Hugh Hefner and Marriage

Hugh-Hefner-Engaged-to-Crystal-Harris You've got to hand it to Playboy founder/editor-in-chief Hugh Hefner: he makes great headlines.

From that standpoint, it pays to have a journalistic background.

No doubt about it: his third marriage — at eighty-four, to twenty-four year-old Playmate Crystal Harris — is hot news.

Sadly, for all the wrong reasons.

Don't get me wrong. Pesonally, I'm all for marriage. I just feel that the best reasons to tie the knot are emotional ones, like love and commitment, as opposed to upping your Twitter followers, website stats, or magazine circulation.

I guess Crystal is getting something out of it, too — that is, if they are still a legal couple by the time Hef's will is being read. I hate to be so blunt about it, but come on already: if she isn't a gold digger (or as Twitter account @BestWorstAdvice puts it, grave digger), then she's got one helluva daddy complex.

Make that Grandpa complex. If that isn't a cry for help, then I don't know what is.

The absolute best line on Twitter:

@pattonoswalt: Hope when I turn 60 I can think, quietly, "My wife is being born somewhere." #hefner

The most ironic thing I've heard about it came from The Son, who said: "He's eighty-four, and he's been married only three times? Well, I guess that's something."

Interesting perspective. Just goes to show that there's an upside to everything, even this relationship.

Running the original lad mag, there's no doubt that The Hef has certainly slept with enough beautiful women. And certainly progeny isn't an issue, what with golden daughter, Christie, and son David (from first wife, Mildred), and spares Marston and Cooper (from second wife, Kimberley).

So, is it true love? Nah. It's strictly a numbers game.

If you want in on it, here's a heads-up: The New York Stock Exchange symbols for Playboy Enterprises are PLA and PLAA.

Short-term gain, all the way around,

–Josie

Josie's Latest Book: Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives

Simon & Schuster/Downtown Press

(ISBN: 9781439173176)

In bookstores now. Order it TODAY!

"Hollywood's got nothing on the cast of characters living in the bedroom community of Paradise Heights, who have the secrets, sex, money and scandal of an OK! Magazine cover story. Josie Brown is a skilled observer whose clever dialogue and feisty style make for truly entertaining reading." –Jackie Collins, Hollywood Wives

My relationship advice to newlyweds Katy Perry and Russell Brand

Russell-brand-katy-perry-india Omigod! Who'd have thunk it? Pop tart Katy Perry and comedian Russell Brand went out and got married!

I guess my invitation got lost in the mail.

That's okay. I probably would have gotten lost on the way there, anyway. My cell phone is too old for any GPA app, let alone one that shows some Aman-i-khas resort on the edge of the Rajasthani nature reserve.

Besides, I thoroughly understand it was a small, intimate affair: just those two crazy kids, 85 of their closest friends and family, a Hindu guru,a Christian minister, two elephants named Laxmi and Mala ("Mala is a bit skittish and hates crowds but she managed to behave herself," a source told PEOPLE), a fortune-telling parrot–

Oh yeah: and a tiger that, supposedly, has already killed three people.

I still have a wedding gift for them: a few ground rules for ensuring that their union will be one that lasts forever. Usually I'd give it to them face-to-face (you know, these things are personal) but since I wasn't invited on the honeymoon either, they'll have to read it here:

  • 1. Never go to bed angry. Talk things out first. Then do go to bed. Together. And without the parrot.
  • 2. Don't flirt with others. For Katy, that means no more kissing girls. For Russell, that means no more kissing every other girl, as he learned in sex addiction rehab. For both of them, that means no more kissing the mirror.
  • 3. Don't let your differences get in the way of a good thing. You came from such dissimilar backgrounds. With that comes some heavy baggage. Don't empty it on your spouse when you get scared that things aren't as perfect as you had hoped they'd be.
  • 4. Don't buy into the gossip. Professionally, you are both on top now. That says something about your strength of fortitude, and your ability to achieve your goals. Well, a happy marriage is a goal, too. Don't let the crap you read in the tabloids put it in a tailspin. Just keep trusting and talking.
  • 5. Don't let others get between you. This means fans, publicists, agents, managers and anyone else who wants you to believe that what you have together isn't anything more than a publicity stunt. Prove them all wrong. If not for yourselves, then for the rest of us.

