Author Provocateur

Tome of the Mommy: The Runaway Mom

Not everyone is cut out to have children.

Is that a blasphemy to say?

No. Because we all know it's true.

Admit it: Doesn't your belly tighten with dread when you're in the presence of some woman who is visibly annoyed with, or publicly derisive to, her kid, embarrassing the poor thing in front of you or others?

You wonder: "If you can't find a way to say it to your child with respect, you don't deserve him. And he certainly doesn't deserve you."

You're right.

Children deserve parents who are ready to take on the 24/7/lifetime responsibility to feed and nurture, to love and honor, to challenge and inspire them.

Most parents strive to honor this commitment.

But some don't.

And not all of these are deadbeat dads.

Some are runaway moms.

Whereas many of us women act on the yearning to have children, and hold them dear until our dying day, for whatever reason their are others who have made the decision to leave their children, to move on in their lives without them.

One young sister and brother, based in India, is currently suing their mother to come home to them. She moved to Canada. They are being raised by their father, a professional music teacher, who "says the love and affection of a mother are important in the upbringing of a child and hence the petition aimed to bring his children's mother back into their lives..."

True, that.

And yet, there are two sides to every story.

Not every woman is ready to become a mother. Not every woman wants to be a mother, even if she finds herself pregnant. 

And not every woman who leaves her children -- for a day, a week or two, or even a month or longer -- regrets doing so.

But yes, there are some who are. Even if they can't admit it to themselves.

Even if they can't admit it to their children.

The consequences of the runaway mom's decision is felt throughout the lifetime of the children left behind. Life-long resentment is to be expected. Wariness to get into adult relationships because of fears of abandonment is not uncommon. The decision to forgo have children themselves is, sadly, another outcome. Their own role models were awful. They, too, are afraid at failing at this momentous challenge.

Then their are those children, now grown, who use this life experience to better themselves. They become the kind of mother and fathers their own runaway parents never were to them.

They want to prove to themselves that they are not anything like their parents.

The proof comes in the the love and nurturing they provide their own children, and the joy they take in the process of parenting.

Having lived it the hard way, they know best that parenthood isn't a right. It's a privilege.

In this excerpt of my soon-to-be-released novel, SECRET LIVES OF HUSBANDS AND WIVES, my heroine, Lyssa Harper, happens to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. Because she's carpooling with her new friend, stay-at-home dad Harry Wilder, she witnesses the reaction of Harry's soon-to-be ex, DeeDee, when her thirteen-year-old son Jake, erupts in anger at what he feels is her recent abandonment of him and his five-year-old sister, Temple.

Can there ever be redemption for the runaway mom?

I welcome your comments,

—Josie

Game face.

 We all have one. It takes your smile and sharpens it into a grimace. Rocked by an emotional earthquake, the gentle planes of your face shift into stone. The happiness once beaming from your eyes is now refracted inward: focused, with laser-sharp concentration, on the dark matter at hand.

 Harry’s is one I don’t recognize. I’ll admit it: for the past few weeks his dimpled smile and courtly manners have been the icing on the cake of my day. And while courting the league board, he was sweetness and light. Now, though, devoid of any joy, it has curdled into a snarl.

 What I’m seeing now sends icicles through my veins.

 He is ready to do battle with DeeDee the Ice Queen.

 Temple won’t be the only collateral damage. In the side view mirror I see Jake. He sits silently in the back, just staring out the window, his damp red-rimmed eyes as wide as those of the ghoul in The Scream. I can only imagine what he’s thinking: that all of this—not just the lost game, but his father’s fall from grace, even his parents’ breakup—is his fault.

 If I could, I’d reach back there and hold his hand. And yet, as the mother of one of his friends, the only place I hold in his life is that of an abstract acquaintance.

 What am I doing here, anyway?

 Almost as if reading my mind, Harry places his fingers on my arm and pats it absentmindedly.

 That tells me what I need to know: I’m here because I’m the only friend Harry has in this gated, well-landscaped corner the world.

 We pull up to the front of Paradise Waldosorri Pre-School & Kindergarten just in time to see DeeDee walking out with Temple and Miss Judith, the head of school. DeeDee’s silk blouse and cashmere slacks look almost militaristic next to Miss Judith’s gauzy flowing skirt and Birkenstocks. If Miss Judith’s attire isn’t the broadest hint that she is the community’s one and only hold back from the days in which Paradise Heights was a hippy commune (hence the first portion of its name, before being elevated into the economic stratosphere), her head scarf, tied over flowing gray curls, in a dead giveaway. Whatever DeeDee is saying has Miss Judith shaking her head in dismay. This causes the beaded fringe on her scarf to jiggle. She glances sympathetically at Temple, whose eyes are starred with tears, her pillowed lips bitten into a pout.

The way the car screeches as it comes to a halt undermines Harry’s attempt at indifference. Jake slumps down when he his mother comes into view. Either he’s hoping she doesn’t see him and ask him to recap his inglorious day, or he has his own bone to pick with her.

