This short story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are entirely the product of the author’s twisted imagination. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons (living, dead, or anywhere in between) is purely coincidental.
Cover art by Katerina Vamvasaki
Edited by Jo Jo Zawawi
“It’s a Dunder-Bull Wife”
Copyright © 2011 by Karen Fraunfelder Cantwell
Books in the Barbara Marr Series:
Take the Monkeys and Run, A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery (#1)
Citizen Insane, A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery (#2)
The Chronicles of Marr-nia, Short Stories Starring Barbara Marr
Silenced by the Yams, A Barbara Marr Murder Mystery (Feb 2012)
“It’s a Dunder-Bull Wife”
A Barbara Marr Holiday Tale
by Karen Cantwell
I have three daughters—peer pressure is my constant nemesis. Not a day goes by that I don’t remind one, two, or all three of my darlings that they are individuals—gorgeous, independent beings with minds and unique personalities of their very own. If I’ve asked the proverbial, “If-so-and-so-jumped-off-a-bridge” question once, I’ve asked it a billion times.
Imagine the irony, then, that I would find myself on a bridge on Christmas Day, lamenting my inability to measure up to the silly standards of other mothers.
My name is Barbara Marr and I have a confession to make: I can’t cook a turkey.
***
Two weeks before Christmas, I huddled with friends in front of the blazing gas fireplace at Cappuccino Corner. A peppermint latte warmed my hands and the holiday scent tickled my nose.
“Don’t look now,” Peggy whispered over her own cup of java. “It’s a Dunder-Bull Wife.”
The problem with the don’t-look-now command is that everyone looks before they register the fact that they were just directed not to. My head spun to the door just as fast as Roz’s. But Dunder-Bull wives don’t mind. In fact, they want people to look. They expect people to look. They’re perfect and they want everyone to know it.
Dunder-Bull is the town adjacent to our cozy enclave of Rustic Woods. So close in vicinity, yet so far apart in flavor. Rustic Woods wives drive ten year-old minivans, while Dunder-Bull wives drive shiny new Lexus SUVs with sunroofs and built-in seat warmers. The wives of Rustic Woods feed their grumpy kids processed chicken tenders from the drive-thru at Chick Hurray at least two nights a week, while Dunder-Bull wives deliver fresh, healthy, home-cooked meals to their happy, smiling families every day, morning, noon and night. Rustic Woods wives clip their own nails in between soccer games and PTA bake sales, but Dunder-Bull wives somehow manage to squeeze in full mani-pedis every week after throwing one-hundred-dollar-a-plate charity fundraisers. Rumor has it that they get bikini waxes and high colonics after the mani and before the pedi. Let’s put it this way: Dunder-Bull wives make the Stepford wives look like couch potatoes.
Even worse than the fact that a Dunder-Bull wife had crossed the border was the fact that I actually knew this freak of nature. Her name was Tru Diamond.
No, I’m not making it up. I wish I were.
Tru Diamond was married to Daniel Diamond of Diamond Real Estate, and if you happened to stroll past Pathmore’s Portraits on the upper level of Thornwood Mall, you’d see them, their five stunning children and all 224 of their perfectly white teeth on a twenty-four by thirty-six-inch canvas. That’s right—you know the kind of family I’m talking about now.
Turning my head away as quickly as possible, I moaned. “Please don’t let her see me.”
“You know her?” Roz asked.
“You don’t?” Peggy whispered in reply. “That’s Tru Diamond—she’s practically a celebrity.”
Roz tipped her head in understanding. “I’ve heard the name, never met her.” She continued to spy Tru from the corner of her eye. “Wow. She’s hot. I’ll bet she doesn’t have a single ripple of cellulite. How many kids?”
Peggy nodded. “Five.”
“Oh, that’s just not fair.” Roz’s expression oozed disgust.
I sipped from my peppermint latte while trying to will myself invisible. Why did Tru Diamond have to walk into my territory? Here, I was allowed to be myself—the sweats I’d worn for five days straight without washing were perfectly acceptable. And no one cared that my ancient sweatshirt had more pills than a drugstore.