 I've got a premonition about these things: this one's gonna last.

But if it doesn't, I presume I'll be invited to Katy's divorce party. If so, my gift to her will be a little more expansive, and, I'm sure, much appreciated: a copy of The Complete Idiot's Guide to Finding Mr. Right. 

To use Russell's parlance, it's my very own booky wook.

 Tah dah,

–Josie


(ISBN: 9781439173176)

In bookstores June 1, 2010. Order it TODAY!

"Hollywood's got nothing on the cast of characters living in the bedroom community of Paradise Heights, who have the secrets, sex, money and scandal of an OK! Magazine cover story. Josie Brown is a skilled observer whose clever dialogue and feisty style make for truly entertaining reading." –Jackie Collins, Hollywood Wives

 

 

Mother’s Day: What It Really Means to the Rest of Us

MomDancer Two years ago on Mother's Day weekend, I buried my own mom.

It was a bittersweet occasion. She'd been ill for the last two years of her life: with a myelodysplasia, a disease that hinders the longevity of your red blood cells.

The downhill process was not pretty. She was not ready for the abyss of the great beyond, and fought to live until her dying breath.

I'm guessing I'll do the same.

It would be wonderful to say that she had been one of those moms who made every one of her children feel as if they were her favorites, but that wasn't the case. While growing up, winning her approval was a constant endeavor. Even as adults, her three kids tiptoed around any issue that might throw her into a tizzy, or have her worrying to the point that she'd call the other two siblings to espouse her views on the problem child du jour's issue at hand.

Eventually we trained ourselves not to do her bidding: that is, to reiterate her advice to the odd-kid-out—something that we knew she'd already expressed in her very direct manner.

I know her worries on our behalf was her way of staying close to her farflung children. And I have no doubt that it also gave her something to focus on, other than her own problems: specifically her bouts of depression.

Her mood swings were notorious. If one of us had the misfortune to be caught in the black maelstrom of one, all we could do was resign ourselves to wait it out.

Or to disappear from her life, sometimes for months at a time. 

Eventually, each of us came to the decision to live our lives without worrying "What would Mom think?" about the careers we chose, our spouses, and most importantly of all, the way in which we raised our own children.

Our kids also had their learning curves with their grandma. Their attitudes toward her ran the gamut: one lived for her approval. Another realized quickly that there was no pleasing her, and tuned her out completely. The third saw that her love was unconditional no matter what, and learned to laugh through any discomfort her suggestions and declaration caused.

I'd wished we'd all been that smart at that young age.

I don't wish to leave you with an image of a woman who didn't love her children. On the contrary, she loved us all very much: unconditionally in fact, despite her actions that, at the time, had us doubting this. It is why she worked all her life at jobs that didn't give her professional satisfaction, but put food on the table, clothed us, and allowed us to be raised in tidy houses within safe neighborhoods. It's why we all appreciate the need for a good education, even if she couldn't pay for it for us.

It's why we've always felt as if we were "special": a cut above everyone else, despite having no financial legacy, or renowned surname, or obvious talents.

We are special because she told us so, from the very beginning.

And at the end, she realized that we all loved her unconditionally, too.

So yes, everything I am—driven beyond reason, loving every moment of life, prideful of my children, and able to recognize the true love of my husband, Martin—I owe to my mother, Maria, God rest her soul. 

It is a parent's goal to teach their children the lessons they feel are important. What I don't think parents realize is that sometimes the most important things they teach us are what we've witnessed from their mistakes. 

For the most part, parenting is often trial by error.

In that regard, my mother taught me a lot: that in truth, none of us are the embodiment of perfection. Rather, we endeavor to rise above our faults and fears in the hope of making ourselves the very best we can be.

