okay. so what if it’s a great day in milford. i’m happy for you.
all of you on FB saying how gorgeous it is there. today. especially today. best day so far. mark even posted a picture of amber (our dog who stayed behind with mark and christian who rent our house) and THE most delicious looking pastries he’d made in my kitchen displayed on my kitchen table. i felt the tug, i admit it. it’s a conspiracy. but you know what. it was a gorgeous day here too. it has been every day this week, i wasn’t gonna tell you but ….
today was sooooo perfect.
i took the kids to school. they’re happy. they’ve made friends. iona even has a boyfriend. she is in “gifted” classes, getting A’s. the twins are tolerating spanish. they made a new friend across the street,
so i got back home by 9am. kissed my gorgeous husband. and we wrote. he downstairs. me upstairs. 1500 good words for the novel. then i made us a picnic. and we went to the beach for lunch. clear blue sky. 90 degrees. perfect turquoise ocean. no one around. we swam. we floated and we gloated. but i wasn’t gonna blog and brag.
Letter to Ian Frazier, re “easy cocktails from the cursing mommy”. New Yorker, September 14th.
Excuse ME. mr. Frazier. but i’m it. i am the original fuckin’ cursing mommy. not you mister fuckin’ ian frazier. you gotta be too fuckin old. do you have twins? you’re a guy, for chrissake. your wife probably makes you your fuckin’ gimlets. and gimlets are so goddamn dated. i design my own fuckin’ cocktails. THE MOTHERS HELPER. for instance. it has appeared in several cookbooks, thank you very much mr. frazier. it’s served at bars left in my wake. it bloody well works a fuckin’ dream. when the shit hits the fan. around six every day. when (why the fuck do they give them so much) homework hasn’t been touched. no edible shit in the fridge. iona getting hysterical and depressed from eating a box of motherfuckin’ cheezits. twins killing each other over the only surviving piece of shit DS. amber, our dog, in neighbors yard trying to kill their bitch dog. my horny husband loiters down, i’m goin for a swim wanna come? i say whatya think? whos gonna do fuckin’ dinner? he shrugs. acts like i’m frigid. i say fuck off. he says you’ve turned into one nasty cursing mommy. so there you have it mr. frazier.
i’m fuckin’ IT.
and this is when i turn to: THE MOTHERS HELPER.
I grab the largest lemonade glass from the shelf.
fill 1/3 with vodka
1/3 with real (SIMPLE) lemonade
1/3 seltzer
add ice, slice of lemon and a sprig of mint if available.
aaahhh. sweet.
yes, mommy is having some lemonade. no you cant have a sip. get your own. and get your effing homework. NOW. i stick my head in the fridge. it looks more promising already. perfectly fine meals can be created with half a bag of baby carrots, half a packet of thin sliced chicken. an onion. a cannister of parmesan cheeze, some frozen ravioli, apples, bananas and bread.
i finish THE HELPER. i thank THE HELPER. i sit down with the twins. i say. you guys wanna make dinner while i do your homework. its a fair trade. oh mommy you’re so funny, you really like lemonade dont you? hell i do!
the next post from the original cursing mommy: how to organize a goddamn pool party for my hyper twins and their ADD friends at the too fuckin’cool to crack a smile aqua pool and not be evicted for being too fuckin’ loud, not gay enough with too many kids, using too many bright colored, non AQUA logo, towels, jumping, splashing, diving, playing, and have sicko wild time.
easy cocktails from the cursing mommy, in the new yorker, by ian frazier. LINK:
call me paranoia (no pippi i did not say paranormal*, thats your schtick). paranoia. like one moment i love it here, the next i’m like what the fuck. taking the kids to school with a hangover, possibly still drunk, is a first. leaving said husband at 1 am, in the sexy, what the hell your wife will never know decor of his W suite, is also a first. not soon to be repeated. dinner is fun. although too many pr girls, too few guys at our table. but. around us. dozens of tables with men. men on business trips. retired men. young men and old men. a new demographic for me. old men. very old men. not sure that i’m flattered. a table of three clearly very wealthy, very well groomed geezers. still with the times cool: they wear their crisp PINK shirts with wide white cuffs and enormous lapidus style gold cufflinks, outside their slacks. eye me. talk and laugh and look around at me. they almost point. i feel like a sophomore singled out by seniors (pardon da pun). later mr chow floats by, doing obligatory i’m the star you came to meet handshakes around our table. shakes mine. i’m not gonna say anything. but said husband does. she knew you back in the day in london. he says. (i cringe, he must get that all the time). yes i did i smile. london 1976, when i was hot and you were hot, i came to the knightsbridge restaurant all the time. i drop some mutual friends names. he does the math. 33 years. wow thats along time. he says. its jesus’ lifetime, i say. (where did that come from?). but he died. mr. chow says. he sure did i say. and we’re still here. we both say sounding strangely proud.
