How I Punched My Future Ex-Husband in the Face

November 14, 2013

As my readers know, my future ex-husband has been spending time in a place called Queens. He goes there to visit an old girlfriend of mine named Lysette who just had a baby. He claims that when he enters her apartment, he feels a sense of calm he’s never felt before.

Some women might be insulted by this situation, but personally I’m more mystified than anything. Why would a person willingly subject themselves to spending time with something that spits up when they could be eating foie gras brule at Jean Georges?

No, it’s not these baffling excursions that got to me.

It’s also not the fact then whenever he returns from visiting Lysette, he starts talking about wanting a baby of his own. When he and I met, he was even more virulently against children than I was. It’s one of the qualities that attracted me in the first place. What woman wouldn’t fall for that?

No, readers. None of these infractions put me over the edge. It’s that when he got home, I told him about the phone call I’d just had with Daddy, how he’d accused me of poisoning Sabina, and how my Opana Xanax cocktail wasn’t working anymore.

I also told him that the detective in charge of the investigation into uncle Myron’s death had left a message informing me that a new piece of evidence had been discovered and that he needed to schedule a meeting with me and my lawyer right away.

Finally, I told him that Charles had called and told me that something unthinkable had happened to my portfolio and could I please come to see him tomorrow. I begged him to tell me, but he just said I should stop being histrionic in spite of my Levantine blood.

I told him all this. And do you know what he said to me? Go ahead. Take a guess.

“Mercury is in retrograde, Jasmine.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” I said.

“Just lay low for another day,” he said. “It will all be over soon.”

And that’s how it happened. I punched my future ex-husband in the face. I know any of you would have done the same.

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Before the Crash is Free Oct 16-20

October 15, 2013

The story is free, darlings. Here it is.

Melissa Morris is a thirty-something single New Yorker who works in one of the trendiest boutiques in Manhattan. She has it all, until the night she discovers something dreadful and frightening and just plain weird. Her life will never be the same.

Get the story.

British? Suit yourself.

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Is Ronan Farrow Single?

October 2, 2013

“Is Ronan Farrow single?” my cousin Milagros Schwartz said to me today. “He’s so hot.”

It’s so like Milagros to want to date someone just because he’s Frank Sinatra’s son. You should have seen her when Prince Harry came to town, bribing her way into the Greenwich Polo club and threatening Chris Christie’s secretary.

“You’re such a star fucker,” I told her.

“What about you and Axl?” she said.

“That was completely different,” I said. We were having egg caviar at Jean-Georges but I got up and walked out. It’s a subject I refuse to discuss.

Obviously, I’m sympathetic to anyone who’s celebrity obsessed. What are we worth if we’re without some kind of attachment to fame and fortune? I tried to explain this to my future ex-husband a few minutes ago. He’d just gotten back from visiting Lysette and her new baby in Queens and he was going on and on about how empty he’s been feeling and how he wishes there were more to life than just having money and making money. He missed something so essential – spending money – but I didn’t rub it in his face. You’d think he would have been grateful, but he never even thanked me.

Ever since my meeting with badly-ageing literary agent Elaine Totsky, I admit that I’ve been giving the meaning of existence some thought. I guess being sued for defamation of character is making me doubt myself.

Yes, I’m being sued. It seems that there’s a real person named Melissa Morris out there and she’s upset by my portrayal of her in the detective novels. I don’t know why she’s so bent out of shape. She’s a “Oxfam fundraiser”, whatever that is. You’d think she’d be happy to depicted as something more interesting. Really, people are just selfish. I know there’s only one way out of this mess and it’s to figure out how to mix my Opana and Xanax in the most effective way possible. I will let you know how it goes. All advice is welcome.

in Dalmore, future ex-husband, Literary Agent Elaine Totsky, Lysette, Queens, Valium | Read full story · | Comments { 0 }

Blue Jasmine

September 10, 2013

Yesterday, while we were having our Highballs, my future ex-husband said to me, “Jasmine, what if it happened to you? What if you lost everything?”

“Do we have another case of Dalmore, or should you run down to Sherry Lehmann?”

“I’m serious Jasmine,” he said. “Nothing is permanent. Tomorrow you could wake up and discover that everything you had was gone.”

All I can say is, thank goodness Lysette finally went ahead and had her baby. Maybe she’ll finally leave my future ex-husband alone and stop filling his head with arcane ideas. Ever since that horrible night in Queens, he’s unrecognizable – reading books and thinking and talking about the meaning of … oh Shit. I just remembered. We are out of Dalmore.

