Read Online Secret Lives Of Husbands And Wives by Josie Brown - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Josie Brown
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partner.
Tammy, on the other hand, has become his domestic goddess Friday. Thus far this has included rearranging his kitchen and bathroom cabinets.
Obviously she has worked her way into the master bedroom too. Which makes me wonder: Does she have intimate knowledge of Harry’s need for a Trophy Shelf Pouch?
“Seriously, Lyssa, I’m doing the poor guy a favor. Why, you just
wouldn’t
believe the shape his briefs are in.”
“Just how would you know what shape they’re in, pray tell?”
“Well, um . . . yesterday I happened to be over there when he was doing laundry—”
“I thought he had a part-time housekeeper for that.”
“I guess she used to do it—before he let her go.” She leans in conspiratorially. “He gave her notice on Friday. Something about proving to DeeDee’s attorney that he doesn’t need domestic help.” She giggles at this folly. “Of course, that was before he realized a blue pen had found its way into the wash with all of his white boxers and T-shirts—”
“If you really want to do him a favor, why not just replace what he had? My God, Tammy, he’s a securities attorney, not a performer at Chippendales!”
“Heck, what would be the fun in that?” She puts down her packages with a pout. “Hey, what’s with you lately? You seem so grumpy.”
Grumpy, huh? Yeah, well, that is the least of it. More like tired (since Halloween, Olivia has refused to go to bed before ten because she is now afraid of dementors) and worried (Mickey’s prim bitch of a teacher thinks his practical jokes have gotten out of hand, and has recommended that he be tested for ADHD).
And to top it all off, I’m horny. Ted has worked late every day these past couple of weeks, and usually slips into bed in the earlymorning hours when I am already fast asleep.
Maybe that’s why I’m a little hurt that Harry’s previously undivided attention has been diverted to my board. Practically overnight he has gone from pathetic gossip fodder to the DILF du jour. Not only has he made himself available for coffee klatches and carpooling, but apparently my friends have been granted an open invitation to cry on his strong, broad shoulders whenever their marital problems become too heavy a burden.
Tammy rummages through stacks of boxer briefs. “Did you know that Isabelle is finally off her diet?”
“Wow, that’s great! It’s about time she got the message!”
Diet
is the board’s polite euphemism for Isabelle’s postmeal upchucking. While the majority of Isabelle’s friends follow a policy of don’t ask, don’t tell, and don’t listen to what is happening in the adjoining bathroom stall, for some time now I’ve been begging Isabelle to seek help with her low self-esteem.
“Yeah, well, he certainly knew the right way to put it so that she’d listen.”
“Wow, good for Lyle!” In the past, Isabelle’s husband has been less than supportive. Make that passive-aggressive. Why else would he pucker up for a wolf whistle every time some lithe young body in a string bikini crosses his path?
“
Lyle?
Don’t make me laugh. Silly, it was our
Harry
who turned her around. He convinced her that men love women with a little meat on their bones, and that she’s perfectly beautiful.” Tammy sighs. “I just
love
that man. He is
so
intuitive about the female psyche!”
Our
Harry? No, he is
my
Harry.
Or he
was
mine, and mine alone, until I introduced him to these shameless hussies. . . .
“Imagine that! So he knows how men think? Gee, I wonder why that is.” I know I sound sarcastic, but I hate seeing my own knight in shining armor attending to other damsels in distress.
Oh, sure, I’m glad he was able to gain my friends’ approval and empathy. But I never anticipated they’d take over the care and feeding of the Wilder family.
Or that he’d take to it so eagerly, like a newborn babe to a teat.
Or, in this case, to ten cosmetically inflated ones.
Nothing I say shames Tammy from her goal:
Tammy, on the other hand, has become his domestic goddess Friday. Thus far this has included rearranging his kitchen and bathroom cabinets.
Obviously she has worked her way into the master bedroom too. Which makes me wonder: Does she have intimate knowledge of Harry’s need for a Trophy Shelf Pouch?
“Seriously, Lyssa, I’m doing the poor guy a favor. Why, you just
wouldn’t
believe the shape his briefs are in.”
“Just how would you know what shape they’re in, pray tell?”
“Well, um . . . yesterday I happened to be over there when he was doing laundry—”
“I thought he had a part-time housekeeper for that.”
“I guess she used to do it—before he let her go.” She leans in conspiratorially. “He gave her notice on Friday. Something about proving to DeeDee’s attorney that he doesn’t need domestic help.” She giggles at this folly. “Of course, that was before he realized a blue pen had found its way into the wash with all of his white boxers and T-shirts—”
“If you really want to do him a favor, why not just replace what he had? My God, Tammy, he’s a securities attorney, not a performer at Chippendales!”
“Heck, what would be the fun in that?” She puts down her packages with a pout. “Hey, what’s with you lately? You seem so grumpy.”
Grumpy, huh? Yeah, well, that is the least of it. More like tired (since Halloween, Olivia has refused to go to bed before ten because she is now afraid of dementors) and worried (Mickey’s prim bitch of a teacher thinks his practical jokes have gotten out of hand, and has recommended that he be tested for ADHD).
And to top it all off, I’m horny. Ted has worked late every day these past couple of weeks, and usually slips into bed in the earlymorning hours when I am already fast asleep.
Maybe that’s why I’m a little hurt that Harry’s previously undivided attention has been diverted to my board. Practically overnight he has gone from pathetic gossip fodder to the DILF du jour. Not only has he made himself available for coffee klatches and carpooling, but apparently my friends have been granted an open invitation to cry on his strong, broad shoulders whenever their marital problems become too heavy a burden.
Tammy rummages through stacks of boxer briefs. “Did you know that Isabelle is finally off her diet?”
“Wow, that’s great! It’s about time she got the message!”
Diet
is the board’s polite euphemism for Isabelle’s postmeal upchucking. While the majority of Isabelle’s friends follow a policy of don’t ask, don’t tell, and don’t listen to what is happening in the adjoining bathroom stall, for some time now I’ve been begging Isabelle to seek help with her low self-esteem.
“Yeah, well, he certainly knew the right way to put it so that she’d listen.”
“Wow, good for Lyle!” In the past, Isabelle’s husband has been less than supportive. Make that passive-aggressive. Why else would he pucker up for a wolf whistle every time some lithe young body in a string bikini crosses his path?
“
Lyle?
Don’t make me laugh. Silly, it was our
Harry
who turned her around. He convinced her that men love women with a little meat on their bones, and that she’s perfectly beautiful.” Tammy sighs. “I just
love
that man. He is
so
intuitive about the female psyche!”
Our
Harry? No, he is
my
Harry.
Or he
was
mine, and mine alone, until I introduced him to these shameless hussies. . . .
“Imagine that! So he knows how men think? Gee, I wonder why that is.” I know I sound sarcastic, but I hate seeing my own knight in shining armor attending to other damsels in distress.
Oh, sure, I’m glad he was able to gain my friends’ approval and empathy. But I never anticipated they’d take over the care and feeding of the Wilder family.
Or that he’d take to it so eagerly, like a newborn babe to a teat.
Or, in this case, to ten cosmetically inflated ones.
Nothing I say shames Tammy from her goal:
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