Barbi Does Miami

mostly from my oxymoronic years between Miami and Milford

Category Archives: kids


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l’alloween week

just recovered from halloween week:

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composite family drawings

on wednesday i volunteered at the twin’s school party. from 2 to 3.50. closest reference that you’ll get is that sweat lodge in arizona.  90 degrees outside, 95 inside, closed doors (before i took over), and dripping humid conditions from 200 dancing panting sweating kids in costumes that varied from  dorothy, ladybug and flower child to rapper, gangsta and  kung fu master. (some home and some not home) baked goods arrived all morning, in and endless stream of  nasty orange and black frostings, from orange colored brownies to cupcakes and cookies in the shape of spiders, rats and black cats. setting up the decorations was an esthetics test for me, unfolding giant 7ft spiders and sticking their woolly legs to the ceiling, plugging in electric corpses with self removing heads, unfolding large plastic scenes of bloody murders printed and the cheapest plastic and sticking them over the (equally obnoxious) rules, regulations and mission statement of the cafeteria(eat in silence and don’t bother each other or we’ll have you arrested and put away for life). at 2 the doors opened and hell broke loose, as the lights were dimmed. crying, kiki found me and for the next hour and a half, as if she’d come as velcro,  did not leave my side. I tried to peel her off me, push her to the dance floor but she bounced right back as soon as i turned away. i wasn’t surprised,  i always  wanted my mom at these large scary almost out of control  kid gatherings. no one was allowed to leave the room. after fifty minutes (had my watch stopped?) we opened all doors  and air came in as kids were slipping and falling on the linoleum floor which was damp with their sweat. but  kids weren’t allowed to actually wander outside, for fear of them making a dash for the chain link fence that surrounds the school perimeter.

and trick or treat was still three days away.

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real mummy

thursday –  the unveiling of the new mummy at the bass museum  was timed to coincide with that  holiday of all mummy holidays and  said 600 bc mummyman’s x-ray photo had to be THE recommended halloween pin up of 2009 (see above). his bones had been x-rayed as well and details of his arthiritis at age 25 (shortly before he died) were discussed with much gusto by the curator. how would you like having your arthiritic bones exploited like that 2600 years from now?  Michael Jackson’s ghost might love it, but i’d prefer to think that, by then, I’d finally be too old for halloween.

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B/W lady

friday – on calle ocho where little havana had cultural friday. an excuse for a giant street party with macabre acts like a wiry old geezer who had attached his blow-up sex doll, after dressing her in a red pageant gown, to his shoes and tirelessly tangoed with her, a woman in black and white under a giant beach umbrella posing, endless varieties of drummers and bands, kids in halloween costumes, celia cruz (a man or a woman?) painting exhibits etc. the girls were spooked, headless corpses and blood they love but little havana’s shabby kitsch appeal was lost on them.

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where we ate rice and beans

saturday- the day- we had one corpse bride, one bumble bee, one twister board.

bee and bride twister girl

off to bay point a local upper class community, following our friend victoria and her shirley temple, dark fairy and husband as a shriner  to another giant street party of a different variety.  the bay point center square, where ancient banyan trees were decorated with skeletons,  a series of rented bouncy rubber castles let off that pungent air of too many sickly birthday parties, disco music like thriller and billy jean (michael jackson is not dead) played loudly,  served as a central gathering point for parents whose kids were  running like candy junkies from one fancy door to another grand entrance, grabbing as much as could be grabbed. you can never have enough halloween candy  my girls yelled on their sugar high as they returned with pillowcases full of the kind of candy, mini snickers, milky ways, starbursts, gum, jaw breakers, toffee, that i never buy, and will find stuck between sheets, socks, books, on the back of shelves, under beds, behind dolls for the next twelve months.

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miami halloween scene

we rushed  home, back by ten. why? because WE had a party! for the first time in, rough guess, fifteen years husband and i had an invitation to the much anticipated gender bender halloween event.  after feeling, all week, a hum of anxiety over what alastair, SHOULD WEAR. (he refused to wear a dress. well he’s a big macho guy, i understand. he refused to wear a wig, since he’s somewhat on the thinning hair side, i found it harder to understand but they get itchy and hot, he refused a bra. although by the time it was too late to go to the oversized section at target,  he suddenly insisted on wearing one of mine which was about a foot too short across his back.)  i’d bought him a pair of sweats, bright green with a gangsta rappa tattoo pattern down the legs, and a large somewhat feminine and  NICE T-shirt. the  dahling-you-look-fabulous- gold necklace  made him look rather dashing and not too silly, which was his goal. i  bent the gender a little further and did a version of phantom, in glitter leggings and tux top. our costumes passed but  hardly shone next to the wildly gay spot light stealing mob.  ten guys  dressed as quinceaneras in white froofy poofy dresses with trains and tiara and black wigs, one cuter than the next, on stage in a catfight tableau  vivant, while two others arrived on a small sailing boat pulled by two hunky chested men. said quinceaneras, of course,  owned the evening. alastair was jealous and plans a quinceanera dress for  next year (yeah right). walid cross dressed as his best friend iran, THE diva of the local scene, and they looked like long lost twin sisters. barbara becker disguised as a slimy bog creature slithered and danced through the room for thirty minutes and disappeared to brighter ponds, esther wore a to-die-for hat that she should auction at her next event, and the cutest edie sedgwick (who WAS that?) kissed me fully on the lips before she passed out. alastair and i  danced like we were twenty, got home at two and remained hung over until late monday morning. halloween in milford may be picture perfect, and we did miss it, but miami sure is fun…

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masculine me

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quinceaneras


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miami vice meets baywatch

update of this week’s don johnson moments:

1. saturday disco at W hotel – well that was one sure way to feel really old , in holland we say – I felt like Miep from Meppel, which roughly translates into feeling like  one’s granny. i like discos. at least i remember liking them, and i think I could like them again.( maybe there’s a market for age appropriate discos for us studio 54 generation, that open early, allow good old fashioned coke and overt displays of  everything while dancing wildly with oneself) problem at W- the wall-disco is that they card  people for being too old, like over 30, and I’m sure it was only my husband’s WSJ card that got us past the five humongous bouncers. once inside I wished we had been bounced all the way back to milford. at least in milford, when I watch people ride the bull at the tom quick inn, I have a sense of snide control over the local culture. not at the W wall. ah-ah. no way honey.  i mean what’s with those pole dancers? (without poles but still), girls with spray tans in like negligable panties, something even more miniscule over implanted boobs, and wearing boots that are made for walking (all over me) . cry to gloria steinum et all:  gloria what the fuck? is this women’s self empowerment? there were  four of them. one in the east, one in the west, one in the north, one in the south where I was sitting, gyrating her naked bottom in my face. drooling playboys stood and watched staring right  into her crotch. their young dates/girlfriends stood clutching their ugly handbags (what has happened to handbag design? – thats another blog) looking bored, neglected and too intimidated to dance themselves.

2. sunday visit to vizcaya:

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3. miami baywatch beach.

please dont think husband and i go to the beach every day. we’re much too northern guilty calvinist for that. but we  had a picnic yesterday. after a morning’s work (trust me). i call anouk when a baywatch type (male) runs past clutching his pathetically small orange floatie (how can he possibly save people on that?), looking intently at a totally flat ocean. I say, hang on a minute anouk. i look. i too could be a lifeguard. the way i looked so well. i scanned and scanned and saw nothing. no drowning babes. no screaming girls. no sudden heart attacks at eight feet deep, no shark fins lurking for attack. it was quiet and peaceful. sorry i said to anouk. nothing going on. next thing i’m almost run off my towel by a speeding atv. whathefuck? i say to anouk. i just almost got run over. next  a spray of sand hits me in the mouth. what the… another atv. manned by a  buff brown girl, looking intently at the ocean. i’m still looking too. anouk is talking. i feel like a bad friend. first i move here and then i’m all  distracted. so i pretend to concentrate on anouk. but i’m not really (sorry anouk). a policeboat speeds into the area. next three jetskis join. then i hear the fire engines coming down collins road, screeching into the parking lot. by now a hundred people are standing in the water, husband one of them. peering. we’re all peering like crazy, hoping to be the first to spot IT. but what is IT? what are we looking for? if its a drowning person he/she’d be drowned by now. if it’s a shark attack one of those people standing in the water would know by now. it has to be a body. a dead body. i think it must be a body i say to anouk who is in her 25th street NYC apartment. i have to go i say . i’ll call back later. i feel so left out, standing in the sand.  trying to relate on the phone to anouk who could so not relate. fine she says. be like that, she thinks. liberated from the phone i too wade into the water. whats going on? i say to husband. he ALWAYS knows what’s going on.( how does he do it?). some woman in the akoya (a rather tall building on the beach) saw a body floating right here, while she was on her treadmill, (he points at nearby buoy), so two policemen went up to doublecheck and they saw something too. cool i say (i know, how very rubbernecky of me). so we watch while the homeland security hormone (or is it a gene?) kicks in and  see it perform all along  up and down the beach. atv’s everywhere almost running over small children and dogs (never mind its an emergency), boats and jetskis spraying macho fountains between two ocean markers, sexy guys with their (pathetic little orange) floaties lurching into the non existent surf. what time is it? i ask. its 2.40. ohshit. the twins. pick-up at 3 under the tree in the school yard. oh shit, and i’m all wet. and ohshit i wanna know. husband says there is no body. if there was a body he would’ve seen it. really? she’s delusional, he says. like schizo.  he points at a pretty young woman in back leggings and tank. i can tell, he says. just look at her. she’s like glenn close. really?i say.  i look at her, all pretty and blond and glenn closey. then i look at the 50, 60 men running around like crazy. hmm. there is POWER in that one phonecall she made. see them run. 911- i see a BODY- floating outside my window, and see how they come running. its now 2.50. i should be at the school in 5 minutes. i have to leave i say. i’m staying husband says, even though he KNOWS its a false alarm. i go. of course i go. i’m three minutes late. the twins are pissed. but wait till  you hear what happened, i say. lets go back to the beach to pick up daddy. will we see that body? they ask. when we get back all the police cars have gone. the beach is quiet. no atv’s or jetskis or orange floaties. its like i made it up. where is the body ?the girls say. both excited and concerned. there never was one. daddy says. we don’t know what she saw but it wasn’t a body. maybe it was a dolphin that was hurt, leila says. yes and maybe he swam away when he saw all those boats, kiki says. i think thats exactly what happened i say.

i hope that dolphin is ok, leila says.

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i am the original cursing mommy

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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:

http://www.newyorker.com/humor/2009/09/14/090914sh_shouts_frazier


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children – not a weakness, not even in fashion

kids in the rain

us in the rain

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.


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normal

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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.


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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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gifted

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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.


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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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infectious disease scare

kiki in her new IKEA bed

kiki in her new IKEA bed

leila in her new IKEA bed

leila in her new IKEA bed

a total panic moment this morning. visions of being quarantined, if not evicted from miami. earlier this week kiki and leila had a TB screening shot for school. if within 48 hours there was a welt on their arm I’d have to let the doctor know. after 48 there was no welt. just designer fiberglass burn – as far as i know not contagious – and i did not check again. until this morning i noticed a red welt on kiki’s arm. what’s that? its from the shot that nurse gave me. show me. it was worse on friday, she said. why did you not tell me? i thought it was supposed to do that. what about leila? hers was merely a slight discoloring. i went into denial. if i don’t tell anyone no one will ever know. its nothing. just look at them. they glow with health. lets go to the pool. but. the responsible mother voice said. what if.  i wished alastair were here. he would look at it and. and what. well at least we could look at it together. i called him. kiki tested positive to the TB test i blurted out. your kiddin’. well she’s got a welty rash. and on the internet it says she’s been exposed. it also says thats she’ll have at least six months of heavy antibiotics or possibly chemo. how did she even get it? we guessed at all the friends that could have given her the  bacteria (turns out we’re quite bigoted when faced with a dreadful disease). let me call AE alastair said. he’s the best radiologist in miami. i went on google. i looked at rashes and compared them by holding kiki’s arm against the screen. will i have to go to school tomorrow? have you been scratching this? no, well, only when we had the rash from the chair. AE called me. not to worry he said. false positives happen all the time. if the skin test is indeed positive then they’ll need a chest x ray and only 1% of those is ever positive. don’t panic he said. i love your blog he said. and welcome to miami and call the doctor. it’ll be fine he said. i called the pediatrics weekend number. how can we be sure the rash they have is from the TB shot? the nurse said before putting me on hold for five minutes, leaving me with her illogical logic. she came back on the phone, call us tomorrow to schedule a new test. phew. just another test to eliminate the side effects of our fiberglass chairs, while all along I’d feared instant action, beach-wide health warnings and being barred from school. the remote chance of the TB bacteria is clearly not anthrax. and. it turned out that the garden crepe at IHOP was surprisingly delicious but IKEA a predictable nightmare. over crowded. not a thing in stock that the website quoted as a green item at my nearest store. beefy but ignorant staff. couldn’t fit everything in the car. kiki ended up wedged between two mattresses, which, i told myself was safer than a seatbelt. and worst of all. very worst of all. there are now five chairs in the garage waiting to be assembled.


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no share the blogue

the morning light hits the roofs of  aqua like a greek village forming different shadows and angles on the pale pastel walls and balconies. after looking at trees for twenty year i find this view of color blocked concrete glorious. i have to be careful here cause i’m treading. alastair and i talk about this. treading. like a lot. his territory. my territory. like the brazilian bum. that was his. he saw it first. and i saw the russian boytoy first. but. architecture is his. no argument here. he may make me sign a disclosure. if that’s what its called. or get a restraining order. or a gag order. so. this is all on the architectural merits of aqua for now. BUT.  he got himself a blogue on wordpress the day after i did. and guess what! he called it alastairdoesmiami. now.  if thats not treading. don’t read it until he changes the name. you can always support him by going to his Wall Street Journal blogue called Wall to Wall. yeah right. its not like blogging hardship for him. he already has his platform. with, like a million hits a day. while I’m struggling here. the struggling blogger. thrilled with getting 150 views yesterday. for which I’m ohso grateful. off to IHOP for the girl’s -you’ve-done-great-in-school  saturday morning treat. go figure. after thinking that the country will make them into balanced humans IHOP is their favorite destination. to IHOP and IKEA. and maybe a test drive a groovy red convertible or two. I’m sure there’ll be a blogue in it that’ll be all mine. mine. mine. mine.