 “Stay here,” growls Harry. I don’t know if he’s talking to me or to Jake. But in the mood he’s in, neither of us plans on disobeying him.

 He’s out of the car in a flash. Because he’s keeping his voice low and level, I can’t hear every word, but I do catch the phrases “very sorry” and “won’t happen again.” Miss Judith nods sympathetically, but tired uncertainty shades her pale gray eyes: it is obvious that whatever DeeDee has been telling her has colored her view of Harry.

 Temple slips her hand into her father’s, but does not let go of DeeDee’s either. In fact, she squeezes it even tighter, as if to prove, if only to herself, that they are still joined in someway.

 Doing so seems to only amp up their feelings toward each other—and their voices. “I’ve told you, I’ve got it under control,” Harry insists.

  “My god, Harry! I wouldn’t be here now, if that were the case. And if Temple feels more comfortable going home with me . . .” The way DeeDee’s voice trails makes the offer seem so inviting. I’m surprised her daughter doesn’t leap at it. When it comes to their parents, all children possess innate neediness.

 Not Temple. She knows a game is afoot. Her way to change the rules to suit her needs is brilliant. “No, Mommy, no! You can just come home with us,” she states matter-of-factly.

 All three adults stare at her, as if she’s just landed from another planet.

 Harry’s game face, dampened by tears he can’t wipe away quickly enough, softens into doubtful hope.

 DeeDee’s on the other hand, frosts solid with determination. Her teeth are tiny daggers, more a snarl than a smile.

 “Damn it, Temple!” Jake’s eruption echoes with pain. Opening his car door, his yells, “Don’t you get it? She doesn’t want to come home. NOT EVER. Aw, just get in the car! NOW!”

All eyes now turn toward us. Temple’s emotional Geiger counter has picked up on her brother’s anguish as only a sibling’s can. Unlike the adults, who patronize her with cheery half-lies that never pay off with the only golden ticket that counts—her mom and dad together again—Jake’s bellow tells her what she needs to know, even if it isn’t what she wants to hear:

 Her parents will never love each other again, ever.

 In Jake’s opinion, it’s all DeeDee’s fault. Can’t his sister see this too?

 This sudden realization is too much for the little girl. As if letting go of all hope, a rivulet of urine runs down Temple’s leg, seemingly at the same pace as the tears streaming down her face. Despite this, Harry scoops her up into his arms and heads for the car, Miss Judith clucking soothingly beside him, hoping to hush her student’s heart wrenching howls.

 All mothers break apart when confronted with their children’s grief, and DeeDee is no exception.

 Fault lines of anguish transform her flawless veneer of a face from haughty to sorrowful. She runs after her child—

 But stops cold when she notices me in the car.

 DeeDee realizes this battle is lost. But the war is still to be won. Her eyes narrow and her frown inverts into a smirk. “You’ve hired some shopgirl from Nordy’s? Oh, now that’s rich! Why couldn’t she have picked up Temple? Doesn’t she drive?"

 At first Harry doesn’t catch on that she’s talking about me, but Miss Judith does. Relieved at the chance to set something straight, she trills nervously, “DeeDee, that’s Lyssa Harper, Olivia’s mommy—”

 After what I’ve just seen, I don’t expect a cheery hello. Still, even a stiff nod of recognition would certainly go a long way to clearing the air.

 But no. DeeDee isn’t apologetic. She’s shocked.

 Suddenly it dawns on me that hitching a ride with the soon-to-be ex is not the best way to reintroduce yourself to a woman who never remembers who you are, no matter how many times she runs into you.

 From DeeDee’s granite stare, I am assured she won’t forget me, ever again.

 I can’t help but watch her in the rear view mirror. She, too, keeps me in her sites.

 DeeDee has a new target.

(c) 2010 Josie Brown, all rights reserved.

 

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 Books a Million

From Borders

From Copperfield's

From Your Local Independent Bookstore

From Powell's

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

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

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 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?"

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

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 Books a Million

From Borders

From Copperfield's

From Your Local Independent Bookstore

From Powell's

Tome of the Mommy: How to Tell Your Child There Is No Santa

There is no "right time" to tell your children that there is no Santa.

Worse yet, there is no right way.

If you're lucky, as you're stumbling to get the words out, your son will pat you calmly on shoulder and say, "Look, Mom, I know what you're trying to tell me, and it's okay. I've already figured it out."

Sort of like he's figured out that whole birds and bees thing.

Yeah, yeah, I know: happy new year to you, too.

Well, here's hoping he'll spare you that look of condescension when he tells you these little facts of life.

And that he knows to keep his mouth shut about the bully who let the cat out of the bag. Because we all know that there's no accounting for a mother's revenge.

(That photo of SantaCon, the Santa Convention in New York City's Washington Square, I'm sure broke many a child's heart. To add insult to injury, The New York Times asked some noted writers their opinions on it. You can read what they say as to when and how, here...)