If you’re curious to know how it all worked out, Sabina is in stable condition but still in a coma ever since she collapsed at the engagement party Elvis and I threw her in July. Really, it’s just a matter of time before Daddy forgets she ever existed and moves on with his life.

All this means I’ll have time to focus on other things, like finally getting together with my badly-ageing literary agent Elaine Totsky. We’ve scheduled two meetings and I’ve missed both of them, but I don’t see how I can be expected to remember her existence at all, what with her refusal to see my plastic surgeon.

“I don’t think your father will forget Sabina,” my future ex-husband says. He’s reading over my shoulder, again. “Elvis is staying with him until she recovers.”

“You mean ‘If’…” I say, ever optimistic.

But I admit that this news comes as a bombshell. Elvis is living with Daddy. How can this be? I never got to live in the same house as Daddy. What’s that little twit have that I haven’t?

“A mother that your father loves,” my future ex-husband offers. He’s insufferable. What I really need to do is somehow get my father out of the country. Technically, I’m not supposed to leave the country, but I’m sure I could get around that with a little help.

Maybe I should plan a ski trip this winter. Those always seem to go so well for our family.

in Dalmore, Elvis, future ex-husband, Jasmine's Father, Literary Agent Elaine Totsky, Lysette, Queens, Sabina | Read full story · | Comments { 1 }

What Happened This Summer

August 4, 2013

For the record:

At the engagement party for Sabina and my father, I never called Sabina a “gold-digging, contaminated whore.”

The person who sent Elvis down to our storage space in the cellar of the building to bring up another case of Dalmore was not me. Nor did I lock him inside. Finally, when Elvis didn’t return to the penthouse for over an hour, I did not reply to Sabine, when asked about his whereabouts, that he was “probably just taking a nap.”

I most definitely did not spike Sabine’s gin rickey with a mix of valium and Opana. Does that even sound like something I would do?

When Elvis finally shlepped in covered in dust and crying, I absolutely never said, “Where the fuck is my Dalmore?”

When Sabine collapsed and someone suggested we call 911, I couldn’t have taken the battery out of all the available mobile phones, because at the time I was yelling at my errant architect, Marc Muellem, who has yet to finish renovating the bedroom. When the medics arrived, I did not fondle the biceps of one of them and aggressively insist that he drink a mint julep.

When my cousin Milagros Schwartz suggested that the wedding night have to be postponed in light of the news that Sabine had fallen into a coma, I positively did not improvise a version of the Haka after singing a refrain of “Glory, Glory Hallelujah!”.

There you have it. I hope that clears everything up. All in all, I think Elvis and I threw a very successful party. And since it is August, we’re off now to my future ex-husband’s place on Meadow Lane. I hope you’ve found a swimming pool in which to immerse yourself, and I’ll see you soon, darlings.

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Podcast – Jasmine’s Secrets

May 23, 2013

What’s an alter-ego? Who has the time to look these things up? I certainly don’t. But if you’re curious to know all of Jasmine’s deepest, darkest secrets, or at least her views on sex, money, yoga and gay men, here’s a podcast to enlighten you. There’s very little profanity here, so apologies in advance.

Listen to the podcast.

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Sycophants and Hostile Doormen

April 30, 2013

Never fight with your doorman. That’s the lesson I learned today after he let Elvis up to the penthouse.

Yes, you read it right. After weeks of calls and emails and text messages, that little runt managed to get to my front door. I knew what he wanted, which is why I’ve been avoiding him, but then there he was and as he’s only ten I could hardly punch him in the face without risking yet another law suit.

“Your Dad bought the ring!” he said. “They’re officially engaged now!”

“Go away,” I said. “I’m not hungover but I will be soon.”

“Let’s make them a party together!” he said. “We’ll have it here! Your house is so big.”

What a brown-nosing little sycophant.

“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll give you a hundred bucks to pretend this conversation never happened. I’ll give you a thousand if you can break them up.”

“I’ll start buying decorations!” he said, grabbing the C-note. “You can make the invitation list.”

Oddly, the trait of ignoring some questions while answering the ones you expected to be asked is a trait that my father has mastered. Which means my father may like this dreadful person.

“He’s horrible,” I said after I finally got Elvis to leave. “Everything is horrible. How am I going to stop this marriage?”

“The primary cause of unhappiness is never the situation but the thoughts about the situation,” my future ex-husband said. He was on the couch reading a book, and I think he was actually quoting from it. It was one of the books that Lysette gave him. I think they’re meeting secretly.