I hunched over my coffee cup in an attempt to hide. My Gollum impression didn’t work.
“Barb?” Tru squinted from across the shop. “Barbara Marr—is that you?”
So much for hiding. Now I had to engage in small talk. First on the agenda would be pretending that I hadn’t seen her. “Tru?” I pasted on my best fake smile, which wasn’t easy, since it was 8:45 in the morning and I hadn’t brushed my teeth yet.
She glided in our direction—Dunder-Bull wives don’t walk, they glide—and then landed ever so gently next to me. Since I was sitting and she was standing, I assessed her from the bottom up: tan leather ankle boots clad her pretty, petite feet. They were probably designer, but since I don’t even know how to pronounce Blahniks, I sure as heck wouldn’t know her shoes from a pair of Wal-Mart specials. They were cute, though. If I didn’t have feet big enough and flat enough to stamp out forest fires, I might’ve considered a pair. That is, if their sticker price didn’t require that I take out a second mortgage.
Onward and upward: a red velvet skirt that fell just above the cute boots and hung over her perfect curves like satin on a Mercedes. Her too-precious Christmas sweater was topped by a black suede, belted coat that I’d kill for if I thought I’d ever have somewhere better than Cappuccino Corner to wear the thing. Her blonde, wavy ’do looked right-from-the-salon. And finally, those Christmas wreath earrings looked to be constructed with the real deal—diamonds, rubies and emeralds. They spelled “class,” while the flashing bulbs dangling from my own ears screamed “cheapskate.” Well, they’d seemed fun and festive when I bought them.
Not wanting to appear rude, I rose from my chair. This, it turns out, was a mistake, because I’d forgotten that the drawstring on my sweatpants was loosened, and those suckers slid right down over my derriere. I caught them in time just before giving the show of the century, but with the grace of a donkey on ice skates, spilled my peppermint latte, which really made me mad because I hadn’t yet ingested enough caffeine to get my day going. Lovely Peggy dabbed coffee off the floor while I scrambled to re-tie my sweats. It’s really not easy to look nonchalant tying up stinky sweats while Wonder Woman is watching. But I was not going to crumble. I whipped that drawstring into a quick knot and kept talking.
“So,” I said, tucking some stray curls behind my ear, “what brings you to our neck of the woods?”
Tru instantly broke into laughter. “Oh, you are so funny!”
I was? What did I say? I was confused.
“Rustic Woods, our neck of the woods . . . you do have a way with words.”
If only I were that quick. I smiled anyway and pretended the pun was intended.
There was a brief moment of awkward silence that puzzled me until I realized that Tru was waiting for me to introduce my friends. “Tru, this is Peggy Rubenstein and Roz Walker.”
She nodded to each. “Tru Diamond. Very nice to meet you.”
I was hoping she would be in a hurry to get her drink and splitsville, but it just wasn’t my lucky day.
“So, Barb,” she continued, “are you ready for the holidays?”
My first reaction was to guffaw and ask if anyone is ever really ready for the holidays, but that sort of rhetorical humor doesn’t work with Dunder-Bull wives. They’re ready for everything: every holiday in the book, death
in the family, two-foot snowstorms, hurricanes, earthquakes—they’ve got it covered. Heck, I’ll bet each one of them has an emergency preparedness plan for the Zombie Apocalypse.
And the truth was, I wasn’t ready. For the holidays, that is. Presents were bought for the most part, but they weren’t wrapped. I had paper, but not bows. I had the flashy earrings but neglected to dig my Reindeer sweater out from the back of my closet. But was I going to admit this to Tru Diamond? No way.
“Sure.” I nodded. “Ready with a capital R.”
Peggy and Roz exchanged quizzical glances.
Tru was practically giddy with excitement. “Really? Are you having guests?”
“Yup.”
“Excellent! How many?”
Geez, these women always had to get specific, didn’t they? I pulled a good, even number out of the air. “Twenty.”
“Twenty!” I thought Tru would have an orgasm on the spot. “Good for you! How many turkeys?”
