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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.

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

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.

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

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.

in Dalmore, Elvis, future ex-husband, Jasmine's Father, Sabina, Valium | Read full story · | Comments { 3 }

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

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 }

The Last Anti-Semite on Wall Street Part Deux

“The trouble with you people, Jasmine, is that you always want more.”

These frequently italicized words were spoken to me recently by Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, the hardworking, white Protestant financial advisor who has served the Schwartz family for three generations.

“Take me,” said Charles. “I’m rich as Croesus and you don’t see me striving.”

As usual, we were getting tanked on Dalmore and, according to the security tape, I began to cry.

The police have reopened the investigation into uncle Myron’s death,” I said, weeping on his strong shoulder. “And they want to question me again. Why me? Why not Milagros? She’s his daughter! She was at the ski resort when it happened.”

“As were you,” said Charles. “But you’re straying from the point, Jasmine. Why can’t you people ever be happy with what you have?”

Don’t get me wrong. Charles was sympathetic. But after we reach the lower depths of the Dalmore bottle, he’ll generally start focusing on my Jewessness. It’s one of the reasons I respect him so much. Charles doesn’t follow fleeting social whims like some of the other old school financial advisors. He believes what he believes, and he’s too rich to ever be seriously challenged.

“What are you saying, Charles?” I said, dabbing my eyes dry. “That it’s because of striving that Myron is dead?”

“Don’t put words into my mouth, Jazz. I’m just pointing out that one of you probably killed him for his money. Isn’t that right?”

“Oh Charles,” I said, fresh tears appearing. “Is this your last bottle of Dalmore, or what?”

What would I do without Charles? Now that my future ex-husband has become unhinged, Charles is my rock and my savior. Let’s take a moment out of our day to pay tribute to these unsung heroes of our generation, the Wall Street financial billionaires, without whom we’d all be lost.

Ok, did everyone fall silent? No? Never mind. A shout out, then, to Dee Doanes, who is not a Wall Street financial anything, but a writer, and so presumably not in the one percent, although who knows what the New Year will bring? She outs herself as a trekkie and a stiletto addict in this whimsical post. She also mentions me, which is always fabulous.

in Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, Dalmore, future ex-husband, Myron Xavier Schwartz. | Read full story · | Comments { 2 }

Things NOT to do when being questioned by police

squidoo.com

Things NOT to do while you’re being questioned by the police in relation to their investigation into the entirely accidental death of your uncle, Myron Xavier Schwartz while he was skiing in Verbier.

DON’T tell one of them that he reminds you of the chauffeur that used to take you to junior high school

DON’T berate your interior designer Mark on the phone because he forgot to order the Lotus brass sink fittings for the en suite bath

DON’T spend ten minutes going through your purse looking for your cellphone when all the while you threw it out the window earlier that day after speaking to your mother in Palm Beach

DON’T wish aloud that you were in St. Barts

DON’T suggest that they do something useful with their time, such as looking into the immigration papers of Sabina, the Kosovan dye job who thinks she’s marrying your father

DON’T laugh at them when they ask if you know how to ski

DON’T tell them that anecdote about Mike Bloomberg and the lisping caddie in Tucker’s Town

DON’T excuse yourself to take a dose of Opana when you’ve already had your 40mg that day. Twice.

DON’T spill your Dalmore on the Mansour rug and then ask if they plan to pay for the cleaning bill

DON’T ask, “Is this really necessary, boys?”

I think that just about covers it, darlings. When they come for you, you’ll know just what to do. Never let it be said that Jasmine isn’t selfless. Oh yes – I almost forgot. My novels are available now in paperback as well as on Kindle. Get them here and stay out of trouble:

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in Dalmore, Jasmine Schwartz, Jasmine's Father, Jasmine's Mother, Myron Xavier Schwartz., Sabina, Uncategorized | Read full story · | Comments { 6 }

$2000 LATER AND I STILL NEED A VALIUM

What the hell is Prana breathing anyway? The Mandarin detox was pretty good, up to a point, and then suddenly Dario started telling me how to breathe while he was stimulating my lymph nodes. Then he made me drink this revolting green-colored juice which made me want to puke, but unfortunately, I think I mentioned that I’m not one of those women who easily hurls her food. My stomach was shot the entire day. $2000 later and I still need valium.

