Daggy

emailing

Ingredients for this My Time: an email account, sangria, a bitter heart pain, resolve.

Oh Honey, you know, I try to keep up with technology and other new kinds of passive aggressive communication, but really, let's get real. Email hurts. You've gotten them when someone should have called you, and you're so panicked when an ex-husband approaches you in public

but your face will never show it. good girl.

by tapping you twice on your shoulder pads like you're a stranger who dropped a Splenda packet from your Gucci bag

while you're trying to stuff a burrito in your face under a sun hat BECAUSE YOU HAVE SHAME that instead of telling him the alimony doesn't take back all those things he did, you throw the burrito and run out of the restaurant. Click click go your perfect heals in your mutilated feet. This is what your Dag did today when an ex flippantly approached her to speak about the ways that everything never happened. Oh, Honey. I threw my food, ran out the back door and walked around the long way of the restaurant so he wouldn't see my kempt rear end high-tailing it to snort calming air off my steering wheel. Had I not just come from my analyst, been sick, been recently robbed RODRIGO!, and completely life exhausted, I could have told him the words every elegant woman of class learns along with her first shoulder pads:

                                                                             Fuck No.

But I couldn't, and ashamed as I was--ha ha, I kid, I have no shame because I was raised with money--I still needed a way to tell him Fuck No. So I spend about 8 hours composing the perfect 5 line email. I mean, "perfect" may be a strong word, but so are: "I can't sleep with a woman and also meet her other needs," "I feel proud to know my limitations," and, my fav "you showed up at my house in a volatile state." I mean, do men know how medicated we are just so we can ignore half of the stupid things they say and receive half of the stupid things they hand us? I couldn't be volatile if I tried! Well, actually, nothing has made me feel as volatile as being called "volatile!" What fun the games men and women play with each other are! SO, I sent an email saying how I couldn't T-R-U-S-T him anymore. Boom! What every man cares about: your trust! Hilarious. Many of them can't even wipe properly, but they can inflict a precise pain like a prehistoric wasp. It was necessary to say, Honey, but oh, what an imperfect system email is. It's basically made for pre-first-sex and break-ups. The warm up and the rejection. It had to be done, but let me tell you, next time, oh next time, with a burrito in my left hand and a pointin' finger on my right, I'll let him have it. Whoever that "him" happens to be. And if I haven't passed out and died yet or you know, become blissfully happy. Well, I have just over 24 hours before I head to one of my villas in the Caribb'. There will surely be no email and a lot of island "time" to not think about all of this, and all the things we simultaneously must and must not say.

Champers on me if you fly your jet down to the islands, Honey!
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.

Dagmar's weekly songs roundup

Ingredients for this My Time: my weekly song roundup, of course! A much-requested new edition to My Time, an important part of your Sunday--a dreadful day, Lovers, of hangovers, regrets, pacifying through drugs, and weighing suicide. With a cocktail match of course! You can't consider living the next day or not without at least a drink to aid your philosophy.

My Time matching cocktail: Cazadores tequila, fresh grapefruit juice, club soda, ice, straw, all in a thermos with a safety lid.

Hello, Lovers. You know, sometimes a day of my life, especially Sundays, plays out like the entirety of my life. EMOTIONALLY.

The first record my rich, kingly father gave me. Limited edition blue vinyl. I sold it the day after he was murdered in an huge CEO merger. If you want to talk to me about my weak, selfish heart, Honey, leave a comment already. Just so you know, this is the first song I played at his funeral, so if it makes you feel better that I'm a person who might feel guilt, just presume this is the time that would happen. That night, at a round circle of common men with 40 ouncers, I had this song, even though I sold the records, guns, and tools. That's what marrying rich is for, Honey! I've never looked back. Ever. I'm maniacally happy. Seriously.

The first band I lost my heart to, and I never got it back. I don't want it. I surrendered long ago. Truly, Medicine, medicine, and a credit card are all I need, Honey, in this tragic world of irony and materialism (philisophically, not actually). Perhaps someday when I marry into even more wealth, I'll walk down the aisle, pumped to veins bursting, antlers on my head, a good throwing knife in my left hand, a selenite orb in my right hand, and an squinted eye toward the (presumably) male who could take a terrifying beauty like me. Hand-made 3-piece suit or Grecian gown? Truly, this is what I wish for now, Honey. Mysticism of pilgrimage to love. Or money. Whatever. You don't think I can float an inch of the ground? Well, you haven't met my pearl-handled jack. Let's get together. Champers on me!

The first song I thought of today when I awoke naked in a 6,000-cotton-count-sheeted-bed of 100 dollar bills and had to hear, while thinking of a young  man I've been eyeing from afar. Of course, like a moral man, he does not look at me while we speak, only when he thinks I'm not looking. A wild, amazonian heart like mine appreciates a distrustful eye. Ah, Lovers, thinking I might still be young enough to lose my heart to a sound. Maybe not to much else, truthfully...but every song, like every Sunday, like every statement of the self, like every drug, needs its anecdote.

Are you listening, Honey? Then tell me. Leave a comment. Join the site. Set your tracks with me. Lay down in the sun on Sunday. Don't get up. True love means taking someone to the tub (again) and waking them up with a cold shower and pinch, or dropping them off at a Simi Valley hospital to get their stomach pumped, at least, while you get fries at Denny's. That's why every time I get married, there's two adrenaline shots in honeymoon suite. I've never had to use one, myself. But I'm not above it. Such is the life of a rich, elegant woman.

Happy Sunday, Honey. Are you ready for Monday?

Songs keep coming, songs keep coming, too much to listen to, will make it till Monday.

your loyal (ha ha, no really. no) friend (seriously, no),
Daggy

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.