The Housewife Assassin's Terrorist TV Guide

by Josie Brown

  Jack shrugs. “It’s not my decision. You’ll have to ask her yourself.”

  Franklin pats him on the back. “There’s got to be one little thing about her that bothers you.”

  Jack shakes his head adamantly. “Nope, not a thing.”

  “You know, hate is a form of love too. Whatever you point out may be the one thing she loathes about herself. If you’re more honest with her as to how she can be a wee bit more beautiful in your eyes, you’ll be giving her your permission to act on it.”

  The camera doesn’t pick up the dark shadow that crosses Jack’s eyes—the one that I’ve seen while he’s choked a man to death.

  But instead of rebuffing him, Jack stoops to retrieve his golf ball.

  Thank you, Jack.

  Roger and James exchange knowing smiles. Any doubts the men have that their wives—and I—may finally encompass their wildest fantasies and feminine ideals are now reflected in their slight smiles and their dreamy gazes.

  Brin must have seen it as well, because she shouted, “Boo-yah! I’ll bet we’ll get some masturbation scenes that make the American Pie franchise look lame!”

  “They are lame,” Emma murmurs.

  “What was that, New Girl? Did you say you want to monitor the men’s audio feeds when they step into the little boys’ room?” I can’t see Lucy’s smirk, but I can hear it.

  “No…I…didn’t say a word,” Emma mutters.

  “Hey, now, that’s not a bad idea!” Brin exclaims. “Get on it, New Girl. But give us moans, not grunts and groans… Hey, did I just rhyme? Does that make me a rapper?”

  I can’t stomach any more of this crap. I click the OFF button on the TV remote before facing Jack. “How dare he suggest I don’t want to help out a great cause! Hell, I’ll give money not to be butchered by the illustrious Dr. Frankenstein—I mean Dr. Franklin Powell.”

  “Donna, hon…calm down! It’s not as if he’s some hack or something—”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down!” Despite my hyperventilating, a dreadful thought hits me: “Oh, my God! ...Jack, be honest now: is there anything you’d change about me?”

  He thinks for a moment. “Okay, yeah.”

  Here it comes…

  “I’d like it if you smiled more. I don’t see that as your fault. It’s more mine.”

  But of course, he knows how to calm me down.

  And to make me smile.

  No, make that laugh until it hurts. Better to bruise my funny bone than my ego, right? “Agreed, it’s all your fault,” I mutter. “I think the best solution is that we have sex more often.”

  Jack laughs as he pulls me down onto the bed on top of him. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  We’ve arrived late to Cassandra’s shindig. My bad. The thought of being told I need a nip/tuck in front of an audience of several million doesn’t exactly have me running out the door.

  For the luau, I’ve wrapped a red floral sarong low on my hips. It hugs every curve. Above it, I wear a white lace strapless bandeau top. It is cropped high enough to expose my midriff. (Okay, yes, I want to prove to anyone watching that I am practically perfect in every way.) To complete the look, I have a white lei around my neck, and a bright red hibiscus flower in my hair.

  Except for Patty who wears a polka-dotted muumuu, and Aunt Phyllis who wears a grass skirt and a couple of coconut half-shells over her breasts, the other women are also in form-fitting sarongs, including our hostess.

  And yes, I fought the good fight to get Aunt Phyllis into something less showy, to no avail.

  “Don’t give me any lip, young lady!” she retorted. “I’m competing with you and every other housewife bombshell for air time, so I’ve got to pull out all the stops!”

  “Aunt Phyllis, please! Do you really think this is the best way to go about it?” My voice drops into the gentle but firm tone I use with my children when they are stubbornly set on getting their way.

  As my aunt’s shoulders sag, her coconuts droop almost to her waist. She tightens the grass shoulder strap with one hand but uses the other to shake a finger at me. “Ha! if this were Survivor, I’d be tossing boulders off cliffs and onto the rest of you—naked—if that’s what it took to stay on the show!”

  “Well, then, thank God it's not,” Jack muttered under his breath.

  Amen.

  Cupping her coconuts, Aunt Phyllis huffed, “You’ll thank me later for wearing this getup.”

  As for the husbands, they’re wearing Hawaiian shirts and shorts or slacks. Jack comes in a very tight T-shirt (because it belongs to Evan) with the slogan, SURF’S UP. I’m sure he—we—are racking up bonus points for his effort to be extra-hunky.

  We’re all mic’ed and the cameras are rolling: at least the one following Penelope and Sienna. And apparently, there’s some drama going on between the Garrets as well. Patty’s eyes are swollen from tears, and James is reading her the riot act.