[My mom, at nineteen]

—Josie

http://twitter.com/JosieBrownCA




Secret-Lives400w  
Josie's
Next Book: Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives

Simon & Schuster/Downtown Press

(ISBN: 9781439173176)

In bookstores June 1, 2010. Order it
TODAY
!

"Hollywood's got nothing on the cast of characters living in
the
bedroom community of Paradise Heights, who have the secrets, sex, money
and scandal of an OK! Magazine cover story. Josie Brown is a skilled
observer whose clever dialogue and feisty style make for truly
entertaining reading."

Jackie
Collins
, bestselling author of Hollywood Wives and Poor Little Bitch Girl


Tiger Woods and Infidelity: You Call that a Confession?

Elin_and_Tiger_Woods Sex. Lies. And yep, here's the video tape.

The Tiger wants us off his back. He's hoping his public confession today will get us to jump off of it, once and for all.

Well . . .

No.

Because actions speak louder than words. At least, that's what my mama always told me, and here it is in pixelated HD TV as proof that she knew what she was talking about.

Because I write novels in which infidelity — and yes, redemption — are major plot points, I can tell you, first hand, that the whole Tiger Woods meltdown is stranger than fiction, to be sure. As a woman, I can't help but feel that his point in apologizing is to appease his endorsement sponsors and his golf fans, as opposed to his wife and family.

If he really wants to say he's sorry, then I hope he's in counseling with his Elin. I hope, when he says he loves his wife, that he respects her wishes that he ends all affairs. Yes, he can have anyone he wants. But if, who he wants is her, he'll have to earn back her love, her trust, and her respect.

But I'm no expert. I'm only a woman, and a wife.

That said, here's what Lee Dixon, an assistant psychology professor and relationship expert at the University of Dayton, reads this into Woods' statement today will affect Woods' relationships with his family, friends, business associates and competitors:

“Tiger acknowledged wrongdoing, expressed remorse and offered compensation, which in this case is treatment and therapy. That's conducive to one being forgiven. He also did a good job helping others feel empathy for him, which aids in one being forgiven as well.

“He really had a tight focus on the people whom he really hurt. If he had apologized to the whole universe, it wouldn't have worked as well. Apologies backfire if they are perceived as insincere or manipulative. He avoided that by apologizing to the people he hurt the most and not everyone in some sort of blanket apology.

“Getting in front of the camera will help for some people like his fans and business partners. But, Elin is right. For her, the rest of his family and those people closest to him, it's going to be about how Tiger lives his life and not what he does in front of the camera.

“I will say, for people who headed into this being skeptical, this probably didn't help Tiger at all. They could say this looked too scripted. But, for people who went in willing to hear Tiger and forgive him, I think this helped a lot.

“Also, in my opinion, I wouldn't read too much into Elin not being there. Because I felt he seemed sincere during the apology, it could be possible that he couldn't have gotten through the statement with his wife sitting there. If you put Elin in front of him, there could have been a meltdown. Also consider that he may be trying to protect his family. It would have been hypocritical to have his family there for a photo-op.”

Here's to walking the walk,

—Josie

Josie's Twitter Page




SecretLivesCover200w Josie's Next Book: Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives

Simon & Schuster/Downtown Press

(ISBN: 9781439173176)

Look for it in bookstores June 1, 2010

From Amazon

From Barnes & Noble

From Bigger Books

From Books a Million

From Borders

From Boswell Books

From Copperfield's

From Your Local Independent Bookstore

From Powell's

Tome of the Mommy: When to Make a Grown Man Cry

Cryingman I'll admit it, I love to make grown men cry.

On the page, that is.

Does this make me a passive-aggressive bitch? Heck, no!

Say all you want about “alpha” and “beta” males, but bottom line: if you want to make your heroes come to life, you have to do more than just scratch the surface of their characters with a frown, or a grimace, or a curl of the lip. 

