Barbi Does Miami

mostly from my oxymoronic years between Miami and Milford

Category Archives: glamor


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the muse is not amused

a desk, a chair

a desk, a chair

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.


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happiness – a luxury product

photo: iona gordon

photo: iona gordon

OK. so. this has little to do with me doing miami. but. its been on my mind, like second foremost, after TB. a friend sent me a link this morning to a study. about women and happiness, and apparently women are getting less happy all the time, even as i write this. when i get a link like that i always look who wrote it. M or F. check box. when its M i pretend that the study was conducted and written, not by say Madeleine Albright, Gloria Steinum or Hilary Clinton but by my husband. so. lets ask him if i appear happier then when we were first together, and he’ll probably tell you that he doesn’t think so. ask me and i will tell you that i am, just about one million thousand and three times happier now than twenty years ago. i still love him madly. i adore my kids. i just bitch more now, cause there is more to bitch about. then ask me what would make me  happier than, say yesterday and my answer would be:
1. if he remembered, after 15 years, that wednesday is garbage day. 2. if he put his cereal boxes back after use. 3. if he talked less about models  4. if i could make time to do some lucrative work/not feel so guilty about no longer being the superduper #1 breadwinner. 5. if i wasn’t constantly reminded by everything, TV, the supermarket, my kids, my job, my gay neighbors, other moms, ads on buses, billboards and facebook, that i’m no longer somewhere between the most fabulous, gorgeous, sexy age of 30-40. 6. I would definitely be happier if i could be less politically correct and not worry about swearing in front of playdates, enjoy secondary smoke, get drunk, get stoned, flirt outrageously, drive too fast in a snazzy car, leave the kids at home alone to hang with my friends more often, use plastic bags at the supermarket, drink lots of little bottles of Poland Spring (that have been in my hot car for weeks), worry less about hunger in africa, obama, peace/war, scream at rude teachers, actually really slap my neighbor, eat without thinking about what and how much, use aerosol sunblock on the kids, feed them high fructose corn syrup because its in EVERYTHING, did not have to kid-compete with other mothers/get them into the “gifted” program asap or else they’ll fail as human beings, and make a mess, and fall on my face and just screw up completely occasionally (and know that i’ll be ok). the other thing i think when i read happiness studies is al those women in the third world who hold a starving child to their chest.  not for one minute do they wonder how happy they are on a scale from 1-5. they may wonder how totally fucked they are on a scale from 1-5. and when i read the results of these pop-studies i reckon we, the lucky ones, score  a big fat 5 on the scale of increased privileged fuckedupness.


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r rated

DSC09448

sexy toyboys by the aqua pool both gay and straight, iona, without contact lenses, wonders if they are cute, cute enough for her, desperate to have a crush. no darling that one is not for you, he’s with the short, bold russian billionaire, and he’s a cokehead, see how he paces, white toweling robe over his shoulders like he’s redford/gatsby himself, never off his cell throwing his head back in affected laughter. no not the other one either sweetie. he’s with that older lady, no she’s not his mom, yes he does have an amazing six pack. lets go to the ocean.
where a large glistening brazilian bottom beckons twenty yards upbeach. she’s not wearing a bathing suit, mommy, actually she is, its called a thong. no she’s not, I cant see anything. well it kind off goes between her butt cheeks, iona explains. ohnogross! but the twins are mesmerized. so is a nerdy little guy who comes running by. he checks the bottom out. he slows down. he turns. he stops. he casually loiters to the water’s edge. sits down in the surf. he looks around. he cant help himself. the bottom appears to be asleep. he gets up. he runs twenty yards. he turns. he runs back and crosses the bottom from the other side. she looks up. realizes she has pulled. sits up. flicks her long black hair over her shoulder. runty guy keeps running, pretending not to look. she turns over. now tanning her front, legs spread apart. he runs back. he dives like baywatch into the ocean and drifts casually not far from us. i think he likes her mommy, kiki says. i sigh. i roll my eyes. maybe we should go home and watch tv, iona says. america’s next top model is on. good idea i say, opting for the lesser of the evils.