“Two. And a ham.”
Don’t judge me. Remember, until you’ve walked in someone else’s stinky sweatpants, you never know how you’ll react under pressure.
“What kind of stuffing do you make? Cornbread? Sausage?”
Uh oh. I was in deep now. Not only had I never made stuffing before, I didn’t even know there were different kinds. Well, when in doubt, cover all bases. “Both. Two turkeys, you know.”
***
Tru eventually moved on to secure a hot coffee drink and then head out for “some Christmas shopping followed by an afternoon of helping the homeless.” When the door closed behind her and I knew she couldn’t possibly hear, I turned to Peggy and Roz. “Okay. How do you cook a turkey?”
Peggy laughed. When I didn’t laugh with her, she stopped. “You’re kidding, right?”
Roz shook her head. “She’s not kidding.”
“Never?” Peggy asked.
“I tried a turkey tetrazzini but I used processed turkey slices. I guess that doesn’t count, huh?”
“Was it any good?” Roz’s expression indicated that she didn’t expect a positive answer.
“You know your kooky Uncle Bertram?”
“We don’t talk about him.”
“Right. Same with the Great Turkey Tetrazzini Debacle of 2005.”
“What do you cook at Thanksgiving and Christmas?” Peggy asked.
“Never had to cook. My mother takes us to restaurants on Thanksgiving, and we always travel to Mama Marr’s on Christmas Day. Now she can cook a turkey.”
“So you’re not going to her place this year?”
“I’m thinking of changing things up.”
Roz laughed. “Just because you lied to Tru Diamond?”
“I didn’t lie. What are you doing for Christmas dinner? I need a few more guests.”
“You’re crazy. Why do this to yourself?”
“To prove I can. It’s time I rose to the occasion. I’m not going to be bested by a Dunder-Bull wife. Now, you didn’t answer my question: how do you cook a turkey?”
***
Roz and Peggy are my dearest friends, but they weren’t able to join my guest list for Christmas dinner. Something about having their own family plans, yada, yada, yada. Which meant I had to find quite a few extra guests, and I had to find them fast. Howard, me, Callie, Bethany and Amber made five. I needed fifteen more. That night I approached Howard while he sat on the couch watching a football game.
“Hi, honey,” I said, handing him a cold beer and planting a warm kiss on his lips. “How was your day?”
The beer and kiss were accepted, but he never turned his attention from the TV. “Fine.” He swigged on the beer.
“How about we ask your mother to come here for Christmas? She always goes to so much trouble for us, cooking those big dinners. I think it’s time we gave her a break—she could take the train down and then just relax.”
After another swig and a grunt: “I’ll call and ask her.”
“How many friends do you think she has?”
I must have caught his attention, because he finally looked my way. “What?”
“Well, maybe she’d like to bring some friends along.”
“Why would her friends want to come here for Christmas?”
“Let’s not ask ‘Why?’ but ‘Why not?’ So how many? Two? Three? Fourteen?”
Howard put the beer down on the coffee table while rolling his eyes and blowing a particularly hefty sigh. “What have you done?”
I couldn’t see whether his teeth were clenched, but I was guessing they were.
“I haven’t done anything. I’m not sure what you’re getting at exactly. I’d just like to feel the spirit of Christmas in our own home this year and share with friends and family.” A tickle in my throat made me cough. “Lots of friends and family,” I added when the tickle subsided.
Before I could blink, he was in front of the fridge, throwing open the freezer door. His jaw dropped and I do think I saw steam literally coming out of his ears. “Two turkeys?” he shouted.
“And a ham. It’s in the fridge. Apparently, you don’t have to freeze them.” I picked up a book up from the counter—my proud new purchase from Rustic Woods Books Galore—and held it up for him to see. Holiday Dinners for Dummies. “See? I have a how-to guide, and they have a special section for parties over twenty. Tell me again how many friends Mama Marr can bring?”
***
Let’s put it this way: the rest of that conversation didn’t go so well. It was kind of like a super scary roller coaster, but with way more frightening drops and a few too many loop-de-loops. I eventually got my way, but not until Howard brought up the Turkey Tetrazzini incident and made me cry.