That said, those of us who've already gone through this trial can tell you who yet to have this displeasure one very important thing: don't wait too long, or you'll find out that someone else has beaten you to the punch.

We did, with our son. He heard it instead from his fourth grade teacher, whom I guessing, was afraid the other kids would tease him unmercifully if they found out.

For years afterward, he told us it would be the first issue he'd bring up with his therapist. He also told us that he was never going to tell his children that "lie."

My response: "Oh yeah? We'll see." He's never relished the role of killjoy. I doubt seriously that he'll do that to his own kids.

Instead, he'll do what we did: try to put the whole Santa myth into perspective for them. To discuss with them the joy of giving, and how Christmas is really about the birth of baby Jesus.

Hopefully not as their ripping open their presents. They'll never hear him over the rustle of wrapping paper and their own squeals as they plug in that generation's version of wii.

Our daughter started doubting the existence of the Easter Bunny when I accidentally left the price tag on the chocolate rabbit in her basket. I've never lived that one down.The grilling she gave me was worse than anything they do in Gitmo. By the time we were done, I was so soaked with sweat, you would have thought I'd been waterboarded.

Today she's just beyond teendom, and she still looks forward to her Easter Basket, but the scars are still there. I know. I could tell by the way she rips off the chocolate bunny's head and munches on it. No dainty bites for her.

Doubt can do that to a girl.

It can also do that to a marriage. In my book Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives, the heroine, Lyssa Harper has no reason to doubt her husband's love, but he seems to doubt hers — particularly when he hears from her so called friends that she's been spending too much time with the neighborhood DILF.

But, hey, it's almost Christmas, so I'll leave you with heartwarming excerpt instead.

— Josie

Olivia is bouncing on our heads at five in the morning. "Can we go downstairs now? Please? To see if Santa has been here?"

Mickey's voice chimes in from the hallway. "Olivia, of course he's been here! Just look over the banister, for crying out loud! The whole floor is covered in them."

Ted peels our daughter off his chest, tossing her onto the foot of the bed. "Yeah, sure, go! GO! . . . Hey: you can look, but don't touch—until your mom and I get down there, too."

"How long will that take?" Olivia tries to pull the covers off the bed, but I hang on fast to it on my end.

"It will take longer if I don't get my first cup of coffee." I know I sound grumpy, but that's the breaks. It's been a long stressful week. We put out the gifts after midnight, and I'm dead tired. Besides, I don't do crack of dawn too well.

"I'm on it, Mom!" I hear Mickey tromping down the steps to push the button on the coffeemaker.

Olivia flies down the steps, too. "Wait for me! WAIT! . . . Oh! It's bee-U-ti-ful!" The tree, she means. Well, more honestly, the field of dreams that surrounds it.

Tanner, too old and too cool for such a show of unfettered giddiness, growls from his room for everyone to shut up. "I'm an atheist! I don't believe in Santa, so shut up!"

"Santa is secular, you moron!" Mickey yells from the kitchen.

I know, though, the minute Tanner hears Ted and me stirring, he'll be right on our heels.

"Are you up?" I nudge Ted because he looks as if he's falling back asleep.

"Hell yeah. You know that Christmas always gives me a woody." He reaches for me and pulls me close. "So does the thought of more office sex, by the way."

"I'll remember that. Only next time let's wait until everyone leaves for the day. I didn't like the fact that Vanna couldn't look me in the eye when I left."

"I'll make it part of her job description." He stretches as he rises from the bed. "Alright! Showtime . . ."

Copyright © 2010 by Josie Brown

 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 Books a Million

From Borders

From Copperfield's

From Your Local Independent Bookstore

From Powell's

Art from the Heart: Kelly Reemtsen's AFFLICTED

I saw this wonderful oil-on-board painting on the cover of Marin magazine (a guilty li'l pleasure of mine. I'm such a townie, ain't I?) and I just had to share. It's called "Afflicted," and the artist is Kelly Reemtsen, who shows her work here in San Francisco's Caldwell Snyder Gallery. (They have a second gallery in the wonderful wine country village of St. Helena.)

This is just one painting in a series that, to me, epitomizes the calm desperation of women in the aspiring class: despite an outward sheen of elegance, inside they've come unraveled.

So cool that the viewer can never look the subject in the eye. Without faces, without eye contact, we can only read body language -- and the items these women wield in order to vanquish the niggling little problems that are ruining their perfect lives.

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

In fact, I've just made a momentous decision! Every Saturday I'll turn this blog turns into an Internet art gallery by uplinking similar works, 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.

A picture is worth 94,000 words,

—Josie

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

Simon & Schuster/Downtown Press

(ISBN: 9781439173176)

Look for it in bookstores June 1, 2010

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Tome of the Mommy: The Fighting of the Tree

For some of us, holiday rituals are our happiest memories. For others, they are the flint that sparks our greatest fears.

Perhaps memories of unhappy holidays past haunt us. Or maybe we stress out at the pressure to project "happiness" during this time of year.

