Phineas and Ferb in the Bedroom

My cousin, Milagros Schwartz, called me yesterday.

“Jasmine, the craziest thing happened to me,” she said. “I was having sex with Grythym, and while he was thrusting inside me, all I could think about was a Phineas and Ferb I’d just seen.”

“A what?” I said. “Is that a painting?”

“No, Jasmine,” she said, sounding as if I’d just asked to borrow money. “It’s the show my son watches before he goes to bed. But here’s the crazy part. It turned me on.”

“Milagros, let’s get real,” I said. “If television is stimulating your libido, just move down to Florida and get it over with.”

The truth is, I’ve always had a little crush on Grythym, and even worse, when we were five, my father once called Milagros pretty. I hate her with a passion.

“What do you think about during sex?” Milagros asked.

Even without Grythym and my father’s betrayal, I would still find Milagros distasteful and here’s why. She’s always asking me about my sex life. As my readers know, what goes on in my bedroom, currently under renovation, is nobody’s business. It’s the special little secret I keep and I never, ever talk about it. Why? Because sex is a competition between attractive women. You know what I mean, and if you don’t then go ahead and eat that cheesecake. Get a cat while you’re at it. Because feminism is well and fine, but if you’re not killing it in the bedroom, ladies, then your man will drop you like an underperforming stock. And Jasmine kills it. Every time.

Why did I mention that? What? Anyway, I’m sure that by now you’ve heard the news. It’s true. The police have re-opened the investigation into the entirely accidental death of Myron Xavier Schwartz. It’s distressing to say the least, but luckily I’ve figured out that when you mix Opana with just the right amount of Xanax, it all starts to be very, very good. So for now it’s ok, my sweethearts. You can blow a kiss to Jasmine and I will snatch it, and maybe even touch it to my cheek.

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Stuff My Daughter Better Figure Out Before it’s too Late

Here’s my contribution in honor of International Women’s Month:

As my readers know, I hate children and have none. I actively seek out child-free venues so as not to be exposed to their snotty noses and pitchy little voices. But if I did have a daughter, here’s what I would tell her.

Make Lists Of Rich And Important People.
I can’t tell you how essential this is in life. Keeping track of the rich, the famous, the powerful and the skinny will help you keep the values that you cherish close to your heart. It will help you not waste any time at parties with some obscure nobody no one gives a shit about. And most importantly, maintaining these types of lists ensures that you will always be on one yourself, because the day you slip is the day you should take a flight to Amsterdam and end it all.

Men Dig Stilettos
You can wear flip flops in the shower if you must, but honey, there’s only one way to snag a man at Davos, and it’s not with Mephisto.

Narcotics Are Your Friend. Yoga is the Enemy.
It’s been a disillusioning decade in Manhattan. What was once the land of Rollerblading Hotties and Pole Dancing Workshops has become a haven for Bikram Studios and ‘Laughing Lotus Centers’. The recent NY Times articles skewering Yoga are no accident – Mother used to bang an Ochs-Sulzberger, and I’ve had it with this psuedo-spiritual murderous me-fest masquerading as fitness. If I see one more pregnant woman walking around E. 61st street with a Yoga strap, I will hurl all over her and whip her with it.

It’s Always About You.
If you ever sense that it’s not, make sure to bring the focus back to yourself. Talk about yourself in the third person. Show a little cleavage, complain about something that happened to you recently, or just start yelling at someone. A clever woman knows how stay at center stage. Modesty is for housewives.

You Are So Very Expendable
So stay young. Make sure there’s no lipstick on your teeth. And never, ever dance when you’re drunk.

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How Sexy is Your Detective?

pic_selleck (1)The detective who’s been investigating the entirely accidental death of my uncle Myron Xavier Schwartz is a little cute. I don’t know if I ever mentioned that.

The detective who questioned me about the supposed poisoning of Sabina is, on the other hand, so unattractive that each time I see him, I think I’m meeting him for the first time.

Finally, the detective who questioned me about the insider trading case is ethnic.

My future ex-husband and I are finally on speaking terms again. It took a while after I punched him the face – and I admit it’s a relief since Daddy isn’t speaking to me either after the initial evidence implicates me of poisoning his fiance. Even my stalwart Charles hasn’t returned my last two phone calls and Mother is on a cruise somewhere with fjords. With a little luck, Nonna Pessia hasn’t died and I still have one ally.

You want to hear something weird? The only person who doesn’t seem to be angry at me or avoiding me is Elvis, Sabina’s ten-year-old son. He calls me at least once a day to tell me something banal, like how much he loves the fish robots he got for Christmas or how his mother is walking again. Perhaps Daddy and Sabina are sheltering him from the charges against me. Or maybe he simply doesn’t believe them. Either way, I don’t get his angle.

It would be a stretch to say that I’m starting the New Year with a clean slate, so instead I’ll just say that I hope to be cleared of all pending charges against me in 2014. Of course, I’d still like to break up the relationship between Sabina and my father, but I’ll have to put that on the back burner for now. She’s still using a walker, so I can’t imagine there’s any rush there.

Meanwhile, while I was in an Opana Xanax haze, Elvis somehow convinced me to take him to the movies, which I am going to do now. Chow, darlings.

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Jewish Christmas is Free

“It is better to give than to receive.”
– Axl Rose

So here’s my new story, all wrapped up in red ribbon for you, my darlings. Jewish Christmas will be free December 18-22. Happy Holidays.

Jewish Christmas
by Jasmine Schwartz

A thirty-something woman’s playful, poignant Wizard of Oz-inspired journey on the streets of Manhattan:
It’s Jewish Christmas in Manhattan, which means Chinese takeout and a movie. Melissa Morris’s life is a mess, but she’s hiding the truth from family and friends, pretending that everything is just fine. When an old friend drags her downtown on a chaotic mission, Melissa finds herself involved in a burglary and kidnapping. In the end, she has to find the courage to face herself.

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How I Punched My Future Ex-Husband in the Face

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 left a message to tell me that a new piece of evidence was discovered and that he needed to schedule a meeting with me and my lawyer right away.

Finally, I told him that Charles 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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Is Ronan Farrow Single?

“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.

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Blue Jasmine

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.

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What Happened This Summer

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

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

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 }