Stranger than Fiction! Prince Harry Displays the Crown Jewels

Harry-walk-of-shameSometimes fate just plays into one's hand.

My opening scene for The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing, (the second in my Housewife Assassin series, to be released on September 30, 2012) starts out with my heroine, Donna Stone*, foiling a plot on Prince Harry's life while he's in San Diego, celebrating the completion of his Apache helicopter training.

I've excerpted it here, below.

Well, whattaya know? Just the other day, Harry gets caught with his pants down (in truth, off, along with everything else) while partying in Las Vegas. He was there for a charity fundraiser for the air force base on which he trained.

It's almost as if Handsome Harry, the cheeky sod, said, "That Josie Brown is a sweet bird. Why don't I give her a leg up on the sale of her new book, let her readers sneak a peek of what they're in for?"

A peek indeed!

As these pictures show, which were first released on TMZ.com, he's got a lot to offer some fine lass…

But I'm glad to see he's holding tight to the crown jewels.

You just can't buy this kind of publicity.

–Josie

Read this excerpt of
The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing,
in bookstores on September 8, 2012.

 

 


HAH-Hanging-Man-New-BlueIn the meantime, order Book 1,
The Housewife Assassin's Handbook
Murder. Suspense. Sex. And some handy household tips.

In the US, just $2.99:

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In the UK, just £1.96(Kindle UK) and £1.99 (iTunes UK) :

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Read an excerpt here…

"This is a super sexy and fun read that you shouldn't miss!"
–Mary Jacobs, Bookhounds

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The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing

Chapter 1: Breaking Bad Hostessing Habits

Every woman wants to be the perfect hostess, and frets over
her inadequacies when it comes to the gracious art of entertaining.  Pshaw! A little forethought and a few hours
of  planning makes it easy as cherry pie!

There is, however, one ironclad rule that every hostess must
follow: make all your guests wish they’d never have to leave.

Especially in a coffin. With a bullet lodged in their heads.

 

Harry Happy Hour“You’re quite a saucy
minx!” Prince Harry’s  ale-slurred
come-on can barely be heard over the techno-vibe emanating from a
starship-worthy console of  the Ivy
Lounge rooftop’s head-bobbing deejay. 
“What say you give me a peek as to where that tattoo ends?”

His head is cocked
downward, as if it might give him the ex-ray vision he’ll need in order to see
the rattle on the faux-tatt’ed snake drawn from my belly, which ends
somewhere  in the nether regions that lay
under my thong bikini.

“You’re a cheeky sod. I
do have a face, you know.” I snap my fingers in front of his nose in order to
draw his eyes northward.

I’ve succeeded, sort
of.  But come on, already: the diplomacy
born and bred into the Prince of Wales can’t beat two millennia of innate urges
and four pints of Guinness.

His eyes linger below my
neck, albeit above my abdomen.

When, finally, our eyes
meet, I lean in and whisper, “You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”

I’m lying, even if he
doesn’t know it—yet.

His outright laugh is
accompanied with a shake of his head, and a tug at the waistline of his briefs.
“Nothing under these trollies, I’m afraid. Sorry to disappoint.”

I finger his briefs
longingly, then sigh. “I’m sure you’ll make it up to me somehow.”

His smile is his vow not
to disappoint.

God save the queen…

It’s no secret the prince
has been stateside with his Royal Air Force unit, learning the latest tricks
and treats of the AH-64D Apache helicopter: his vehicle of choice for his
upcoming tour of duty in Afghanistan. Tomorrow the soldiers complete their
training and head home. To celebrate, the soldiers are here, in San Diego,
which is just a couple of hours west of their training base, the Naval Air
Facility at El Centro.

Seems some chatter,
intercepted by MI-6, has led the Cousins to deduce that the prince is the
latest target of “the Leprechaun,” a notorious assassin affiliated with the
Irish terrorist cell known as 32CSM. If the Leprechaun succeeds in picking off
the spare to the throne, then once again the always thin strand of peace
between Ireland and Great Britain will be ripped to shreds.