If something truly important is bothering us, faking some form of cheeriness isn't going to keep us from gnashing our teeth when another ornament falls and shatters, or when your son yanks a candy cane off your decorated tree --

And the tree tipples over, too.

In my novel, SECRET LIVES OF HUSBANDS AND WIVES, my heroine, Lyssa Harper, knows her husband, Ted, is angry at her because she refuses to drop her friendship with Harry, one of the neighborhood's stay-at-home dads. She thinks his request is irrational, that he has no reason to be jealous . . .

And yet, it's certainly flattering that he is upset.

But that shouldn't get in the way of the Harpers' annual holiday tree-cutting expedition, should it?

As you'll read in this excerpt, of course it does . . .

Finding the perfect tree is the Douglas fir is the equivalent of taking down the great white whale. It must have a thick petticoat of branches rising from the base, its layers coquettishly shorter albeit in proportion all the way up to its needled crown. As if projecting his own fears of a thinning pate, Ted cannot tolerate bald spots between layers. I, on the other hand, abhor crooked bases. Between three rambunctious kiddies and a clumsy dog the size of a Shetland pony, our tree can’t have the posture of a tilt-n-whirl. The one thing we both agree on is that it must stand at least 13 feet tall, so that it is not dwarfed by the double height of our entryway: the place of honor.

The search for the tree is a highly charged competition. The winner is the first to be photographed with it. The photo is then mounted on the first page of this year’s Christmas photo album, validating a full year of bragging rights.

Tanner is old enough to carry the bowed safety saw, while Mickey drags the tall PVC pole that is marked a measuring stick. Every now and then he attempts to pole vault from one row to another. Olivia is charged with holding the twine that Ted will use to tie the tree to the sleigh that hauls the tree back to the cashier, who will ply our children with Christmas cookies, candy canes, and warmed cider while I peruse the wreaths on display. Eventually I’ll settle on three: one for the front gate, and two for our doublewide front door.

“Mommy, why not this one . . .or this one?” Olivia loses all sense of discretion when she’s within sniffing distance of gingerbread men.

“No, sweetie. That one is not tall enough, and the other is much too bare on the back side.”

“Hey, Mom! MOM! OVER HERE!” For this task, Mickey has always had a great sense of focus that consistently leads him to the right tree. When he was younger, it frustrated him to lose to his brother. Ted’s way of mitigating it was to lead our youngest son to a potential winning candidate. Now that Mickey’s developed a connoisseur’s eye, Ted no longer has to do that.

The tree Mickey has spotted for us has all the necessary criteria. Ted whistles for Tanner to trot on over with the saw, but Tanner tries for an end-run. “Wait, wait . . .what about this one over here? It’s hella taller . . .”

Ted looks down at his cell phone, for the time. “Nope, we’ve got to call it a day. Warriors and Lakers tonight, remember?”

“Wait . . . aren’t we going to decorate the tree when we get home?” Mickey’s look is incredulous. We all look up and over at Ted.

He knows he's outnumbered. He smiles weakly. “Sure! Of course! It’s our tradition, right?”

As we head back to the cashier with our find, I give him a kiss on the cheek. He stops short in order to draw me to him and give me a real kiss, the kind that should melt away any lingering doubts about love and fidelity.

His doubts, not mine.

Copyright © 2010 by Josie Brown

Are the holidays a happy time for you, or just more added stress to a life that seems already too flustered, too out of control?

If so, have you figured out why that's the case?

I'd like to hear from you, be it ho ho ho, or boo hoo hoo,

—Josie

  Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives

Simon & Schuster/Downtown Press

(ISBN: 9781439173176)

Look for it in bookstores June 1, 2010

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Tome of the Mommy: Husbands Who Flirt

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

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..."

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

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

Swine Flu: Here's the Straight Scoop

Moms, concerned about the Swine Flu for you and your family? Lissa Rankin, MD (author of the forthcoming What’s Up Down There? Questions You’d Only Ask Your Gynecologist If She Was Your Best Friend (St. Martin’s Press, 2010) spent much of this week digging through the gossip and paranoia to unearth the real data about the Swine Flu (H1N1) Vaccine, She shares it with you on her website, OwningPink.com

As a rigorously academically-trained OB/GYN now practicing in the field of integrative medicine, Dr. Rankin explains that she feels a bit as if she's caught between the worlds.

 "On one side, many docs are blindly following CDC guidelines. On the other, many integrative medicine docs are rabidly and globally anti-vaccine. I don't fit in either category, so I've tried to bridge the worlds with an objective review of the evidence."

Here are her thoughts...

Please, if you read this and are aware of good data she didn't include, Dr. Rankin invites you to share what you know in the comments. The term "swine flu" is getting thousands of hits on Google, so she feels it's important to combine to stop the spread of misinformation and help others who are confused.

And if you have questions, this is your chance. Dr. Rankin willl do her best to answer them.

If this post helps you decide how to approach the vaccine for your family, please pass it on to your friends.