At the right time, for the right reason, maybe they need to shed a tear or two.

They're only human, right? Particularly when their marriages are breaking up, and they suddenly realize they can lose all they've taken what they hold most dearly for granted: their wives, their children, their homes.

Their real lives.

In my upcoming book, Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives, my heroine, stay-at-home-mom Lyssa Harper, hears a rumor that the neighborhood's “perfect couple” have split up. This is confirmed by the husband in question, a workaholic lawyer named Harry Wilder, whom Lyssa runs into, on the playground. I've got an excerpt for you, below.

Just call me a tearjerker,

—Josie


Harry pulls off his Bluetooth headset for
good to find Temple and my son playing nicely together on the climbing gym.
Mickey has gotten over his wariness of girl cooties (imaginary), and Temple is
reassured that Mickey’s cooties (real, but gone) won’t be invading her full
head of sun-kissed sateen curls. All is right in the world.

Harry smiles his unabashed
gratitude. “Sorry. East Coast,” he says, by way of explanation. “Had to catch
those guys before they go home for the day.”

I nod understandingly, and then
stick out my hand. “Lyssa Harper. We’ve met before.”

Vagueness clouds his eyes. “Sure,
I remember. You’re the Stuckeys’ au pair, right?”

I don’t know whether to be
flattered or miffed. True, both the au pair and I have long dark hair, although
mine is somewhat curlier. Okay, make that frizzy. And yes, it strokes my ego to
be compared to a mere woman-child some ten years younger (not to mention ten
pounds lighter). It’s more likely that he’s suggesting that I don’t seem worthy
enough to live in Paradise Heights—unless I’m in someone’s domestic employ.

Only in my wildest fantasies
would I assume that this is his way of hitting on me. Still, the thought of
being picked up on the playground by the neighborhood DILF (the “dad I'd
like to—.” well, you get the picture) does give me a cheap thrill.

Then it hits me: What if he’s
asking because he thinks he can buy my services, which would leave the Stuckeys
high and dry? Ouch! And those twins of theirs are a handful . . .

Gee, I wonder how much he’s
offering, anyway

Turns out he’s not offering at
all. He just doesn’t remember meeting Ted and me at the Crawleys’ Christmas
party last year. Or sharing a picnic table with us this past summer at the
Paradise Heights Annual July Fourth picnic. Or that we were the ones who found
Lucky after he escaped under their fence in order to chase after the Corrigan’s
tabby.

My God, as oblivious as this guy
is, I’m surprised he remembers his way home.

Then again, maybe he doesn’t.
That might be why DeeDee had an affair in the first place.

“Um . . .no. I'm just a mom
here in the Heights.”

As my black-and-white image of
the Wilders gradates to chiaroscuro in the harsh light of reality, Harry tries
to make amends for forgetting how many times our paths have crossed by
complimenting me on how well my son plays with Temple.

Now it’s my turn to blush. I’m
not used to hearing compliments about Mickey from other parents, only pointed
remarks about how much more “rambunctious” he is than their own perfect
progeny. “Thanks,” I stammer, then add, “I think his patience comes from having
a younger sister.”

“Oh yeah? My son isn’t half that
great with Temple. Of course he’s somewhat older, a teenager.” He gives a
conciliatory laugh. “You know how they are.”

“I know your son.”

Surprised, he
blinks, then leans away slightly. He seems wary of what I might say next, so I
continue gently, “Jake, right? He’s a sweet boy, too. He and my son, Tanner,
play together on the basketball team. Very few of Tanner’s friends let Mickey
join in when they come over to shoot hoops. You know how they can be: snubbing
kids who are younger, or not as well coordinated. But Jake doesn’t seen to
mind.”

Harry nods uncertainly. “Well,
I’m glad to hear he’s not so—so judgmental all the time.”

“I never thought of it that way.
I just think some kids instinctively know what to do with younger children.”
Upon hearing this, Harry frowns. Quickly I add, “I’m not saying that that’s a
good thing or a bad thing. In fact, I think it shows that, some day, they’ll
make pretty good parents.”

