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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 }

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.

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 }

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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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 }

Blog Hopping in the USA

The talented JD Chase has asked me to participate in a Blog Hop, which is a little like wife swapping without the keys, sex and suburbia. Thank you, JD and good luck with Hunting Lust, a “contemporary romance with mild erotica”.

What is the title of your book?
Speaking of sex… The title of the second novel in my detective series is Fakakt: Melissa Morris and the Meaning of Sex

Where did the idea come from for the book?
Amateur sleuth Melissa Morris is based on my friend Lysette who used to work for the Mossad until she got tired of seducing Syrian businessmen in cheap East European Hotels. She now works as a social worker and one day I thought to myself, what if, instead of working with abused children, Lysette found dead bodies and solved crimes?

What is the genre of the book?
Mystery – Chick-lit

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?
Christian Bale has already agreed to do it in drag.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?
Melissa Morris chases her cheating boyfriend to Rome. While trying to track him down, she’s arrested for the murder of a Romanian businessman. She sets out to find the real killer, discovering an underside to Rome and herself that she never imagined.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?
I’ve just taken my second dose of Opana. Who can remember?

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?
People have compared me to Marian Keyes and Donald Trump

Who or what inspired you to write this book?
Did I mention that Sabina’s son, Elvis called me yesterday? What does he want? Isn’t enough that his skanky platinum blond dye-job of a mother roped my father into getting engaged? Some people ask why bad things happen to good people, but that’s really the wrong question. The correct question is, why aren’t things going better for Jasmine? What’s wrong with the world?

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?
My future ex-husband has started to read books, which I find odd. But if, like him, you do actually read, then go ahead and pick up a copy. It just came out in paperback.

Thanks again JD and happy hopping…

in future ex-husband, Jasmine's Father, Lysette, Mossad, Sabina | Read full story · | Comments { 0 }

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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