To your health and happiness,

—Josie

Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives
Simon & Schuster/Pocket

Look for it in bookstores
September 2010

Calling All Brats: Dr. Phil Wants YOU!

Have an out-of-control toddler? Dr. Phil wants to come to your rescue.

I'm being serious.  If you would like Dr. Phil to teach you new techniques of calming your child during a tantrum, please tell the Dr. Phil show your story. Besides a trip to Hollywood for you and your tempermental spawn, you'll learn how to control your kid -- which is every parent's DREAM.

(Will the techniques you'll learn work on teens, too? We can only hope..."

Get ready for your close-up,

—Josie

Secret Lives of Husbands and Wives
Simon & Schuster/Pocket

Look for it in bookstores
September 2010

Suicidal Moms: No One Who Knew Them Can RIP

 Yet another mom has taken her own life—and that of the person most precious to her: her child.

In this case, it was a 51-year-old divorced woman, Judith Elizabeth Williams from Walnut Creek, California. She owned a business that was failing, like so many others in this economy. Her financial situation may have been the tipping point, but it wasn't the only factor that robbed this mom of her ability to see the senselessness of her act, which took place at dusk, on the highest point in the San Francisco Bay Area, Mount Diablo.

Apparently she'd been depressed for years. Perhaps she had never sought the treatment she needed. I guess we'll never know.

He 15-year-old son, Adam, had accompanied her up the mountain. She'd already done away with the family pets, although he may have not known that yet.

Even if he had, would a teen have recognized that act as a symptom of suicidal depression?

Even if he had, would he have known who he could go to?

Would he have known to seek help for her, or would he have been too embarrassed about his mom's issues? As we all know, teens are very sensitive of what others think of them, and of their families. 

I cry when I hear of these sorts of incidents. I feel sorry ––no, angry ––that a child's life has been snuffed out for no other reason than selfishness on his parent's part. She may have not seen her place here on this Earth, but obviously he did, and by all accounts (including the article enclosed here, from the San Francisco Chronicle) Adam lived his life to the fullest.

He deserved to live it on his terms, not hers.

That said, I also feel pity and sadness that yet another mother did not have the support she needed to see beyond her emotional pain. To get the medical help she needed.

And the mother in me feels shame. Women, she was one of us. She didn't have our attitude, our faith in ourselves, or our ability to project ourselves beyond our fears.

But she was still one of us.

I wish her peace.

—Josie

Mom kills son atop Mt. Diablo, then shoots self

Henry K. Lee, Chronicle Staff Writer

Thursday, July 23, 2009

(07-22) 16:33 PDT WALNUT CREEK -- First, Judith Elizabeth Williams took her two cats to the shelter. Then she brought the family dog to the veterinarian, had it euthanized, and wrote a suicide note.

Then, investigators say, the 51-year-old Walnut Creek woman got in the car with her 16-year-old son, Adam Findley Williams, and drove up Mount Diablo. Near the top of the 3,849-foot peak, at a lookout with panoramic views of the Bay Area, she shot the teenager to death with a .357 handgun and turned the gun on herself, authorities said Wednesday.

Judith Williams was having custody disagreements with her ex-husband, who had remarried, and was having money problems, said Contra Costa County sheriff's Capt. Dan Terry. Those "were the primary motivating" reasons behind the murder-suicide Friday, he said.

However, Adam Williams' father, Jim Williams, said custody of their son wasn't an issue. Although his ex-wife had financial difficulties, he said, she also suffered from mental problems.

"His mom was such an angry person - she took offense to things very easily," Jim Williams said. He said he hadn't sought custody of Adam after his 1996 divorce because "I didn't want to provoke her."

Nevertheless, Judith Williams had never made any threats to harm her son, who was a student at Las Lomas High School in Walnut Creek, her ex-husband said.

"She loved him and wouldn't do him any harm," Jim Williams said. "When this happened, we were absolutely shocked."

Judith Williams clearly planned the murder-suicide, authorities said. She had disposed of the family pets in the two days before she died, and left behind a long suicide note in her Blackwood Drive home.

It "implied this was what she was doing and that she was taking her son with her," Terry said.

State Parks police officers found the bodies about 10 p.m. Friday at a lookout point on Summit Road, which leads to the top of Mount Diablo. Authorities withheld news of the deaths while they investigated the circumstances.

Adam Williams' body was found near the edge of the viewing area. His mother was found a few feet away on a park bench. Their car was in the parking lot.

Investigators determined that Judith Williams shot her son in the chest and head before shooting herself in the head, Terry said.

The gun was registered to Judith Williams, authorities said. The weapon appeared new, but it was not immediately clear when she had obtained it, Terry said.

Adam Williams would have been a junior in the fall at Las Lomas High, where he was a member of the track and cross country teams.

"All he ever wanted was for people to accept him and love him and try to help people as much as he possibly could," his father said. "It sounds trite, but he was just a great, great kid. He took a lot of personal pride in his capabilities."

He was "absolutely fearless" and loved to try new things, including tackling a "ropes course" in Lake Tahoe, his father said.