It turned out that Mama Marr did have two widowed friends who would be happy join her at her son’s house for Christmas dinner, so I only needed to find twelve more guests. Much to my teenage daughter Callie’s dismay, I invited her friend-she-wished-were-a-boyfriend, Brandon, and his mother, father and brother. Actually, “dismay” wasn’t quite the word. Mortification would describe her reaction more precisely. She also tried to bring up the Tetrazzini, but I stopped her at the pass, threatening the removal of cell phone privileges.
My mother, it turned out, was a blessing. Not only did she agree to join us, but she was bringing my brother who was coming into town, his life partner, two people from her art class, and Master Kyo from Tae Kwon Do.
That only left me two people short of the twenty-person goal. Now I know what you’re thinking—why was it so important to have exactly twenty people? Certainly, Tru Diamond would never know. And you are right. But the fact of the matter is that I would know. Whether it’s a strength or a flaw, I insist on being true to my word. Or, in this case, true to Tru. Besides, I had taken this on as a challenge and I was going to meet it head-on. I was going to find those last two guests if it killed me.
***
According to Holiday Dinners for Dummies, food isn’t the only component of the perfect dinner experience. This, to say the least, was unsettling. There were the invitations, decorations and table settings. “Table settings” had two chapters all to itself. I had no idea these things were so important. Of course, I’m sure Tru Diamond knew. She didn’t even need a book—the knowledge was probably encased in her DNA.
And it doesn’t take a Dummy to know that my house had to be cleaned before the grand affair. So I made a to-do list three pages long, and started in. I couldn’t just buy invitations, because a Dunder-Bull wife wouldn’t settle for anything less than handmade. After three hours in the craft store, I had collected up and purchased the necessary items. The burns on my fingertips were a testament to the fact that I’d never used a hot glue gun before. When all was said and done and the invitations mailed, I think they weren’t so bad and actually, kind of pretty, despite the fact that my Amber, my five-year-old, had mistaken the paper mistletoe leaves for the dangerous types of leaves illustrated in the pamphlet distributed at school, Drugs are Bad, Bad, Bad. Since it was so cl
ose to Christmas, I had to get those suckers in the mail lickety-split. True, I’d already invited everyone and received verbal acceptances, but, again, this had to be done the right way. The Dunder-Bull way.
Then I was off to the discount store for decorations and table setting items. Since I have no imagination nor a single creative bone in my body, I decided to copy one of the place settings from the book. This required the purchase of not one, but three sets of plain white dishes. Holy cow. Twenty blue cloth napkins, three silver tablecloths for three tables, ten tea lights per table, ball ornaments in both blue and silver. As you can see, I had chosen the blue and silver theme. As for decorations, red poinsettias didn’t fit in with the blue and silver, so I had to head back to the craft store for a blue and silver wreath. Then I really put a dent in the wallet when I splurged on two of those mechanical lighted reindeers. I could have bought just one, but it would have looked so lonely without a mate. There was a deal (thank goodness) on snowflake decorations that I thought I could hang from the ceiling to give the feeling of a wintry wonderland, so I snatched up four boxes and said “check” on the buy-the-decorations part of my list.
Phew! I was exhausted and hadn’t even reached the clean-the-house portion of the list yet, much less the actual cooking of the meal. And somewhere in there I had to wrap those presents.
By Christmas Eve I had only slept a total of ten hours out of the past seventy-two and I was operating on pure adrenaline boosted by hourly espresso shots. At eight o’clock that morning, I realized I’d never located the final two guests to attain the perfect twenty. I was panicked. Thankfully, while scanning my address book for people I knew who might need a place to eat on Christmas, my phone rang. Caller ID told me it was our friend, Colt Baron, to whom I’d promised a ride to the airport at nine a.m. so he could spend Christmas with his family in California.
“Hi, Colt,” I answered. “How are you?”
“I’m not so hot, but you sound worse,” he answered back.
“Just tired.”
“Your big Holiday To-Do?”
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