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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 }


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.

in Dalmore, future ex-husband, Kew Gardens, Lysette, Manhattan, Mossad, Queens, Uncategorized, Valium | Read full story · | Comments { 9 }


It’s true. I’m giving away a short story this week, for free.

Here it is.

Enjoy, readers. It’s a prequel to Farbissen and Fakakt, and, yes, it’s also Fa-fabulous.

But let’s not kid ourselves. As the cover of ‘Before The Crash’ points out, Nothing is Free. So in exchange for this story, I need suggestions and I need them quick.

As you know, my father is dating his dental hygeinist, Sabina. Her ten-year-old son is called – I’m not kidding – Elvis. All three of them were spotted at John Dory yesterday, which is ridiculous, because Daddy doesn’t even like oysters. The whole thing is so distressing that 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.

I need to break up this couple immediately. That’s where you come in. Somewhere out there, someone has experience in making sure a relationship meets a timely end. So I put it to you, my readers. What should I do?

Thanks to one of my faithful readers, Santo, for his inspirational story describing how he got rid of his daughter’s boyfriend. It’s greatly appreciated, Santo, but I’m not so good with animal carcasses, so please, if you have suggestions that don’t involve dead animals, do send them along. Speaking of which, there is a dead animal in my story, ‘Before the Crash.’ And have a look, Santo baby. I snuck in a character named after you.

As many of you also know, I’m actively looking for something stronger than a valium, so all suggestions on that front are welcome as well.

in Crime Fiction, Jasmine Schwartz, Jasmine's Father, Sabina, Valium | Read full story · | Comments { 3 }


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 }