If it happens on our
side of the pond, the U.S. will have mud on its face, not to mention the bluest
of blood on its hands.

So yep, I have to stop
the Leprechaun before he gets lucky.

My employer, the
freelance black ops agency known in the field as Acme Corporation, paid big
bucks to the club owners so that I could be up close and personal with the
prince. My goal is not to shag, let alone snag, Harry the Hottie. It’s to save
his adorable hide from a possible assassination attempt.

The prince leans in,
close enough to ask in a seductive albeit ale-sodden growl, “Want me to sign
your bikini?”

I look down between my
breasts. “Oops, forgot my pen. But you seem to be carrying one, in your pants
pocket. Or maybe you’re just happy to see me.”

He’s laughing so hard
his last gulp of Guinness goes down the wrong way.

“Prince Charming has a
one-track mind.” Jack Craig’s snarl comes in loud and clear through the tiny
microphone in my ear. As the team leader for this Acme Industries mission, he
is close by, but far enough away that no potential assassin can spot him.

Trust me, there is an
assassin lurking nearby.

Jack is also my main
squeeze, which is why he’s growling about my having to play the coquette while
under deep cover (in this bikini, I’m talking figuratively if not literally) as
one of the nightclub’s VIP bottle girls, and more specifically, the world’s
most eligible prince ’s pick-up du jour.

Needless to say, the
club’s real bottle girls are pea green with envy. They can’t figure out how
this newbie became Cinderella of this Century.

If I told them that my
aim and my 1st degree black belt status had something to do with it,
would they believe me? Probably not. All they see is that I’m just this side of
Cougarville, which means Harry is less discriminating than they had hoped.

For once I’m glad Jack
is not here with us, in the cordoned-off VIP section. One involuntary muscle
flex and prince’s all too obvious brawny goon squad—three of his Royal Air
Force mates—would be on top of him, like suds on ale. 

At MI-6’s behest, we’ve
kept that a secret from Harry, for now anyway. Which, I’m sure, is why he feels
so cocksure. This mission wouldn’t have been so hard if the prince weren’t so
insistent about partying “like an ordinary surfer bloke,” is how he so
preciously puts it. 

Thus far the natives
have been awed as much by his title as his regular dude  personality.

Just as the deejay
ratchets up the hip hop club mix, six drunken sorority sisters stroll our way.
One of the girls, a Kate Middleton lookalike, pierces me with a jealous glare.

I stare back and smile,
as if to say Take the hint. Get lost.

Her eyes shift from me
to one of Harry’s RAF buds. She waves coyly at him, and he’s smitten. Smirking
back, he nods her over. She squeals and grabs the hand of one of her
girlfriends.

Harry's haremIn no time at all, she
and her besties have jumped the red velvet rope. They toss themselves onto the
prince’s entourage, who don’t seem to be fighting them off too hard.

In fact, they’re
snapping their fingers at me with drink orders for their new arm charms.

“Not good.” Jack’s
warning in my ear is just loud enough for me to here.

“Tell me something I
don’t know,” I mutter back.

“How about this?” Jack
is now shouting into my earpiece. “You’ve
lost Prince Harry
.”

He’s right.

The prince seems
captivated by a petite, busty blond beauty. Even in heels, she barely reaches
his chest. She had pulled him out onto the dance floor for a throbbing
sex-drenched hip grinder, Andree Belle’s Go Go Gadget
Heart
.

The strobe lights and
smoke machine make it hard to follow them in the crowd. Then I see them,
against one wall. The buxom little tart has draped her arms around his
shoulders and hugs him close, as if she’ll never let him go.

Apparently too close. I
shove my way through the crowd until I’m close enough to I hear Harry’s woozy
cry: “Blimey, you’re no bird! You’ve got
a wanker
!”

Before I can pull him
away, the prince is pricked on the neck with something  his partner has pulled from her cleavage.
Harry’s groan is loud—

Then the smell of smoke,
and the lights go out—

But not before the last
strobe catches the triumphant look on his partner’s face.

 “Oh my God, Jack! The woman with Harry—she’s—not a she! She’s—”

“I know, I saw it, too!
The Leprechaun!”