note to W: after twoandhalf ginger mojitos (delicious) it is: A. really hard to find the WC and 2. impossible to distinguish which figure is wearing the pants and which the dress. case in point: i come out of the booth, still somewhat adjusting myself, and the booth next to me opens and a guy steps out, also quite clearly still adjusting himself in that way guys do.
he acts shocked. i’m shocked. i’m not sure i’m the one who got into the wrong WC. isn’t this the mens, he says. i wonder if he says this all the time. i wash my hands. i hope he’s gone. i leave. but there he is. loitering. studying the pants and the dress on the cutouts. phew, i was definitely in the loo with the dress. thats when i get the feeling he gets it wrong all the time. conveniently. i wonder if he ever scores that way.
i get back to my spot to find that mister miami has finally arrived. sits next to me. i tell him my girls call him eeyore. why he asks. this is why: last week he got stuck in our mini elevator. the one with the astro turf and flowers on the walls. just like a milne illustration. he was in there for what? ten minutes. the girls panicked. when we finally got him out. he said. i’ve been stuck in worse places, in that “I suppose they will be sending me down the odd bits which got trodden on. Kind and Thoughtful. Not at all, don’t mention it”, kind of way. i explain. he tells me it’d make a good blog. him getting stuck in tiesto’s elevator.
so here you are. tom. this one’s for you. and by the way tom. your comment about being graceful and homey. that suggestion is under consideration.
* for details on pippi see comments from philipa in – children are never a weakness – post
Bloggers block?
I started up a few times since yesterday’s comments. But then pippi longstocking, my first bitch commenteur, came into my mind. like a new member on the panel of my inner voices. when i wrote something personal, she said ‘well you don’t have much to say’, when i tried to express an opinion she said, ‘you are assuming an awful lot’. i was rattled but not deterred. since here i am. call me oversensitive. ask my husband. i am. i am big, strong, opinionated and oversensitive. blogging may be therapy. may toughen me up. may cure me. so bring on those bitches.
before i left milford i wrote a letter to the local paper. an open letter to the local public school. DV sent all parents an e-mail saying that if they were offended by obamas speech (three weeks ago) on the importance of a good education, then they could keep their kids out of school. you can guess at the drift of my letter. so. not even an hour after pippi’s comment donna calls me and reads me the rebuttal letter from shelley in port jervis. shelley compared obama to hitler, called me a racist and a facist, an obamaddict, turned my name into “barbed” and more. scary hateful stuff. i’m glad i’m here and I won’t be writing any letters to the miami papers anytime soon.
husband arrived. Monday night at 9pm.
we are happy (shut up pippi) he’s finally here. i get to bitch and gossip with him. i get to go to parties now. mr. chow tonight. the press opening of the W hotel. i get to be a grown up. a glamorous grown up. i get to wear my designer dresses. do my hair and make up. wear heels. i get to do what i want with him between the designer sheets of the W hotel, after which i will sneak out like a mistress and go back home, around the corner, be mommy and tuck in my girls.
anna wintour says her kids are her weakness. after watching her in The September Issue i see why. weakness to Anna is the urge to be warm, encouraging, open, funny and sensitive, emotions which, as the center of the fashion world, Anna does not broadcast. but around her daughter, who says fashion is entertaining but silly, anna shows (big gold) buttoned up affection that sizzles with loneliness and when her daughter says no mom i wont be your successor (anna thinks vogue her royal court). i will be a lawyer. anna hears, she will abandon me. and i’ll be alone with my weakness. i dont care about anna perse, but i care about her power as icon of fashion. i just wish she wasn’t such a bitch cartoon. after all she is a mother, an ex wife, an influential leader and boss. but in her windowless world wintour is not a role model for modern women.
i evolved in fashion a decade after she did, london in the eighties and new york in the nineties. and i remember it as inspired. wild, inclusive, free, and magnanimous. but fashion is no longer the arena where creative women can express themselves. its the industry where we can get lost in the insecurity of everything that we are/have not.
anna wintour is at fashion’s core, and at the core of anna wintour is the belief that her children are her weakness.