Judith Williams filed for divorce from Jim Williams in 1996, and issues were litigated until at least 2001, according to Contra Costa County Superior Court records.

She filed for Chapter 7 bankruptcy protection in 1999, and her debts were discharged, federal court records show.

E-mail Henry K. Lee at hlee@sfchronicle.com.

http://sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2009/07/23/BAIT18TB26.DTL

© 2009 Hearst Communications Inc.

Tome of the Mommy: Romance (writing) in the Bedroom

Writing is in the blood, as well as the heart and the mind. J.K. Rowling may be the most famous (and most successful of us, but many of the writers I know are are women who, like me, have families and all the complexities that implies, but still find the time to slip out a book or two (or more!) of erotic romance a year. This Washington Post article explains how Irene Williams, a mother-of-two, manages to do so, and run her own publishing company as well.

Talk about a busy lady. Then again, as this picture shows, for centuries moms have been writing whenever and wherever they can.

I hope you find this inspiring,

—Josie



The Wizardess of Id: Romance and Sex and Werewolves, Oh My!

By Ian Shapira / Washington Post Staff Writer /Sunday, June 28, 2009

Behind the Rite Aid, next to the house with the American flag, and inside the five-bedroom home with the fish-shaped windsock swaying over the front door -- this is where a former government lawyer with a thing for sex and werewolves lives.

Her name is Irene Daisy Williams, a.k.a. Treva Harte. A veteran of the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office, she has been doubling as novelist, co-owner and editor in chief of Loose Id, a publishing house specializing in erotic romance literature. (Williams favors paranormal erotic romance, a sub-genre heavy with werewolves. More on the werewolves later.)

Married for more than 20 years to a lawyer at the Federal Deposit Insurance Corp., Williams oversees from her Falls Church home an unusually profitable publishing house. In the increasingly battered book industry, Loose Id has sold more than 1 million mostly online books since being founded in 2004, netting profits -- Williams won't say how much exactly -- that enabled her to quit her trademark lawyer job last year after 20 years. Erotic romance, it seems, is a hot genre. Even heiress Gloria Vanderbilt, the mother of CNN anchor Anderson Cooper, just got into the game, with her newly released novel, "Obsession: An Erotic Tale," which just so happens to be blurbed by writer Joyce Carol Oates.

For Williams, 50, whose cat-eye glasses and auburn hair emit a calculated puckishness, writing and editing sexually charged and happy-ending fiction provides a reprieve from the challenges of real life in her household: Beyond the door of her writing studio, her 90-year-old mother lives with dementia, and children Jan, 15, and Frank, 18, contend with dyslexia and autism, respectively. Within her personal history, Williams deals with the fact that she never knew her father, who took off after she was born.

"In some ways, writing is one of the few places I have absolute control -- well, I can pretend I have absolute control over my world," she says with determined cheer. "My characters . . . I understand them and I understand where they're going to, and ultimately they're going to have a happily-ever-after."

Growing up in New Jersey in the 1960s and in Arizona in the 1970s, Williams embraced romance writing and, later, erotic romance writing because the narratives conferred freedoms beyond her micromanaged adolescence. And she liked how the story lines, unlike those in mysteries or science fiction, focused on women and were edgier than more esteemed Victorian books about manners and society. "As far back as I remember, I would sneak bodice-ripper books and tuck them under the bed. I would buy them from the grocery," Williams recalls. "I had no siblings, and I also lived with my grandmother. But I did have an allowance. My mom just knew that I was reading big, thick books."

On a recent weekday, Williams sits in her home office, decorated with a framed certificate for excellent government service, her husband's old fencing swords on the wall, and, coincidentally, she insists, a bed. Next to bookcases filled with Nora Roberts paperbacks and erotic romance guidebooks, she continues to crank out her latest e-novel, "Return of the King." In the tale, set in the future, federal agents search for anti-government rebels . . . and a rebel woman meets the foreman of her ranch for the first time . . . igniting a molten-white-hot-volcanic affair . . . and she thinks:

Blue eyes in a tanned face. Blue eyes that looked right into you and almost made you miss that the rest of the man was equally beautiful. Almost. Perfection like that was hard to miss for long. . . . My body was leaning toward him.

* * *

In the genre of erotic romance or "romantica," Loose Id is considered among the top publishers, industry experts say. Doreen DeSalvo, the company's chief financial officer, said the enterprise, which charges $2 to $8 for its online books, grossed $1.3 million in 2008 and is on track to make slightly more this year. Williams said that after profit distribution, she makes about the same money she made as an attorney.

With the same competitiveness that distinguishes the gates of Manhattan's big commercial publishers, Loose Id is not for the rookie or wannabe romantica writer. "Our acceptance rate for new submissions is 4 percent," says DeSalvo, herself an author. (Her work in progress: "Bedding the Beast," about an Italian girl whose father sells her as a mail-order bride to a man moving to America; it's based on her grandmother's life.)