Proof it pays to hit the
M.A.C. counter before a night on the town.

 And to hang out where the lights are always
low.

Everyone is screaming
and shoving their way to the exits, leaving me room to follow the Leprechaun,
who was shoving Harry in the opposite direction, up against a wall.

“It’s too dark to see
where they went. Does anything show up on the club’s security cams?”

“I’m looking now. In the
meantime, check the wall for a hidden pocket door. The schematic of this club
shows a few of them on every level. I’m sure the Leprechaun had his exit scoped
out in advance.”

While he scans the feeds
from the security cameras, I skim the walls with my hands. Finally I find it: a
tiny catch, waist high.

I pull it open it just
in time to see the Leprechaun heaving Harry down a long corridor.

He may not be used to
running in heels, but I am. If only I wasn’t running in a bikini, too.

“Too many wobbly bits,”
I mutter under my breath.

It is inappropriate for
Jack to be laughing now, but he can’t help it. “Just two. And they’re a sight
to behold. Prince Charming will be upset he slept through it.”

The thought of Harry in
the French-manicured hands of an assassin who can start the United Kingdom and
Ireland down another bloody path of un-neighborly relations has me picking up
my pace. Unlike the Leprechaun, I’m smart enough to ditch my high heels—

But I’m still not fast
enough to reach them before the Leprechaun rolls him into the backseat of a
dark BMW and screeches off.

I can hear Jack slapping
the wall with his fist. “Aw, damn! We lost them!”

“Nope, I slipped a GPS
tracker in the prince’s trollies.”

“You did what?…In his—what?”

“Oh, don’t worry, I
didn’t peek. I’ll meet you around the corner.”

What’s a little white
lie between fake husband and wife?

Before he can say
another word, I snap off my earpiece and run down the block.

(c) 2012 Josie Brown. All rights reserved. This excerpt may not be resold or
redistributed without prior written permission from Josie Brown or
Signal Press Books (info@signaleditorial.com).


Guide-to-Gracious-Killing-v6

The Housewife Assassin's
Guide to Gracious Kil
ling

  In bookstores on September 30, 2012.


In the meantime, order Book 1,
The Housewife Assassin's Handbook
Murder. Suspense. Sex. And some handy household tips.

In the US, just $2.99:

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In the UK, just £1.96 (Kindle UK) and £1.99 (iTunes UK) :

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 Read an excerpt here…

Sign up for my eLetter
for a chance to win a Kindle, a Nook,
or a gift certificate to your favorite bookstore!
Details to follow, by September 30, 2012,
with the launch of my new book!

There is only one man I’d leave my husband for: 007.

Daniel Craig SkyfallOkay, maybe I wouldn't actually leave Martin. I'd come home at mealtimes.

I'm just talkin' dessert now, the amuse bouche, when I rhapsodize about James Bond…well really, the James Bond, as epitomized by Daniel Craig. He's the perfect 007 for these times.

He's so spot on in the role, that I don't even mind his girly-man routine in THE GIRL WITH THE DRAGON TATTOO.

Check out this new trailer for SKYFALL, the latest Bond flick, which will be out in November.

Love this line:

007: Everybody needs a hobby.

Bad Guy Javier Bardem: So, what's yours?

007: Resurrection.

Ummmmmmmmmmm.

Shaken and stirred,

–Josie

HAH-Hanging-Man-New-BlueThe Housewife Assassin's Handbook

Murder. Suspense. Sex. And some handy household tips.

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Nook-button     

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"This is a super sexy and fun read that you shouldn't miss!"
–Mary Jacobs, Bookhounds

 

 

The Good Clooney…

Clooney

(Posted 9:05 PM PST, December 4, 2006)

Hunka hunka burn'in' luv, George Clooney, has had a loss in his family.

His Vietnamese potbellied pig, Max.

Georgie, I feel your pain. Hey, can I kiss it and make it better?

Okay, to be honest, I'm no Renee.

Or Kelly.

Or even Teri. (Okay, in the klutziness department I'm closer to Teri than any of your other former flings; but I've read BRIDGET JONES'S DIARY at least three times, so that should count for something….right?