Harry stares off in stony
silence. As we sit quietly, I wonder what I’ve said wrong.

On the other hand, what does it
matter? It’s my guess that he will forget our conversation the minute we gather
up the kids and say our awkward good-byes. And the next time we meet, be it in
the carpool line, or at a school function, or a neighbor’s party, he’ll vaguely
wonder what the Stuckeys’ au pair has done with the usually caterwauling twins.

Right then and there I make up my
mind that that is not going to happen, that I’m going to make a big enough
impression on him that my name will finally be emblazoned on his brain, or at
the very least that I crack his typically icy demeanor just this once.

Suddenly I remember another thing
we have in common: our daughters.

“So, you’ve decided to give
Temple a day off from school? In fact, my daughter, Olivia, is in preschool
with Temple. Every now and then I let her do that, too. Kindergarten can be so
overwhelming for little kids, even with a year or two of preschool under their
belts. It’s not like they’re missing calculus, or anything really important,
right? And the trade-offs are some wonderful memories. To be honest, though, I
hate when it’s called ‘quality time,’ don’t you? I mean, every second with your
child is memorable. Even watching them while they sleep is precious–”

I’ve been blathering so much I
hadn’t noticed that Harry is crying.

The tears roll down his face in
two steady lines. He turns his head toward me so that the children don’t see
this, but my look of shock must be just as dismaying to him because he ends up
burying his face in his hands.

And sobs even harder.

Harry Wilder, captain of
industry, neighborhood enigma, one half of Paradise Heights’ Perfect Couple, is
now a puddle of mush.

And it's all my doing.

Out of habit I still carry Handi
Wipes. Although they aren’t ideal in situations like this, I can tell that
Harry is appreciative for anything that will sop up this mess that is now his
life.

When he's able to face me again,
he looks me in the eye. “My wife left me. She’s left
us.”

At this point I could feign
ignorance, but since we’re both striving for honesty here, I have no desire to
muck things up with a polite albeit face-saving (for him) lie, a “Gee! Look how
late it’s getting” exit line, and another year or two of polite neighborly
oblivion. Instead, I nod and say, “Yeah, I heard. On Halloween.
I’m—I’m so sorry about it.”

“You know about it? But I—I
haven’t said anything to anyone, yet! And she’s—she’s long gone, so I know it
didn’t come from her.” He shakes his head at the thought that his personal soap
opera is being bandied about the local Starbucks. “Jesus! And I thought news
moved fast on Wall Street.”

“Yeah, well, you’ll find out
about the Height’s mommy grapevine soon enough. I mean, if you plan on sticking
around—

“I am, for sure. I’m not going
anywhere.” The lines on Harry’s face once again realign into a steely
implacability. “This is our home. My kids love it here. We’ll…we’ll work
through it somehow.”

“Sure you will,” I murmur
reassuringly. “There’s no place like the Heights for raising kids. That’s why
we’re all here. Hey listen, really, I didn’t mean to scare you off. You know,
about the way we mommies talk and all. It was just such a shock to everyone.
The two of you always seemed so—so happy.”

“Yeah. Happy. I thought we were,
too.” With this, his eyes get moist again. This time, though, he shrugs, then
passes a broad palm over them. I assume that he’s decided that the Handi Wipes
give off the wrong impression. “You were right when you said that every minute
you spend with your kids is important. And I haven’t been around for most of
it.”

Well, of course you weren’t, I
want to say. You were out making a living! Bringing home the bacon, playing
this millennium’s version of caveman . . .

And boy oh boy, your stucco
palace has all the bells and whistles to prove it.

Too bad you found another
Neanderthal in there, with your wife.

But I keep my mouth shut. Because
you don’t hit a man when he’s down.

 (c) 2010 Josie Brown


The online magazine, Jezebel feels like I do about men: it's good to seem them being human beings. This article profiles 67 Hollywood movies in which men actually cry on camera (and on cue…)

Here's the video that goes with it. Enjoy!