"Loose Id is one of the more respected digital publishers operating now. It's a combination of their quality storytelling, good editing, good business sense," says Sarah Wendell, who co-writes the Trashy Books blog and is co-author of "Beyond Heaving Bosoms," a new romance novel guidebook published by Fireside, a Simon & Schuster imprint.

"What's frustrating to me is that unless it's in print, it's considered not valid, but New York publishers have caught on," Wendell says. "Erotic romance is a way of dealing with the oversexualized image of women in the media -- women are airbrushed and ridiculously perfect. This genre is about a woman's sexual experience and the unlimited amount of variety you can have."

Williams published her first digital novel -- "The Seduction of Sean Nolan," a Civil War story -- eight years ago, but she soon grew frustrated with the slowness and risk-adverse nature of established romance houses.

So, in July 2004, she co-founded Loose Id. The company's freelance editors are sprinkled across the country and include teachers, lawyers, even a World Bank officer from Alexandria. Loose Id's most recent titles include "Georgina's Dragon," "Seducing His Lordship" and "Exploring Savage Places," which capitalizes on today's vampire vogue.

* * *

Back in her home office, Williams returns to typing the tale of sweaty-chested anti-government insurgents. The plot was getting complex: The ranch owner and foreman were savoring the morning, but soon dread surfaced about whether they would be captured.

Rey looked at me and wiped his face off with a damp towel. "Can you hold them off?" He looked ill. Hell, why not? He probably hadn't slept in days. The few hours drowsing in a cage shouldn't count.

She glances out the window to see her son's school bus arrive. She scampers downstairs to the kitchen. "School was good?" she asks Frank in a soft voice. "Did you try to call me?"

"What's for supper?" he asks.

"I think we're having steak tonight, kiddo," Williams says, then asks again, "Did you try to call today, sweetie?"

Her daughter, Jan, a rising sophomore at George Mason High School, is forbidden to read her mother's books but says she is not even tempted. "I am not really into these sort of books. I might be someday," says Jan, who prefers Harry Potter.

And her husband, Mark Mellon -- the guy who works at the FDIC -- is not into the erotic romance, either. "I think it's icky," says Mellon, who also fancies himself a fiction writer. He once published, in the magazine Anthrolations, a short story, set in the future after a nuclear war between India and Pakistan, about a 50-pound cockroach sent to disassemble the Taj Mahal and rebuild it in a nonradioactive location.

"It's this weird little subculture that I write about," he explains helpfully. "But I admire Irene so much -- she writes somewhere close to 300,000 words a year. That's incredible."

Earlier this month, Williams released "Heal," a novel about "werewolves in human form." A blurb on Loose Id's Web site offers this tease: "Ruth's an Ice Queen and she's really cramping Arlin's freewheeling take-what'll-have-you style. Especially since Ruth smells like sex. How can a woman so cold smell so incredibly hot?"

Williams explicates a bit more: "Werewolves like to make love with lots of people, but they're not that picky." She pauses and glances at her husband's fencing swords.

"I'm going to use these in a story, but I don't know how yet."

Tome of the Mommy: Mr. Mom, Welcome to the (Parent)Hood!

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

The reason for their sudden appearances on our neighborhood parks may not be so wonderful—the result of this recession's layoffs—but happy dads (yeah, I'll say it, even a few DILFs or two) are always welcomed to share a shady spot and shoot the breeze with us moms.

It's interesting to watch the interaction: first a wariness, then a tentative welcome. Soon, everyone's sharing goldfish, carrot sticks and juice boxes.

Wish someone would slip in a Thermos of mojitos. I'm just sayin'...

Guys, don't ever presume the mommy clique on the picnic bench is a club in which no boys are allowed. In fact, the password that gets you in every time (along with a choice spot on the bench) is "Wow, your kid is so well-behaved..."

That's music to any mother's ears.

In The DILF –my book which comes out next summer –one man cracks the code, only to discover he's opened a Pandora's box filled with the misperceptions, fantasies and desires his female neighbors have about him and his now-disintegrated marriage. I'll have an excerpt up soon.

Seems that the timing couldn't be better for my book. As NBC's TODAY SHOW points out in the video piece above, there are enough dads out there now, that they're forming their own papa posses. (Wow! Did I just coin that phrase? Sure what the hey, I'll take credit for it...)

One very interesting comment is one dad's admission that sometimes the men talk about "our past lives before we had children."

Hmmmm. You mean, when the impulse to go out at night wasn't given a second thought ("Oh my god! Who can we get to sit with the baby?")

Or, you could sleep in and snuggle (or whatever) without be tapped on the shoulder by a toddler wanting to play?

Or when conversations revolved around work and sports and all things coupledom, as opposed to diaper-training and schools and all things parenthood?

Welcome to the club. No, we really mean that. You came through initiation with flying colors.

Or, as one guy put it when the reporter asks if his Mr. Mom stint makes him a better dad: "It makes me a good-enough dad."

Reporter: "Hey, give yourself some credit!"