SO
YO ANNA. children are a strength. all the emotions our children make us feel, compassionate, vulnerable, angry, protective, love, fear, are our strength. not just as mothers. but as women who are bosses, leaders, wives and friends. it is where we, women, easily connect with each other. its where we feel comfortable in the strength of our numbers. its where we have each other’s back. it’s where we stand apart. it’s where we rule. even in fashion.
friends call and write and say but how are YOU doin’? for the last two weeks i had no idea. but today i do. i had a normal day. finally. phew. i had LUNCH with a friend! problem is normal days don’t make great blogs. minor accomplishments like the twins finally getting their textbooks or helping their popularity by designing the 4th grade halloween flyer, or a swim at sunset, with a great blue heron drinking the pool water outlined against a bright pink sky, palm-trees like golden crowns lit from below, a half moon sliver, white and red lights driving up and down collins avenue, are all glorious and happy and good, but not as entertaining as a TB scare. well at least alastair is still freakin’ out. he’s where i was at three weeks ago. calling every ten minutes. where is the blue tote. my proposal crashed. i have an ear infection. the doctor says i dont have an ear infection. i’m having dinner. i met with mark. i dont know how to do it all. i’m never gonna get everything in the car. he leaves monday morning and when he gets here we’re gonna have some fun. W hotel press opening on wednesday and thursday with dinners at mr chow, two nights in a suite included, a party for todd oldham, and more … at which point i will become the liz smith blogger of miami beach, so dont tune out yet. there is good fluff to come.
its hot here. in case anyone is wondering. its 93, 96, thunderstorms and ohso muggy, no hurricane so far (just read Zeitoun, freakin’ myself out). this is not the month to move to miami for the weather. its the month to move to miami for school.
i have another child you know. my muse. and she’s pissed. i haven’t paid her attention in weeks. packing, driving, school issues, TB scare, not having a chair or desk. excuses, excuses she wails in my ear. my inner ear. i tell her i have a blog you know. its getting 200 hits a day you know. i’m not your fucking blogging muse and if you think i’m a mere blogging muse then i’m fuckin’ outta here she screams. thats the thing with muses, they can threaten to leave. kids dont. at least not yet. so i tell her. tomorrow. we’ll work on the novel tomorrow (i’m sneaking the next blog in now). she’s huffy. doesn’t believe me. arms crossed tight against her chest. not looking me in the eye. we’ll see she says. you have that principal at 11. i don’t see how you’re gonna fit me in. how we’re ever gonna finish those extra 10,000 words debbie (my agent) wants. its all forming in my mind i tell her. bullshit. a book doesn’t write itself, she says. thats my line i say. and i’m very very excited about it and debbie understands. you wish, she mumbles. i appreciate you. i sweet talk. she likes flattery. goodnight, i say. she doesn’t answer. i hope she hasn’t left.
iona is being wexler tested. to see if she qualifies for ‘gifted’, as in thou shall be gifted the best education the public system has to offer. don’t get me started. i’m just complying. I’m here on hibiscus island. in the home of dr. trushin. an elderly jewish lady who’s been testing for 40 years. iona is in good hands. she’s nervous. mommy what if I’m not gifted? my dutch communist father’s genes convulse in me. you are gifted no matter what, i say. there are knick-knack’s everywhere. in “the room where moms sit”, (is there another room where dads sit?) you may encounter my husband, she says, he likes to chat with the moms. i havent seen him yet but a chiwawa stops by, sniffs my leg, trembles and tootles off as if its wearing high heels. there are three wooden cats in pink spotted pajams fishing off the edge of an old vcr system. (knick-knacks I said). on the glass coffee table: russian dolls, a soldered couple made from scrapmetel dances under a tiny streetlight, a clump of coral, sharks made from driftwood, a collection of swarowski mice (rats?), a rainbow lead glass unicorn in the glass sliding door that looks out over a small kidney shaped pool.
picture perfect come retire on hibiscus island.
i think I’m just gonna leave and drive around for a bit… call my mom in amsterdam. how are the girls? every other house is for sale; miami vice style, spanish style, modern concrete boxes, adobe style, lapidus style, fifties modern bungalows (my favorite), all lush and palms and yachts on the private docks. its tranquil. i drive off the island. onto the busy causeway, the miami business skyscrapers rise ahead of me, biscayne bay on both sides, the docks where vast cruise ships are moored next to container ships. its a city. not just a beach/gay paradise/ eurotrash sundestination/retiree community. miami is a city and its beautiful. it reminds me of a tropical amsterdam.
dr trushin calls me into her office. iona scored very well she says. but she was shy. i get the feeling she’s been sheltered, protected from the world until now. you got that right, but how could that impact her iq score negatively i wonder but do not say. i’m pleased. i tell her about the twins. the tears, the dread of the scary spanish teacher yelling at the bad kids that starts their every day. take them out of that class right away, she says, sounding like a jewish granny. i want to hug her. i love her. i’ve been suffering too, not knowing what to do. she just gave me permission to have a chat with that principal and take a stand. i have an appointment at 11 am tomorrow.
oh and yesterday, while wondering what i’m doing here, i assembled IKEA stuff. i now have a desk and a chair at which i write this and life is much improved.
he: because it’s a great idea to move to Miami for the winter–to write, to swim, to observe the vibrant flora and fauna…. to expand our daughters sense of the world.
she: so when are you comin’? we miss you. i need you, i haven’t had a conversation with an adult in a week.
he: next tuesday, its gonna be great, hang in there, i miss you too.
Barbi Does Miami 