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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.

in Jasmine's Father, Myron Xavier Schwartz. | Read full story · | Comments { 0 }

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 }

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 }

WITH NO OTHER SKILLS, I NATURALLY TURN TO WRITING

My future ex-husband always says, “If they can’t afford to live in Manhattan, don’t waste your time.” What he means is, life is short. Pursue your dreams. Don’t let anyone tell you no, especially if you’re attractive enough to get your way. It’s so true. Five years ago my uncle Myron was skiing in Verbier and Bam! Just like that, he was gone.

I was thinking about this the other day when I decided to write a novel. As my readers know, I’m the hostess at a private gastro-pub in Manhattan. We don’t give out the name, we have no website, and the sign on the door is written in invisible ink.

It’s terrific work. I love the pleasure of turning people away. I would do this job forever, if I could. But I can’t.

You’re probably as sad about this as I am. You’re asking yourself: Why, Jasmine, why?

I had this plan to be young and glamorous forever, but it never panned out. It’s a shame because I’m gorgeous. But tragically, my beauty is fading. I didn’t realize it, but the decline in beauty, as it relates to increasing age, is not gradual. It’s exponential. Did you know that? That once you pass a certain age, you might as well get fat and dress in that cheap, synthetic clothing that they make people in the Midwest wear? I wish someone had told me about this years ago. I would have come up with a different plan.

Given these unfortunate circumstances, it’s unfair of me to keep my job. Our customers deserve better. The men who grace our establishment should be greeted and seated by a woman they want to have sex with. The ladies deserve someone who makes them feel overweight and bad about themselves in general.

It’s time to face reality. I need a new career that doesn’t expose others to my crow’s feet. As Mark Twain said, “wrinkles should merely indicate where smiles have been, but unfortunately they end up making women ugly.” So here I am, bravely looking ahead, wondering what’s next for Jasmine.

With no other skills or training to speak of, I naturally turn to writing. Tomorrow I start my first novel. How hard could it be?

in Crime Fiction, future ex-husband, Jasmine Schwartz, Myron Xavier Schwartz., Writing | Read full story · | Comments { 1 }