SecretLives400  Josie' s Next Book: Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives

Simon & Schuster/Downtown Press

(ISBN: 9781439173176)

Look for it in bookstores June 1, 2010

From Amazon

From Barnes & Noble

From Bigger Books

From Books a Million

From Borders

From Copperfield's

From Your Local Independent Bookstore

From Powell's


Art from the Heart: What Does It Mean When Your Wife Wields a Chainsaw?

Task at Hand Ever notice how the end of the holiday season brings out the contrariness in some of us?

Bah humbug, and all that jazz.

Oh, not me. I'm still on a holiday high. In fact, I wish it would never end…

But that's just because I've been procrastinating with a new book proposal.

But enough about me. I about laffed myself silly at this masterpiece (more objectively, it's a “mistresspiece”) by artist Kelly Reemtsen, who shows her work here in San Francisco's Caldwell Snyder Gallery. (FYI: They have a second gallery just north of the city, in the wonderful wine country village of St. Helena.)

It's entitled “Task at Hand.” Hmmmm. Okay, I'll bite. A woman dressed in a chic party frock holds a chainsaw as if it's a Pucci clutch?

Talk about making a statement.

Read into it what you want, but my take on this is that, no matter how we try to hem in our anger, it will show itself eventually.

In her case, fashionably.

But that's just my interpretation. I'd love to hear yours, too.

(If you want to see a larger version, double-click on the photo…)

Periodically I'll turn
this blog turns into an Internet art gallery by uplinking similar pieces by Ms. Reemtsen and other artists, whose works I feel tell a
story similar to what I'll be telling you in my next novel, SECRET
LIVES OF HUSBANDS AND WIVES.

Passive is the new aggressive,

—Josie

 

 

SLHWCOVER2010

Josie' s Next Book: Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives

Simon & Schuster/Downtown Press

(ISBN: 9781439173176)

Look for it in bookstores June 1, 2010

From Amazon

From Barnes & Noble

From Bigger Books

From Books a Million

From Borders

From Copperfield's

From Your Local Independent Bookstore

From Powell's

Tome of the Mommy: Ask Yourself, “Why did I Marry Him?”

Sad_bride 01

I've been blessed with a wonderful relationship. My husband, Martin, and I have been together for over twenty years.

I'm always amazed when unhappy couples stay in a marriage. Isn't the  goal to be with someone who makes you happy?

Not because each party feels some obligation to stay in the marriage.

When questioned as to whether they are wasting their time, energy and emotions on a relationship that will never get better, the reasons they usually give for sticking it out never has anything to do with his or her own happiness, but some sense of obligation: to their children, their parents, their perception of relationship success.

I feel sad for them. So much time is spent complaining about the fact that neither can satisfy the other. 

What they don't realize is that either one party has  lost the respect, or trust,  of the other. Unless they take the time to earn it back, no amount of passion will ever make it right again.

My own parents' union was not a happy one. I reveled in the unabashed love both
my mother and father showered on me, and I will always appreciate them
for inspiring me to never doubt my own abilities or my potential. That is all a child can ask of a parent, is it not?

But children want their parents to be happy, too.

As a child, I remember wishing they'd break up, so that each could find the happiness that eluded them in marriage.

When I was sixteen my parents had one particularly raw argument. Afterward I sat on the front porch with my mother during a thunderstorm. As the sky crackled overhead, I asked her: "Why don't you two just get a divorce?"

She paused, then answered:  "Because children should have two parents."

"But we're happy when you're happy. And you aren't happy."

She nodded in response, but my words never moved her to action. She stayed in the marriage until the day he died, some three years later. During that time, she was angry. Nothing he did for her made her happy.

Maybe she was afraid she couldn't be happy without him, either. The devil you know is better than the one you don't. Isn't that how the saying goes?

I've always wondered if, had they made the break, he might have lived longer.

People who are happy don't want to give up on life.

