(NEW YORK) Summer may have wrapped, but here’s a decidedly tongue-in-chic encore feature you certainly won’t want to miss. Despite her prominent perch by the beach in Sagaponack, Fairfield, super-tycoon Ira Rennert’s 110,000-square-foot mega-mansion is notoriously tight-shingled. Often referred to as the “House that Ate the Hamptons,” she sits on 63 acres, has 29 bedrooms, 39 bathrooms, and her own synagogue, playhouse and basketball court. But after a little lubrication—one Grey Goose and soda—she opened up to The Daily Summer in an exclusive interview.
Do you mind if we call you The House that Ate the Hamptons?
Do I mind? Of course I mind. I hate it, actually. Despite what you might have read, I have a very small appetite. I’m just very big boned.
How do you keep your façade in shape?
It’s a constant battle. I absolutely adore Pilates and have been begging Ira and Inge to give me my own studio, but they have to get approval first, whatever that means. It’s like an episode of Parks and Rec over here. I’m thinking about sending the board a tractor-trailer full of Levain cookies. Do you think that’s too much?
It sounds about right, actually. You kicked off the Sagaponack land grab. What do you like about living there?
It’s the only place in the Hamptons that doesn’t have a Spin studio. I mean, have you seen those crazy women? They’d sell their own kid for a better slot on the Saturday wait list!…Oh, I’m only half-kidding, darling. Wainscott doesn’t have a spin studio, either. But it does have a Barry’s Bootcamp! In any case, here I am.
Do you have many friends out here? You seem a bit … isolated.
I love Mr. and Mrs. Rennert, of course, because they had the chutzpah to build me. And the Macklowes are right nearby. I like rubbing JMack’s skin cream all over my windows. The Schifters once send me a LeSportsac that I still use. I mean, sometimes I can barely keep track of all the guests running around.
What have you been reading this summer?
Oh, and I love housewarming presents. Make sure you include that. Especially Frédéric Malle candles, hint, hint.
That wasn’t the question.
Oh, sorry, sweetie! Yes, reading. What else is there to do out here? Steven Gaines’s Philistines at the Hedgerow is an all-time classic. I read it cover to cover every year. I hope you don’t have too many more questions. The driveway is jammed and no one else knows how to fix it…
Don’t worry, almost done! You’ve had some pretty bad press over the years—has it hurt your confidence?
If you prick me, do I not bleed? Of course it hurt! I cry myself to sleep sometimes and only the potatoes on Potato Road can hear me; only the lapping waves at Peter’s Pond Beach can calm my nerves and restore my faith in humanity. Oh, I’m just teasing, darling. I’m from the old school—all press isgood press.
Is it hard keeping up appearances?
Looking like a billion bucks ain’t easy—or cheap—believe you me. Let’s just say Peggy Siegal and I have a very close friend in common, though I haven’t spoken to her since she “forgot” my invite to the Spy Kids 2 premiere. I’ve been in every freebie mag in town, but I’m still not big enough for her?
Do you ever think maybe your look is a little—and don’t take this the wrong way—OTT?
It’s not like I’m wearing a Trina Turk caftan, Roberta Roller Rabbit pajamas or one of those Ralph Lauren pony shirts with the giant logo across the chest! I’m not a yellow Lamborghini. I’m a subtle shade of taupe, thank you very much.