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high design rashes

aside from teacher burn we have another problem. so sorry its not all good news but we have a miami-cool-rental design problem. there are no chairs in this house. we have large eggs at the dining table, we have a long low couch without a back, like its verboten to be comfortable and groovy in Tiesto’s and now our “candyland bachelor pad”. yes, so? ok i’m writing this from my bed, which for a dutch guilt bunny like me is really hard at 10 am. i’m dressed and groomed however and look the part, if any miami-style-vice-police should check in (of course they’re all in nyc for fashion week). back to the seating problems — outside on our balconettes were some outdoor chairs. no not the plastic kind one gets at Lowes, but the kind one ogles (but never buys) at Murray Moss. we dragged them in. one for daddy so he could write. one for mommy so she could write. one for kiki and leila so they could go on their computer, one for iona so she could do homework.
these are funny chairs mommy, kiki said. they’re like static. really? yes sit down and try. i can’t feel it sweetie. yes, yes, mommy they are static.i dismissed the sensation they felt in their young and still sensitive skin . two days later, after swimming and going to the beach, leila had a rash all over her inner arms, her back, her legs. i had the cream. it went away/she stopped complaining. then iona started itching. then daddy complained of itchy thighs. finally, when school started, i had time to sit and write. in a short gauzy dress, skirt bunched up around my waist. by 3pm my butt and legs were on fire. a nasty rash spread. something started dawning. like why did we all have this weird reaction? was it stress? the beach? what about the designer chairs? those static chairs? I confronted them. all four pretty things. I ran my hand over their groovy white material. aha. they were made from fiberglass and shedding their glassy fiber until we were covered in micro splinters.

guess what? i’m off to Ikea, to get myself some practical scandinavian chairs and lots of fluffy pillows and fuck it if they’re ugly.

rash chairs....


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calm before storm

leila in a womb of her own

leila in a womb of her own

went out to an intimate lunch party on sunset island where a large table was beautifully laid out  on the jetty but after five minutes we moved inside because the sun was simply too hot ( I’m  used to running inside because of rain or bugs but never because of too much sun). sat next to a gorgeous wealthy brazilian peneleope cruz lookalike who pulled a picture, better not show the national enquirer, of her and obama from her purse, looking like the happy couple, same wide white smile, leaning into each other, she’d organized a huge fundraiser on fisher island for him a year ago, and reward was the sexy photo op which evidently she’s carried around ever since and unabashedly shows off. I must throw all modesty and self effacing tendencies out with the bathwater, have a hunch it might be taken for “loser” here, and must meditate on what i’ll flaunt. meanwhile our house is great. very euro living four floors one function per “etage”: garage/laundry/office on one,  living/dining/cooking on two, sleep/wash and dress (our closet is size of the pattiserie and that includes mark’s kitchen) on three, kids on top floor with huge wrap around terrace. but still had a bout of homesickness last night until i visualized midwinter, four feet of snow and not being able to find any dry matching mittens and then i was ok.  tomorrow first day of school for iona, she’s so brave i can’t imagine feeling  her confidence at fitting in and being accepted. at almost six feet she’s not awkward, like me, but  poised and thrilled at he idea of hundreds of kids who dont know her. but undoubtedly will. the twins are less thrilled and ask me if kids are ever home-schooled in miami.

iona fragmented

iona fragmented


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home sweet DJ Tiesto candyland bachelor pad…

aqua pool and Indian Creek

i arrived 2pm on the dot  for my aqua orientation which included a list of everything the staff  will do for me: park, send mail, receive packages, send packages, get babysitters, schedule house cleaning, and what in return i should refrain from doing: make noise, invite more than ten cars over to my house, leave crap out on the balcony, replace the required white curtains with say indian saris, take anything other than my aqua towel to the pool, do not swim in the north pool since the tiles from the mural are falling off the wall and may hit swimmers on the head. There are only a handful of tiles left, that was some shitty glue they used, and I asked if the pool would reopen as soon as the last tile had fallen. we look forward to hearing the final one drop. Meanwhile the south pool, is the prettiest pool in miami beach, and  within walking distance. after  scheduling a full lock change, cause you never know, we were allowed to enter our crib. our crib of cribs. DJ Tiesto’s uber crib, which feels like we are now part of a reality tv show.  iona loves it. alastair and i pinch ourselves and each other. can two calvinists ever adapt to this indulgent yet modern extravagance? or will we be punished by the gods of humility, the arbiters of moderation? Our house is owned by a dutch mega DJ named tiesto who spent all of seven nights here, and was called a : candyland bachelor pad” by the miami design magazine that lies prominently, marked with a yellow post-it, on the Italian coffee table.  A trendy decorator filled the house with Moss furniture ; Ron Arad, Edra, Boontje and the likes. Our first family dinner reminded me of the haunted dinner party in beetlejuice, we sat in egg shaped chairs and ate with forks which resembled dental equipment, tiny and heavy and sharp off plates the size of  saucers. we even have an elevator! Its a minute mind-altering box with large china flowers growing from the walls  and astro turf on the floor which makes a ride to the fourth floor like a stroll in the woods. kinda.

toto, we’re not in milford anymore…

living room & view into dining room