When you wish upon a starJiminy Cricket
Your dreams come true
Are you there Star? It’s me, Ivanka. … There you are. You probably should write this down, make some notes.
I wish my mother-in-law, Seryl Kushner, would stop referring to me as “that shiksa avatar.”
I wish my father would see me as a smart, accomplished, entrepreneurial business woman—who’s totally comfortable with the exploitation and abuse of Chinese factory workers for the sake of a modestly priced metallic leather pump—and not as a fourth wife.
I wish I could still be Advisor to the President. I so loved serving my country, microblogging and posting pictures on twitter and instagram, wearing Max Mara cashmere power blazers, holding a three-ring binder, learning new words, like “legislation,” “layoff,” “farmer,” “Kenosha,” and “Latino.”
I wish that I could continue to set an example for young women, like when I bravely violated ethics rules by promoting Goya beans because CEO Robert Unanue praised my father, who can’t be President of the United States anymore because of reckless voting, which is so unfair. I love that photo of me holding a can of black beans, smiling as though Goya had taken me hostage. If it’s Goya, it has to be good—apparently, but I’m skeptical. That was my first time holding a tin can. I was nervous, initially, but then I remembered that I was wearing a two-thousand-dollar silk blouse holding something that retails for one dollar and “forty-nine cents”—whatever that is—and Americans would applaud my courage, my willingness to be relatable, my manicure. Taking that photo was socially responsible. Black Beans Matter!
I wish Jared would finally grow shoulders. Is that selfish, Star?
I wish Kimberly Guilfoyle would stop pointing at Jared and shouting: “I found Waldo!”
I wish Tilda Swinton would stop suggesting that she play Jared in Ryan Murphy’s miniseries about me, titled “Craven Asshole,” which is catchy. I mean, Tilda’s talented, but way too masculine. I wish Mike Pence and Lindsey Graham would stop texting me, asking me to describe what Jared looks like naked. I love those queens so much and I don’t have the heart to crush their fantasies by telling them that when Jared steps out of the shower he looks sort of like a trophy for Most Anemic. Or an exclamation point with nipples.
I wish my nine-year-old daughter, Arabella, would stop telling me that I look like a Disney princess forced to sell Mary Kay cosmetics after her prince lost their entire fortune purchasing an overpriced, outdated commercial castle just as the kingdom was about to face a financial crisis. She’s so cute, though.
I wish Chelsea Clinton would stop telling people that I was created by Jeff Koons. I’m not pop art, I’m flesh and some other substance.
I wish Letitia James and Cyrus Vance would stop harassing my father just because he hired me as a consultant and then claimed my fees as a tax write-off. Fathers are allowed to write off their daughters. My father wrote off Tiffany years ago and no prosecutor seemed to care.
I wish Eric would stop asking me, “If you’re the looks and Don Junior is the brains, then what am I?” I’m tired of comforting him by saying: “You’re Eric, not Tiffany. Let that be enough.”
I wish Manhattan’s elites would stop threatening to shun me. I was so hurt when I read that Marilyn Minter—whose photorealist paintings of women’s toes and bushy vaginas have always spoken to me as an impressionable collector with money to burn—will refuse to sell me any of her work, unless I make an offer. I was even more hurt when I was told that New York’s fashion designers consider me a “pariah.” Do pariahs have twenty-six-inch waists? Do pariahs have platinum blonde hair with dark blonde highlights and radiant, flawless skin without makeup? Do pariahs wear belted Ralph Lauren shirt dresses? Batsheva Hay—whose affordable, under-a-thousand-dollar prairie dresses have defined “settler chic”—is confident that no couturier will take my call. This news was particularly tormenting. I’ve been having a recurring nightmare where I’m trapped inside a Macy’s and I’m being hunted by a saleswoman named Bloody Doris and she’s brandishing Liz Claiborne separates and a pair of Skechers and I’m hiding behind a clearance rack, and then I usually wake up screaming: “Machine washable evening wear!”
I wish Melania would like me. Is that unreasonable, Star? Recently, I asked her, “Wicked Stepmother, if you could have lunch with any famous person, alive or dead, who would it be?” She answered: “You, Ivanka. Dead.”
I wish… Star? … Where did you go? … Star? … Are you on a break?