Oh, this should seal the deal: I own a shitzhu.

Not exactly a pig, but hey, they have long lives, too. And they're bug-eyed, and therefore apt to go blind, just like Max did…

In fact, Lucky has a cateract. Does that count?

No, in all seriousness, I'm in love with your mind — AND your body….of work.

Three Kings: U rock.
Solaris: Yep, got it. (Dylan Thomas. GENIUS….)
Welcome to Collingwood is a perennial in my view corridor.
Syriana? Sadly, the essence of truthiness.
And O, Brother, Where Art Thou? Truly a classic. It will be your masterpiece…
As for The Good German? It's got everything I love: a '40's feel, filmed in black-and-white…
and you. So, yeah, I'm there.

Bottom line, George: Thanks for always pushing the envelope…Or sealing it back up, which in some cases, may be more appropriate.

Always in awe,

Josie

Hey! Order My New Book, IMPOSSIBLY TONGUE-TIED!

from BARNES & NOBLE or AMAZON  or BORDERS or WALDENBOOKS

What's it about? 

Sex.  Celebrity. Scandal.  Just another fun day in Hollywood…

All
over Hollywood, men are dialing O. Her steamy naughty talk fills them
with lust and longing, and helps them perform like the studs they claim
to be.

In
truth, the industry’s favorite phone sex operator is Nina Harte, a
struggling actress who has put her career on hold so that her husband,
Nathan, can pursue his own dreams of stardom. When Nathan's career
takes off, so does he, leaving Nina and their four-year-old son, Jake,
for his diva costar, Katerina McPherson. Then "Kat ‘n' Nat" are crowned
the media's newest celebrity sweethearts, and Kat labels Nina an unfit
mother in order to win custody of Jake, just so that she can have that
highly-coveted celebrity accessory—an adorable child—sans any unsightly
stretch marks.The one person who does care about Nina is
Nathan’s agent, Sam Godwin. In fact, he’s in love with her. And because
he has both a heart and a conscience, Sam feels guilty for having put
Nat in Kat's path in the first place….

So how will he feel when he finds out that Nin and O are one and the same?

Womanbook_1

Read An Excerpt of IMPOSSIBLY TONGUE-TIED here!

A View from a Bond (or Two…)

Golden_gate_bridge

Just saw CASINO ROYALE, the most recent Bond entry, starring hot and hunky Daniel Craig. If any one person can revive that mast spy franchise, it will be this actor…

Of course, he needed a spot on screenplay, too. I’m happy to report that the film is  jam-packed with great action, and just the right amount of sly humor, so kudos to screenwriters Neal Purvis and Robert Wade. That’s not to say that editing twenty or so minutes of plot wouldn’t have made it a perfect 10, then again, who goes to these movies for the story?

DanielcraighotPersonally, I go for the eye candy. Or in this case, the guy candy.

You’ll know what I mean when you go see it.

I happen to live in Marin County, which is just across the Golden Gate Bridge from San Francisco. Those of you who have been here know that San Francisco is a beautiful place. So beautiful, in fact, that it has been used as the backdrop for numerous movies.

Well, I was flipping channels a few minutes ago when I came across another James Bond movie, A VIEW FROM A KILL. It was released in 1985, and is the last Bond flick starring Roger Moore.

Bond_in_sf
Despite costarring Christopher Walken as the bad guy (was there ever a movie, other than Michael Cinimo’s THE DEER HUNTER, in which Walken wasn’t the evil seed?) and the final fight between the two takes place over San Francisco’s glorious skyline; while hanging from a rope trailing Walken’s blimp (we get a lot of blimps here in SF) first Walken tries to castrate Moore on the tippy-top of the TransAmerica Tower, then he tries to hang Moore on one of the spires of the Golden Gate Bridge…

(Sigh!) Stupid plot, albeit great scenery. Maybe that’s why it was Moore’s last Bond movie. (Actually, he claims that when he realized he was older than Bond girl Tanya Roberts’ mother, he knew it was time to move on…)

Par for the course for San Francisco, right?  At least, it is always ready for its close-up. It has hosted the Hulk as well as an almost otherworldly Reese Witherspoon, and has had James Stewart, Clint Eastwood, Nicholas Cage and Richard Gere as its leading men.