Dad, conceding: "It certainly makes me a better dad."

Your wife will agree.

 

—Josie

 

The Stay at Home Dad Ponders DILF-dom

Interesting the response I get to the title of my book (out Summer 2010) The DILF. Those under 40 give knowing chuckles, whereas my pals over that watershed year nod enthusiastically...

Then pause and ask: "What's a DILF?"

Hmmm....So, how do I explain this?

The easiest way is to say, "It's the opposite of a MILF. Get it?"

If then I get the glazed I-don't-know-what-the-heck-you're-talking-about-stare, I'll give it one more stab: "You know, a stay-at-home-dad who's...well, who--is cute."

If someone then says, "But--wouldn't that be 'DWIC''?" at this point, I'm thinking that my friend is..well, is DWIC'ing with me.

Having been put on the spot, I'll level with them: "What it stands for, exactly, is 'Dad I'd Like to...um...Flirt With.'"

And if by then they still don't get it, or they ask "So, why doesn't you acronym have that last W?'"... I'll just refer them to this very succinct article by TheDadJam.com

Coz, yeah, that dude gets it,

—Josie

Mr. Big as The DILF

As you know, I'm into DILFs in a big way these days (Blatant Self Promotion: My book, The DILF, hits bookstores Summer 2010). Obviously I've caught the zeitgeist (or, I guess, the economy has caught up with my plottin' and schemin'), because DILFs seem to be the new black.

Case in point: BAZAAR lives up to its name by downsizing SEX AND THE CITY's Mr. Big (Chris Noth) into a stay-at-home dad. He makes a cute DILF, doesn't he?

And needless to say, Milla Jovovich makes a stunning alpha wife. That straight fuchsia skirt is fetching, isn't it? Reminds me of my fave designer jacket of that same color, a wardrobe staple (worn with either a solid black or white skirt) when life required that I suit up.

Dems weren't the daze,

—Josie

PS: Thanks, Poppy, for the link...

Tome of the Mommy, #1: It's official. SECRET LIVES OF HUSBANDS AND WIVES will be a book.

It's being published by Simon & Schuster. I'm thrilled, as you can imagine. Let's start with the fact that I'm enchanted with my editor, Megan McKeever. The excitement she and her team have for this project is an author's dream.

And just think: this time next year, it will be on a bookstore shelf near you.

What's the story? It is a chronicle of the bitter divorce of a "perfect couple," and its impact on the gated community in which they live, is seen through the eyes of a neighbor–Lyssa, a stay-at-home mom–who doesn't realize the parallels between their marriage and her own. In the process, she befriends the husband, Harry, a former Master of the Universe turned stay-at-home dad–even as the neighborhood's mean mommies vying to make him the next notch on their bedposts turn on her.

Just another fun day in suburbia, right?

You know, writing a book is a lot like birthing a baby. The moment you realize it's actually going to happen, you fall into a euphoric trance.

Sheer bliss.

And nothing can take that away from you...

Except the worry that perhaps something bad will befall it while it's incubating. For an author, that can be anything from the "I'm not worthy!" to "Will it find an audience?" to "What do I have to say that is compelling enough to hold someone's attention for 300+ pages?" 

When this happens, those deep breathing exercises we learn in Lamaze classes certainly come in handy.

Well, I'm happy to report that I'm feeling no qualms whatsoever. (Liar, Liar, pants on fire..)

No, seriously, I mean that. I've been through the birthing experience, four times: two that were the human kind (Austin and Anna), and another two that were the novel kind (and Impossibly Tongue-Tied and True Hollywood Lies).

During that first trimester, reality sets in. There is so much preparation before the blessed event: outlining a compelling plot; creating characters that are real–to you, and hopefully future readers; making sure the dialogue coming out of their mouths is something someone would actually say–and that others would respond to.

Is it any wonder you feel nauseous?

By the middle trimester, you're in your groove: pages are flowing, you're heavy with chapter, edits are coming back, but nothing that you feel throws the plot baby out with the bath water. (Some analogy, huh?) In fact, you fall into a complacent routine where everything seems hunky-dory...

But by it's delivery date – in The DILF's case, June 2010 – you are more than ready to share you bundle of joy with the rest of the world.

Will this book be The Second Coming? I would never presume as much. (Besides, in the book universe, Harry Potter has already claimed that title.) Wise parents know that the most they can hope for their offspring is a long and fruitful life.

And of course, you envision a success future. (Those of us who had reserved our children's places in their preschools even before they were born know what I mean).

So that my new baby lives a long and healthy life, I'm going to go on the theory that it takes a village to birth a book. I'll include you on how it's going: all the birthing pains, all those little kicks of joy, all the hopes and schemes and dreams I have for it, to make it a book you'll want to read.

Along the way, I'll ask your opinion, let you in on some secrets (plot-wise, and about the writer's process), and invite you to the celebration of this blessed birth. And great news! When time comes for my new baby's shower, the gifts will be for you...

So stay tuned!

—Josie

www.josiebrown.com