  Did he give her a heads-up on what to expect? In a way, that would have been kinder on his part. If she’s dead-set opposed to the idea, catching her disgust on camera will only give him a reason to bully her into it—in front of the show’s audience.

  I’m speaking for myself. Despite having a heads-up on tonight’s drama, I still don’t know how I’ll react when Franklin begins his detailed analysis of my physical imperfections.

  I might just give him a few imperfections of his own. A broken nose would be a start.

  Before we followed Aunt Phyllis into the luau, Jack convinced me that my initial reaction—a knife to his heart—might be a bit extreme. “Remember, it’s live television, and you’d have a lot of explaining to do to the kids, not to mention to Acme”— he points out—“especially since you have just cleared Franklin as a suspect.”

  I sighed grudgingly. “I see your point. It might be considered an overreaction.”

  “You think?” Jack smirks.

  On the other hand, a sufficient dose of Saxitoxin in his morning Starbucks grande cup would be a bit more subtle—

  Nah. Just kidding. Heck, the man is practically a saint! And besides, there are others more deserving of a quick and painful demise…

  Stay focused…stay focused…

  Right now I force myself to tune into the calypso band playing It’s a Wonderful World in the only corner of the pool area not already taken up by one of the three bars that have been set up by the cater-waiters. Abu tends the one that Arnie has predicted will be closest to the drama. I’d like to know how he figured this out.

  Okay, maybe I really don’t want to know.

  Our hostess sees us and waves us over.

  Jack presses me in the small of my back in her direction. Why do I feel as if I’m being led to my last supper? And who’d have guessed it would include poi?

  Chapter 11

  Nip/Tuck

  “Beauty is a curse on the world. It keeps us from seeing who the real monsters are.”

  —The Carver, in Nip/Tuck

  Don’t recognize the person staring back at you in the mirror?

  No, she isn’t your mother—

  She is you.

  And while it’s too late to stifle the mortified groan elicited from this realization, or to stop the tears rolling down onto your hollowed out withered cheeks, before your look of horror hardens permanently in your already finely lined face, do the following:

  First, ask around for a competent plastic surgeon. Consider seeking out the one or two doctors whose patients use such accolades as “Excellent,” “Highly skilled,” and “Made me perfect!”

  (However, if these proclamations are ushered forth from a newly sculpted mouth which is as wide as that of the killer clown in your worst nightmare, cross the referral off your list.)

  Next, put together a list of interview questions for potential doctors. For example, you can ask to see pictures of his successes—and his botched jobs. If he refuses to show you the latter, or claims there have been none, don’t just take his word for it. Instead, do an Internet search.
(Suggestion: By using his name and the keyword “lawsuit,” you’ll have your answer quickly enough.)

  And finally, don’t expect things to go without a hitch. However, if said hitch has you crying every time you look at the “new you” in the mirror, it’s time to search for a lawyer who can surgically remove some of the compensation from their malpractice insurance.

  “Your shrimp is a big hit.” Cassandra’s compliment is a grudging tribute at best.

  Her roast pig on a spit was ignored by Sienna, who is apparently pescatarian. Penelope followed her lead. Apparently, she has decided that clinging to Sienna and copying everything the bride-to-be does is endearing, and she’ll is chosen as Sienna’s matron of honor.

  Their snubs of the main course, made on camera, were not well received by our hostess, who barely contained her urge to hoist the whole pig off the spit and slap their retreating backsides with it.

  Truly, Cassandra’s restraint was admirable. I’m sure her afternoon delight has something to do with it.

  “The roast pig is delicious too,” I offer. “You’ve done a great job pulling this off on such short notice.”

  “I can’t take all the credit, nor would I. In fact, I plan on resisting every attempt this show makes of turning us into Hilldale’s version of The Stepford Wives.” With a triumphant smile, she declares this directly to the camera covering us: Abu’s. “My guests are lucky. One thing Hilldale has over a Middle-Eastern war zone is a few good caterers—and pork.” She nods toward the plate in my hand. “I miss it.”

  I glance down at her plate, which contains just a few spinach leaves and some carrot sticks. “Pork?” I wonder out loud. “Well…there’s plenty of it here tonight, so dig in.”

  Ouch. Is she wincing because I’ve reminded her about Sienna and Penelope’s snubs?

  As if in answer to my question, she flicks a wrist at the hubbub around us. “I was referring to the Middle East. It’s so much more real than any of this.”

  “I’m truly sorry you’re not happy here,” I muster. You certainly seemed joyous in Franklin’s bed. “Cassandra, if, like you said, that Gerald was asked to stay in Dubai, why not return there?”

  Her brow furrows. “You of all people should understand a craving for some semblance of normalcy.”

  “I don’t get your implication,” I reply coolly. “I’ve lived here in Hilldale for almost eight years. If it’s anything, it’s normal to the point of boring.”

  Her laughter rings hollow in its bitterness. “Your pal, Penelope, makes it sound anything but! In fact, if we’re to believe her, you’re a—”

  “Okay, wifeys and hubbies, gather round!” Brin’s omnipotent bellow blares through the speaker system. “Let’s start with the good news! Last night’s ratings were through the roof in all categories, Women 18-34, Men 18-54, Teens 14-19…you name it! We were not only number one in our time slot, but for the evening as well! And already in tonight’s first hour, we’ve had a fifteen percent increase in viewership! And there’s a three-way tie for first place between the Craigs, the Farnhams, and surprise, surprise, the Bings! The viewers must feel that there’s an intervention in your future, Penelope!”

  At first, Penelope’s response is ecstatic—until Lucy tosses her a copy of People magazine. A small photo of her being carried out over the shoulder of her Chippendales-worthy waiter at the Casa del Mar is dwarfed by the cover picture, which must have been taken when the Housewives of Hilldale’s cameras caught me in Jack’s arms as we came out of the bathroom. His robe is sloping off my shoulder, and there is a humongous bulge under the towel wrapped around his waist.

  Even Jack does a doubletake at what he sees. “Wow! I’m that, er, gifted?”

  It’s up to me, his wife, to break the news to him. “Sorry, darling, only in your dreams. You’ve been Photoshopped.”

  “Now, the rest of you laggardly Housewives better bring your A-Game tonight! Your mortgage payment is counting on us,” Brin warns us. “Can you redeem yourselves? We’ll make it easy for you! Our illustrious host, Dominic, has an announcement that is sure to ‘perk’ you up—and I do mean this in the best way possible! Everyone who plays along will get that much closer to winning our little competition.”

  The show’s competitive couples exchange glances: the wives are inquisitive, whereas their husbands, already in the know, smile supremely.

  “We’re live in THREE…TWO…ONE!” Brin’s voice fades into oblivion.

  If only she’d do the same.

  Dominic, in one of his new tuxes, makes his entrance onto the tiki lamp-lit ramp over the Olympic-sized swimming pool to a frantic drumbeat worthy of the Skull Island natives’ announcement of their human sacrifice to King Kong. The ear-splitting pounding stops only when he reaches the center of the span. He then turns to stare directly into a camera that has floated down over our heads on the long-arm of a jib. “Welcome back to the second consecutive night of Hot Housewives of Hilldale, where the question on everyone’s mind is surely”—he pauses, then winks at the camera—“How far will she go to please him?’”

  Oh, brother! Can’t he come up with something more original than “the question on everyone’s” whatever?

  “We have an offer that no woman can refuse—at least not if they want to earn their families the much-needed bonus points to win the equivalent of one year’s mortgage paid in full!” Dominic’s arm swings in the direction of Ariel and Franklin. “One of our contestants, Ariel Powell, is married to one of the prominent plastic surgeons in the world: Dr. Franklin Powell—”

  Another camera goes in close on the couple.

  “—And, ladies, he’s got an offer you’ll find hard to refuse.” Dominic smiles broadly. “Take it away, Dr. Frank!”

  “—enstein,” I mutter under my breath.

  “Donna…” Jack’s warning comes with a squeeze on my arm.

  Or maybe he’s getting ready to restrain me from kicking in the good doctor’s teeth when he begins detailing all my imperfections.

  To his credit, even Franklin frowns at Dominic’s nickname for him. But when he sees the camera’s red light, he turns that frown upside down and takes a step forward, his hand still in his wife’s. Ariel looks just as surprised as the rest of the wives, so I doubt she’s in on the joke.

  Yes, I mean joke. Should be interesting if any of the other women feel the same way.

  “Each of us is here on the show for different reasons, and every one of those reasons is important to you,” Franklin replies. “Mine happens to be the need to help a charity near and dear to my heart: Plastic Surgeons Without Borders. It’s a relatively new organization, but it has an incredible mission. It goes into war-torn countries to help victims recover from their debilitating injuries.”

  He pauses to let the cameras capture the head nods and murmurs of admiration before adding, “Everyone should feel good when they look into the mirror. I’m offering the show’s Housewives the chance to all look their best—at no cost to any of you. