Greetings from the Sunshine State! May I offer you some hush puppies? (For any former employees—I am not referring to the golden retrievers that we sent to Heaven when they aged out of our Instagram brand campaigns!)
You know, I never planned to return to the life that my husband and I carefully cultivated for decades in New York City. After a while, the endless high-society events, cutting-edge couture, and class discrimination become boring when you’ve been banished from ever enjoying them again! In Florida, I am more fulfilled as a wife, as a mother, and as a girlboss demagogue. In Florida, I get to look at alligators and daydream about the purses I’d turn them into, which would sell at a sixty-per-cent loss at Ross.
Being in Florida has already taught me so much! For instance, I used to think that Five Guys referred to the five men you should have on speed dial: your libel lawyer, your fraud lawyer, your supplier of blond horsehair wigs, Juicero’s head of customer service, and Benjamin Netanyahu. But now I know that it refers to a hamburger franchise that offers nearly free warm meals to America’s struggling welfare addicts.
Eight dollars for a cheeseburger? Prices that low should be illegal! And you can trust that I’m tapping my D.C. Big Beef lobbyists to make that happen as soon as possible.
Before I hung up my Upper West Side heels for some Floridian “sandals”—they’re like shoes, but they don’t cause irreparable spine damage—I’d greet the friends whom I acknowledge in public with a singsong “Toutes nos félicitations!” (French for “Congratulations!”) It was a great catchall that could refer to anything from their recent marriage to a child bride, to the courts allowing them to keep shutting off the heat in their low-income housing complexes.
But since becoming a bona-fide Floridian, I’ve grown accustomed to greeting my neighbors with a routine “Bonjour! Comment va ton estomac?” (French for “Hello! How is your stomach?”) It’s another great catchall that can refer to a tummy ache from having eaten too much popcorn shrimp, to a tummy ache from not having one’s nutritional needs met on account of the startlingly high number of food deserts in Florida.
Desert—that reminds me. Jared and I totally blanked on establishing peace in the Middle East! Crap! Chalk it up to rookie mistakes, I guess.
I know that some people might be tempted to simply lounge at the beach or call immigration on Cuban-American street venders all day, but I’m determined to use my time in Florida to advance my thriving political career. I want Americans to see me as a pragmatic autocrat. A moderate fascist with whom they could enjoy a low-cal “beer,” whatever that is. A calm, serene Nazi-apologist who can’t possibly be that regressive, on account of all the pastel in my wardrobe.
For any of the eight women who enjoy my apparel, it’s official—I’m back to designing jewelry that you’ll impulsively buy at T. J. Maxx and then donate six months later! Instead of continuing to cater to white women who have a tunic section in their closets, I’m now focussing on America’s fastest-growing demographic: right-wing boss babes who sincerely believe that Tom Hanks drinks babies’ blood and who aren’t afraid to treat themselves to some bling!
Think about it—these ladies are the ultimate early adopters of new trends and styles. They’re unafraid to latch on to big, bold ideas before they’re wholly rejected by the mainstream. Plus, given their penchant for invading federal buildings, these posh patriots are guaranteed to become repeat customers who need to replace the practical pumps that they hurled at a senator. Finally a source of passive income that matches my passivity on human rights!
By now, you’re surely wondering, Isn’t there anything that Ivanka misses about New York City? Um, one sec. If any Floridians are reading this, look over there! There’s a big hoagie in the sky!
O.K., while they’re distracted—God, I hate Florida. The air is thick with canola oil, and everybody thinks that “Ayn Rand” is a mispronunciation of “Fryin’ Tan!” (That’s a tan intended to fry off one’s skin-cancer moles.) But the thing I love about Florida is the same thing that I loved about New York—it’s the place that currently promises me power. And that’s enough to keep me somewhere for a long time.
O.K., Floridians, come back! The Jacksonville Jaguars’ cheerleaders are giving away free wheels of cheese in the Burger King parking lot!
God, I miss New York.
Ah! I lost track of time. I have to get ready for Disney Week, a.k.a. July 4th weekend at the second most magical place on earth. (Nothing beats a Sunday morning at home with the kids, especially when you consider what’s happening in those detention centers.) Disney Week is nearly identical to New York Fashion Week—just replace the Dom Pérignon with funnel cakes, and the Jenners with two hundred thousand Midwestern families in jorts. Tue-moi! (That’s French for “Kill me!”)