So, which is your favorite San Francisco movie?  Comment here, or email me at JosieBrownAuthor@yahoo.com.

Wish I were a Bond girl,

Josie

PS: Hey! Read an excerpt of IMPOSSIBLY TONGUE-TIED, my new book, here…

Kiss and Make Up…

Kissmakeup
My hubby is usually a dreamboat.

Except when we fight.

On the bright side, I guess you could say that arguing is a form of communication. Or, as Rosanne once said, “You can’t love if you can’t fight.”And Tom Arnold had the bruises to prove it.

Sure, there were times when I though a sharp hook to the left would have kept Martin in line, but so far, we’ve been able to avoid fisticuffs.  As professional wordsmiths, we have found that a well-placed barb is indeed mightier than the sword when cutting your lover down to size.

It wasn’t always that way.  When we were crib crawlers we screamed when we weren’t understood, and mumbled under our breaths when they stuck a bottle in our our mouths, or poked at our diapers to shut us up.  after we learned that we could walk with our legs, we found we could toss with our arms—toys, books, blocks, anything, at anyone who annoyed us.

Learning how to talk gave us a new weapon—the argument—which we sharpened on the playground, with phrases like, “Yeah, sez who?” which immediately brought forth, “Sez me, that who?”

To be topped off with the most famous closing argument of them all, “Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, NYAH!”

Granted, this last retort was, in reality, a last resort.  And most of us had outgrown it by the time we were dating, thank goodness.

Fights with my beaus were heated with passion, tinged with remorse, and enacted with enough melodrama to fill a library of Danielle Steel novels.

The best part of breaking up was making up.  After a cooling-off period, I’d cave into the arms of my tormentor.  We’d kiss and swear we’d never hurt each other again.

Until the next time.  Or the next guy.

The fact of the matter is, everyone fights, although some do it more openly than others.  But I’ve met couples who insist they’ve never raised their voices to each other, that they are perfectly in sync on every decision.

Yeah, right.  And Mike Tyson is a vegetarian.

Granted, the word “LIAR!” in this regard is somewhat harsh (not to say a trifle crude). But for argument's sake, (no pun intended) let’s say we believe them.  Does it mean that they have a better relationship than those of us who periodically raise our voices? Does this mean that they’ve found nirvana?

Does this mean they should be running the Geneva Convention?

No.  It just means that they know their neighbors are deaf, and, as Dennis Hastert could tell you if he weren’t busy right about now running an election and dodging reporters’ questions, you can’t convict without evidence.

Of course, most tiffs could be worked out immediately—if an interpreter were present.  The fact that most men bellow “NO!” when asked, “You’re mad, aren’t you?” is proof that a Berlitz course on reading his silences would sell out in no time.

It’s always “the little things” that get the ball rolling: He didn’t tell you your mother called.  You took too long to get ready.  He left the toilet seat up—again!

“Honey, how many times does his have to happen?” I sigh as I slam the seat back down.

Defensively, he’ll answer, “As long as you squeeze the toothpaste from the middle.”

“What does one thing have to do with another?”

“A lot.  You have your bad habits too.”

“That may be true, but you have more than me!  It doesn’t bother me that you’re cruel,smelly, and obnoxious.  That fact that you chew with your mouth open has never been a problem.  But I have to draw the line somewhere.  The toilet seat is it!”

“Yeah, sez who?”

“Sez me, that’s who!”

“Nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, nyah, NYAH!”

“Huh? Oh, that’s so mature,” I taunt him.

“If you want mature, just look in the mirror,” he retorts.

Touché. (Hey, ya gotta admire his negotiation skills…)

I don’t see a Nobel Peace Prize anywhere in our future, but I’ll settle for a couple of make-up kisses.

Breakin' up to make up,

Josie

You can email me at: JosieBrownAuthor@yahoo.com

Hey, and read my blog on Amazon.com.

