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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.

in Charles Cornelius Endicott IV, Elvis, future ex-husband, Jasmine's Father, Jasmine's Mother, Sabina | Read full story · | Comments { 5 }

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.

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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 }

Phineas, Ferb, Sex and Kim Kardashian

You’d be surprised to learn how many people are doing internet searches for ‘Phineas, Ferb and Sex‘. Until my cousin Milagros Schwartz enlightened me, I didn’t even know who Phineas and Ferb were, and now it’s the main reason people are coming to my website, aside from the murder charge.

“They haven’t charged you.”

This from my future ex-husband, who, once again, is reading over my shoulder.

“Yet,” he adds.

Kim Kardashian was the most internet-searched-for women in 2012. I know Kim through mutual friends, and she’s furious about the popularity of Phineas and Ferb. Personally, I don’t really care, as I just took my Opana with that touch of Xanax and am feeling it all over. You’d be surprised to learn how many people are doing internet searches for ‘Phineas, Ferb and Sex‘.

Did I tell you that Elvis keeps calling me? He’s the ten-year-old son of Sabina, the Russian who thinks she’s marrying my father.

“She’s Kosovan,” says my future ex-husband.

“Don’t you ever go to work?” I say.

The wedding is getting close and I’m considering doing the unthinkable. I just don’t understand it, readers. Isn’t it enough for daddy to have the perfect daughter in every way? Isn’t enough that I’m thin and marrying wealthy? I even wrote two novels for him, but did he even call me to say he was proud?

“Jasmine,” says my future ex-husband. “Sometimes you just have to accept things the way they are.”

This is the kind of drivel he says now, ever since that night in Queens. I would dump him, but the cocktail always makes me a little sleepy, and also, we have reservations tonight.

“Come on,” he says. “Let’s just go to Jean Georges.”

You see. Sometimes he still says the right thing.

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Blottoed and Vera Wang

Vera Wang

Whenever Daddy mentions his wedding to Sabina, I scream at the top of my lungs, stick my fingers in my ears and shut my eyes so tight I feel like hurling, which I don’t. As my readers know, tragically, I’m not one of those women who hurls easily.

But back to Daddy’s wedding. While the screaming etc. is a correct expression of my feelings, it leaves me somewhat uninformed about their wedding plans. So imagine my surprise when my cousin Milagros Schwartz called me yesterday. I haven’t heard from her since we were both questioned by the police a few weeks ago. She said just been at the Carlyle having her weekly joy ride [her words] with her Kama trainer when she spotted Sabina going into Vera Wang with her son Elvis.

Oh, gentle readers. Is it to much to ask that the universe align itself with my desires alone? Is it wrong to despise and resent a presumptuous skank who has my father wrapped around her Sakura calgel manicured fingernails?

“Like Anne Boleyn,” says my future ex-husband, reading over my shoulder.

“Like who?”

“Lysette recommended this book to me,” he says, showing me a book that looks like a cross between a Bible and the Danielle Steel novels my mother used to read instead of paying attention to me.

“You’re reading again?”

As you know, he’s become a little obsessed with Lysette since that awful night in Queens.

“You’re writing books,” he reminds me.

That does ring a bell. And before I get too wrecked by tomorrow nights festivities, let me share this news. Two of the paperbacks of my first novel will be given away, somehow, somewhere. You can click on the thingie if you, like my future ex-husband, are reading.

Happy New Year’s, my darlings. May it be a year that indulges and provides, glorifies and sates, and preserves the privilege and fortune of those who already have it. For the rest of you, I will love you just the same once I’m completely blottoed.

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Farbissen by Jasmine Schwartz

Farbissen

by Jasmine Schwartz

Giveaway ends February 08, 2013.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

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MY FATHER IS MARRYING HIS DENTAL HYGEINIST AND OTHER BAD NEWS

Yes, it’s true. My father is remarrying. I literally can’t believe it. I cried and I screamed and I threatened, but he won’t listen to reason. The bitch who’s manipulating him into this atrocious act is a dental hygienist named Sabina. Her ten-year-old son is called – I’m not kidding – Elvis. I can’t even focus on vetting the publicity team my publisher is putting together to promote my book. It’s so like Daddy to ruin everything for me.

“You’ll always be my little girl,” he told me when I tried to convince him that Sabina was an objectionable, East European skank. That’s well and fine for him to say, but where does that leave me when he dies? Did you know, that even if he wanted to, he can’t disinherit the faux redhead cow under New York law once they get married? Isn’t that insane? I am frantically looking into other state laws on the subject, in the hopes of convincing them to move. My only other option, of course, is to stop the wedding.

My future ex-husband is looking over my shoulder and informs me that I can’t write that I “literally” can’t believe something that I know to be true. He’s such an asshole sometimes. He’s lucky that he drives a Cabriolet.

And worst of all? Tonight we have to go to Lysette’s house in some place called Kew Gardens. She said she’s written some poetry, and she’d like to show me some now that I’m a writer. She asked us not to bring wine because her boyfriend is a recovering alcoholic. And they’re vegetarian. I can’t even muster up the energy to be sarcastic about tonight. Please pray for me.

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