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Stuff My Daughter Better Figure Out Before it’s too Late

Here’s my contribution in honor of International Women’s Month:

As my readers know, I hate children and have none. I actively seek out child-free venues so as not to be exposed to their snotty noses and pitchy little voices. But if I did have a daughter, here’s what I would tell her.

Make Lists Of Rich And Important People.
I can’t tell you how essential this is in life. Keeping track of the rich, the famous, the powerful and the skinny will help you keep the values that you cherish close to your heart. It will help you not waste any time at parties with some obscure nobody no one gives a shit about. And most importantly, maintaining these types of lists ensures that you will always be on one yourself, because the day you slip is the day you should take a flight to Amsterdam and end it all.

Men Dig Stilettos
You can wear flip flops in the shower if you must, but honey, there’s only one way to snag a man at Davos, and it’s not with Mephisto.

Narcotics Are Your Friend. Yoga is the Enemy.
It’s been a disillusioning decade in Manhattan. What was once the land of Rollerblading Hotties and Pole Dancing Workshops has become a haven for Bikram Studios and ‘Laughing Lotus Centers’. The recent NY Times articles skewering Yoga are no accident – Mother used to bang an Ochs-Sulzberger, and I’ve had it with this psuedo-spiritual murderous me-fest masquerading as fitness. If I see one more pregnant woman walking around E. 61st street with a Yoga strap, I will hurl all over her and whip her with it.

It’s Always About You.
If you ever sense that it’s not, make sure to bring the focus back to yourself. Talk about yourself in the third person. Show a little cleavage, complain about something that happened to you recently, or just start yelling at someone. A clever woman knows how stay at center stage. Modesty is for housewives.

You Are So Very Expendable
So stay young. Make sure there’s no lipstick on your teeth. And never, ever dance when you’re drunk.

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Things NOT to do when being questioned by police

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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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.

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