In my book Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives, my heroine, Lyssa Harper, ruminates on her own parents' divorce, and how it affected her views toward dating and marriage. This small excerpt gives you a small piece of her backstory, in her own words.

Enjoy, and happy new year,

Josie


I accepted Ted’s proposal even though I wasn’t really sure that he was The One.

I said as much to my mother, the day after he proposed.
“What is ‘The One,’ anyway?” The smoke from her Kool Menthol streamed out from the high corner of her curled smirk and floated toward the ceiling like a serene genie. “Hey, nothing’s perfect, right?”


It wasn’t a question, but a warning. During the twelve years of her own marriage she had assumed my father had been The One for her. I had, too. He’d been my first and only love.


As it turns out, Father wasn’t The One for either of us. He proved it when I was ten. That was the year he left us both for his secretary, the giggly Patti-with-an-i, and the penthouse apartment where he’d stashed her.

Our consolation prize was our two-acre country club estate in tony Atherton, with its over-extended mortgage. But of course we couldn’t afford the house on our own. Within a year we had downsized to a one-bedroom rent-controlled walk-up in San Francisco's Upper Tenderloin—a “transitional” neighborhood—where we crammed in as much of our large overstuffed furniture as we could fit.


The only good thing about that roach-infested hole was that it was a five-minute bus ride to the Saks Fifth Avenue on Union Square. My mother got a job at the cosmetics counter alongside the same women who, when she was married and flush, showered her with Clinique and Estée Lauder samples as she swept by them on her way to the designer showroom. After the divorce, the Puccis, Guccis, Yves St. Laurents and Blasses she wore to the weekly cocktail parties at her country club either subbed as very expensive work attire, or found its way to consignment shops, where they sold quickly at bargain rates. Whereas she was no longer living proof that you can never be too rich, she certainly proved that you could be too thin—if all you could afford to eat is canned tuna on Saltines.


Like a good girl, I didn’t blame my father or complain to my mother. Instead I threw myself into my other love: painting big sad canvases that made people stop, look and react . . .

 Copyright © 2010 by Josie Brown



BestSLHW Josie' s Next Book: Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives

Simon & Schuster/Downtown Press

(ISBN: 9781439173176)

Look for it in bookstores June 1, 2010

From Amazon

From Barnes & Noble

From Bigger Books

From Books a Million

From Borders

From Copperfield's

From Your Local Independent Bookstore

From Powell's

Tome of the Mommy: Husbands Who Flirt

Flrtinghusband Having respect for one's partner is the only way a relationship can
survive, let alone thrive. I've watched too many of my friends'
marriages crumble because either a husband or wife didn't understand
that, or just didn't care to deliver it. Their need to be admired by the opposite sex was much more important to them at the time.

In my book SECRET LIVES OF HUSBANDS AND WIVES, my heroine, Lyssa,
realizes her husband, Ted, thrives on flirting. As you'll read here,
her reaction — and I'm sure it would be the same for a lot of us — is
threefold: denial, resignation, and anger

"Whoa, Tammy, look at those muscles! Flex 'em for me, babe, go on."

Tammy accommodates Ted's demand by taking off the sheer blouse
she wears over her tight tank top, and curling a taut sinewy arm. When
he rewards her with a wolf whistle, she feigns bashfulness by covering
her eyes.

But no one is fooled. This is why she curls 10-pound barbells in
12 reps, four times each arm: so that other women's husbands will
admire her.

Including mine. I hate it when Ted flirts.

It wouldn't be so bad if he wasn't so good at it. Or if he only flirted with me.

But no, that would be too much to ask.

Unlike some husbands who feel awkward in a room full of women,
Ted loves being the cock of the walk. And because he knows I am
completely and utterly assured of his loyalty, he openly flirts with my
friends.

He does it with a certain smile on his face. You know the one. It promises more than he can deliver. I know this first hand.

But Tammy doesn't—until she sees the loving manner in which he
unconsciously strokes my hair while complimenting Brooke on her last
tennis game.

