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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 }

Things NOT to do when being questioned by police

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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:

FARBISSEN on AMAZON – CLICK TO ORDER
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in Dalmore, Jasmine Schwartz, Jasmine's Father, Jasmine's Mother, Myron Xavier Schwartz., Sabina, Uncategorized | Read full story · | Comments { 6 }

50 Shades of Oy Vey

My mother called me yesterday. As always, when she aggravates me, I want to post about it here.

Here’s why:

Mother In Palm Beach:He’s going to marry that Russian, isn’t he?
JS: She’s Kosovan.
MIPB: I always hated those Russians. They completely ruined Brighton Beach.
JS: You’ve never been to Brooklyn
MIPB: That’s a filthy lie, Jasmine. You’ve always taken his slide.
JS: It’s not even eleven o’clock mother. How can you be drinking already?
MIPB: Don’t pretend you don’t have a Hendricks in your hand right now.

(Silence of Admission.)

MIPB: I was a good wife. I didn’t do everything he wanted, but I stayed skinny. How was I supposed to know what he was into?
JS: Mother, I don’t want to hear…
MIPB: He just seemed like your typical finance asshole when we met. I thought the masks were part of an old Halloween costume.
JS: Mother please!
MIPB: Not that he ever satisfied me either. You think just once he’d asked what the straps were for.
JS: Could we please focus, here Mother? How are we going to stop this wedding?

Mark: Maybe they really love each other.

This last helpful comment came from Mark Mualam, my errant interior designer, who was in the kitchen taking measurements.

JS: How about finishing the bedroom before you share your pearls of wisdom?
MIPB: Who is that? He sounds just like…
JS: Shut up, mother. You know I never speak about him. And let’s get back to the wedding. What are we going to do?
MIPB: I got my settlement darling. You’re on your own.

Click

My future ex-husband: What if Mark is right? What if they do love each other?

Did I mention that my future ex-husband has been behaving bizarre ever since the night we went to Lysette’s house in Queens? As if I didn’t have enough to worry about. I swear I must be the only sane person in this entire penthouse, including Pavel, who’s installing the Novellini shower door in the en suite bathroom.

On another subject: As my readers know, I don’t like to call attention to other women. However, these two ladies had the same idea as I did and posted their two cents under the title “50 Shades of Oy Vey”. Anyone who thinks likes Jasmine is doing something right.

Abbey Prentice – Writer and blogger and sadly for her, a mother – really, really hated the S&M books and says they are “not worth the paper they’re printed on”.

Pink Lady Lindsley, also a writer, sounds like she has a really hot sex life herself. Alas, she found the sex scenes boring and prefers 9 1/2 weeks for getting libidinous. Jasmine hasn’t read the books but generally endorse anything erotic, so long as it doesn’t make me feel old.

in future ex-husband, Gay Men, Jasmine Schwartz, Jasmine's Father, Jasmine's Mother, Lysette, Mark, Queens, Renovation, Sabina | Read full story · | Comments { 0 }

SOMETHING STRONGER THAN A VALIUM

So I just finished the second novel in this detective series I’m writing and it got me to thinking. Why do people write anyway?

My future-ex-husband says that writing is a big waste of time, because you’ll never make enough money to justify it. He also points out that writers fall into that category of people who feel important and self-satisfied for no good reason. He’s right, of course. Then why did I choose this career?

I asked around, and it turns out that people write for all kinds of reasons. They need to be creative and express. It makes them feel good. They want to influence others. They want to escape into a different world. They feel like they have something important to say. They generally hate interacting with other human beings. And some people are actually good at it. All fine reasons, I suppose. Me? I never really considered any of them.

As my readers know, I write because I got too old to do my real job – I used to be a hostess in an unambiguously private gastro-pub in Manhattan. I couldn’t think of any other work, and writing seemed like something I could do quickly and be successful at without much real effort. I mentioned this to my mother, who lives in Palm Beach, and she just laughed one of her mean little laughs.

I don’t know what she’s so angry about. She did well in the divorce, but you’d never know it, the way she behaves. It reminds me of when I was seven-years-old, and my father was home for a change, and he took me to my ballet lessons because my mother was too drunk to leave her bed. On the way to the studio, we passed a bookstore. My father stopped to look in the window. There was a book on display, something about a World Series in the 1960s and some team that wasn’t supposed to win, but did. What did my father do? He got choked up. He cried.

It was the only time I ever saw my father cry. I forget why I started telling this story. I wish I had something stronger than a valium.

in Jasmine's Father, Jasmine's Mother, Valium, Writing | Read full story · | Comments { 1 }