You’re probably wondering how this all started.

Actually I’m having some trouble remembering myself.

Oh yes. It’s coming back to me. I had a hangover. A really bad one. If you recall, we were invited to dinner at Lysette‘s, my old friend who used to work for the Mossad. I based my detective character on her. I think I already mentioned that.

Lysette lives in some place called Kew Gardens. We took a taxi over, stopping for drinks on the way, and by the time we got there, we were an hour late, which shouldn’t be such a big deal, but you can tell from the look on Lysette’s ethnic boyfriend’s face, it was.

So it was pretty much a disaster from start to finish. My future ex-husband, through no fault of his own, can’t really handle being around poor people. He got completely soused on the Dalmore we bought with us and before too long he was making his usual drunken racist comments. Santiago, surprise surprise, doesn’t have much of a sense of humor, and sometime after the ‘entrée’ was served, they were yelling at each other and talking about current events. In her sad, little kitchen Lysette revealed to me that she was pregnant after years of trying. As my readers know, when people tell me about their fertility woes, I usually say a little prayer for them that they won’t get pregnant, because no one really understands the extent to which children make you unhappy. But with Lysette, it was too late, and she was so excited about having a baby that all I could do was listen and pretend she wasn’t making a huge mistake.

I can’t emphasize enough that going to Queens was probably one of the biggest mistakes I’ve ever made, or at least, the biggest one of the summer. But the summer is ending, and I’m hoping for a respite from all the drama this fall. Let’s all say a little prayer for Jasmine.

in Dalmore, future ex-husband, Kew Gardens, Lysette, Manhattan, Mossad, Queens, Uncategorized, Valium | Read full story · | Comments { 9 }

THE LAST ANTI-SEMITE ON WALL STREET

I always say, it’s important to be open-minded.

For three generations, the Schwartz family finances have been managed by a capital market firm with a history as old as Wall Street itself. It’s a proud tradition that has ensured the members of our family the maximum amount of income with the minimum amount of work. I’m sure we can all agree that this is a huge component of the American dream.

And who do we have to thank? The hardworking white, Protestant men who took on our family’s portfolio back in the 1920s in spite of their traditional aversion for Semites. Sure, my father could have ditched them years ago, but what would be the point? As long as we’re talking about the American dream, then surely, at its spiritual center, is not the notion that one ethnicity will love the other, but that a people might overlook that queasy feeling that comes with making contact with those you find revolting, when the shared end goal is profit. Yes, I think that everything we’ve learned about America in recent years has confirmed this thesis.

I realize I’m getting a little high fallutin’, but I’m still on a high after my meeting yesterday with our family’s financial advisor, Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, the fourth Endicott to condescend to serve the Schwartzs. We had a ball, and more importantly, a bottle of Dalmore.

“The problem with you people,” Chuck said after he started to slur, “is that you make it all too obvious.”

“C-Corn in the house,” I said. “C-Corn in the house.”

“It’s better to have money than to chase it, Jasmine. Although I must compliment you on your cleavage today. Absolutely astonishing.”

“I just get so worried,” I told him, bursting into tears. “What if…”

“What is it Jasmine? You can tell me, if it’s not too personal.”

“What’s that?”

“That? Oh, it a toy helicopter. I can make it fly with my phone. Let me show you.”

Do you see why I will never abandon this man? In a way, it’s my most loyal relationship. Future ex-husbands come and go, parents are generally horrible, but financial advisors? They’re the ones who will stand by us, for all equity.

in Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, Dalmore, Money | Read full story · | Comments { 1 }