As Tammy follows the other women out the door, she sighs in my ear: "You are sooooooo lucky."

Whereas she is not. Her Charlie's bank account may be humongous, but his sperm bank is all but empty.

This gives her something else to whine about.

It also gives her the audacity to graze up against Ted on her way out the door.

If she thinks I didn't see her, she's crazy. Okay, now I have to be president. Just so I can kick her off the board…

Copyright © 2010 by Josie Brown

Bottom line: it hurts when a significant other flirts.

A gut reaction would be to throw a hissy fit. If Lyssa had, no other wife in the room would have blamed her . . .

But no. She realizes she is not necessarily surrounded by friends.
Had she made a scene, it would give her frenemies something very juicy
to gossip about.

So instead she feigns indifference. Why? Because the sharks are
circling, and she knows it. No way is she going to rock her tiny boat
in this sea of humanity.

What would I have done in this situation? Glad you asked. I would
have waited until we were alone, then honestly and openly told him how
much it had hurt me.

And yes, I would ask him to refrain from doing it again.

And if he forgot, I'd remind him again, in private.

But this time, I'd have a nutcracker in my hand. 'Tis the season, right?

Have you ever been in a situation where your SI flirted in front of
you? If so, how do you handle it? Feel free to comment below…

Inquiring minds want to know,

—Josie


SLHW fauxsmall Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives (From Amazon)

Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives (From Borders)

Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives (From Your Local Independent Bookstore)

Simon & Schuster/Pocket

(ISBN: 9781439173176)

Look for it in bookstores June 1, 2010

Tome of the Mommy: “You Know I Hate to Gossip, But…”

GossipGirls Everyone does it, right? We diss on our best buds, tell tales out of school.

When we're asked to keep a secret, we cross our hearts, hope to die . . .

Instead we spill our guts.

I've always been a social animal. In the human jungle, gossip is the best bait, a tasty fodder that shows we're in the know.

That we're somebody, because we know everyone else's business.

PEOPLE magazine has the highest circulation for a good reason: we are fascinated with others' lives.

Lindsey and Britney are train wrecks which we all craned our necks
over. The divorces of others (friends, exes, celebs) fascinate us. Is
it because our own are so boring—or is it because it's much easier to
pass judgment on others than to critique ourselves and assess our own
actions?

And yet, if we heard others were talking about us, we'd be mortified.

Magnifying mirrors make us wince. Every little wrinkle and pore is
exposed. Is gossip a mirror into our souls? Is what we say of others
really our fears about ourselves?

In my book SECRET LIVES OF HUSBANDS AND WIVES,
Brooke, the best friend of my heroine, Lyssa, always has the scoop on
everyone else in their tony community, Paradise Heights. Lyssa is just
slightly annoyed by this . . .

But she puts up with it because she would much prefer to be on the
receiving end of the gossip grapevine, as opposed to the topic of
interest.

Wouldn't we all?

What Brooke has to tell her is that the neighborhood's "perfect couple"
has just broken up. Both are enigmas: gorgeous, but aloof. Their
children are adorable and popular . . .

But when the divorce gets ugly, the gossip gets even more vicious.

Needless to say, everyone suffers—including Lyssa, who has befriended
the husband, Harry. He has put his career on pause and has become a
stay-at-home dad in order to prove he deserves custody of the kids.

One of the best lines in STEEL MAGNOLIAS belonged to Olympia Dukakis: "If you don't have anything nice to say about anybody, come sit by me."

That says it all: impress me with your knowledge. Titillate me. Scandalize me.

Even if it hurts someone. Even if it may not be true. Because that's entertainment . . .

Have you ever been hurt by gossip? If so, I'm all ears,

—Josie


SLHW fauxsmall Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives (From Amazon)

Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives (From Borders)

Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives (From Barnes & Noble)

Simon & Schuster/Pocket

(ISBN: 9781439173176)

Look for it in bookstores June 1, 2010