And definitely check out my website, and read about my books: http://www.josiebrown.com

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WHAT IS THE NAME OF HUGO'S WIFE?

3. All answers must be recieved no later than MIDNIGHT, Pacific Time, on my book's launch date, on TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2006. Include your name and address, of course.

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UPCOMING EVENTS FOR JOSIE BROWN'S
IMPOSSIBLY TONGUE-TIED:

Hollywood
Saturday, November 18, 2006, 1pm

BARNES & NOBLE / Burbank, CA
731 North San Fernando Blvd (Media Mall), Burbank 91502
This is a free event!

Naughty cops. Sizzling sex.
Celebrity scandal. These two books make ideal stocking stuffers for the
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Thursday, November 30, 2006, 6:30pm

BORDERS EXPRESS/ Santa Clara, CA
731 Valley Fair Mall,
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Hear Josie read from IMPOSSIBLY TONGUE-TIED. Joining her is Karin Tabke (GOOD GIRL GONE BAD), Jasmine Haynes (OPEN INVITATION), and Jami Alden (DELICIOUS). For more information, call 408-249-1728.


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CRAVE PARTY SAN FRANCISCO!
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Naughty
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and Karin Tabke (GOOD GIRL GONE BAD) read from their books.

The Masculine Mystique…

(Posted 8:42 PM PST, February 6, 2006)


My friend Angela finally got around to seeing BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN. "I
cried like a baby," she said. I could hear a sob in her voice.


She'd gone on a night that her husband was out of town (not because he refused to see it with her. Heck, Tom practically invented
the term "metrosexual"–I mean, come on already, he was getting a
manicure before it was deemed good guy grooming…And besides, we live
in the San Francisco Bay Area, which means we're cutting edge, right?)
but because she was bored.

What better way to perk up a dull night than emotionally bedding down with Heath and Jake, right?

Quickly
I validated her feelings (a must-do on the West Coast). "Yeah, I know
what you mean! I cried, too. That last scene, when Ennis sniffed Jack's
shirt–"

"Right! All that unrequited love," Angela sniffled. "It's so–so macho."

And perhaps that's the magic–the mystique--of Brokeback Mountain. It's not a guy's movie, per se. Or,
in my husband Martin's words: "When I was a kid and my mom was out of
town, my dad would slip out and see a cowboy movie. Today, when the
guys go on a road trip, the women go see them. Different era, I
guess…"

Nope, just a different kind of cowboy.

Or the same: even straight cowboys have been known to be tongue-tied over love and lust.

For
that matter, a guy doesn't have to be a cowboy keep his feelings
inside. And I've known a few women who never developed the ability to
say what's on their minds, too.

Which is why I think the movie has touched a cord with so many.  It isn't about gay sex. It's about love. More to the point, letting love pass us by, because we're afraid of what others may think of our choices.

And that is something we can all relate to.

Like the Annie Proulx New Yorker short story on which it is based,
the movie's action begins in the early sixties, and ends somewhere in
the late seventies–a time of great social upheaval for both straight
and gay men, not to mention women: Betty Friedan's early 1960s classic,
THE FEMININE MYSTIQUE, succinctly chronicles the middle class housewife's frustrations with her professional and personal limitations as well. 

Ironically they were all members of the same club, even if they didn't know it then.

The upheaval did us good. While many women hung up their aprons, lots of men have learned to wear them with pride.

Martin epitomizes the New Millennium Male: strong yet sensitive, a guy's guy, but a gal's pal, too.

Especially
in the kitchen. Today, for example, the French toast was on the
griddle before I'd gotten out of bed. By late afternoon, he'd taken
care of the grocery shopping; and every night he makes dinner. (My
culinary skills leave a lot to be desired.)

And he's not afraid to wear pink.

Well, okay, he'll do salmon….which he calls it "light orange."

That's fine with me. He can call it "49'er mauve" for all I care–just so long as he puts cinnamon on the French toast.

Climb every mountain,
Josie

You can email me at: JosieBrownAuthor@yahoo.com

Hey, and read my blog on Amazon.com.

And definitely check out my website, and read about my books: http://www.josiebrown.com