“It’s not a secret,” he said, reading this post over my shoulder. “I told you at least a dozen times. Besides, Lysette is pregnant. And what about all your drunken binges with Charles? I never ask you about those.”

Now I’m planning an engagement party for my father and that Kosovan, gold-digging dye-job Sabina. My badly-ageing literary agent Elaine Totsky wants to have a meeting with me – she says she has news. And I still haven’t found a good lawyer to represent me in the murder case. On top of it all, I’m out of Opana. A package was supposed to arrive yesterday, but, as I mentioned, my doorman is currently hostile. What should I buy him? I need my special cocktail now more than ever – All advice is welcome.

in Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, Elvis, future ex-husband, Jasmine's Father, Literary Agent Elaine Totsky, Lysette, Myron Xavier Schwartz., Sabina | Read full story · | Comments { 2 }

How Would You Fight A Lion?

March 22, 2013

How Would You Fight A Lion? That’s the name of my new short story.

Though the story has just come out, my readers, ever enthusiastic and faithful, have been flooding me with suggestions about how they’d go about it.

Sarah from Wasilla, for example, would shoot it with a Remington 870 Pump, and then mount the head over her fireplace. Good for you Sarah! Jasmine likes an unreconstructed approach to most things.

Lindsey from Merrick, on the other hand, would punch it between the eyes. Mel from Sydney would complain that it’s Jewish and Brett from Los Angeles would bait it with cocaine. Both ideas are creative, don’t you agree, and each, in its way, just slightly old-fashioned. Laura N. from Brooklyn would “give it a cookie”. I think we can all agree that she’s toast.

And what about you? Imagine that you’re there, in the savanna, staring into those amber eyes. Would you run, readers? Would you understand that this is the greatest moment of your soon-to-be-ended-in-horrible-fashion life?

It’s such an evocative question and really, I think the answer tells you more about a person than you’d like to know. But if you’re curious to learn how to really fight a lion, check out my new story, and stay out of the jungle, my darlings. Not all of us are equipped to brawl with the beast.

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Nonna Pessia

March 6, 2013

If one more person says they’re surprised when they discover that I have a living grandmother, I swear to god I’ll punch them in the face.

Nonna Pessia came to visit me yesterday. It was a real honor because the rumor is that she’s more loaded than anyone in the family.

“Yasmine,” she said before her gloves had come off. “Who is representing you?”

“An associate of Charles Endicott’s,” I told her.

“Get rid of him,” she said. “Call Stanley.”

“He’s dead, Nonna,” I reminded her.

“Then call Myron.”

“Dead,” I said.

She exhaled from exasperation.

“You are going to end up in prison, Yasmine. This is very serious. Who is this man in the kitchen?”

“That’s just Mark. He’s renovating the bedroom. Supposedly.”

Mark approached my grandmother but she put her hand up to stop him.

“I stay out of Chelsea,” she hissed to me. “Why does he have to come to the Upper East Side?”

“Please, Nonna. I won’t go to jail. Anyway the real issue is Daddy. He’s going to marry that horrible woman. Can’t you talk to him?”

“We haven’t spoken for twelve years,” she said. “I’m not sure this is a good enough reason to start now.”

“Oh forget it,” I said. “Let’s just go to lunch.”

You see? There’s nothing as frustrating and disappointing and complicated as family. You can wish you were adopted all you want, but in the end, if you have a grandmother who can get a table at Jean Georges just by walking in, then order the foie gras brule and count your blessings.

in Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, Gay Men, Jasmine's Father, Mark | Read full story · | Comments { 0 }

Marrying and Divorcing Rich – and my guest post for M.J. Kane

February 21, 2013

As my readers know, amateur sleuth Melissa Morris is based on a real person – an old girlfriend of mine named Lysette. She used to do some work for the Mossad until she got tired of seducing Syrian businessmen in cheap East European hotels. She drifted for years. I urged her to give up and marry rich, but Lysette made the too-common error of ignoring my advice and now she’s living in Queens.

It’s a real shame because, like any attractive woman, Lysette could have married and divorced someone wealthy by now. Instead she has to work for a living, as a social worker no less, and she’s a vegan. It’s a tragedy, no matter how you look at it…

Read more of this guest post on M.J. Kane’s website. M.J. Kane? She’s a stay-at-home mom turned Amazon bestseller. Her words inspire, encourage and bring hope, so really, we have very little in common. Still, hop on over and check her out…

in Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, Crime Fiction, Dalmore, Lysette, Mossad, Myron Xavier Schwartz. | Read full story · | Comments { 0 }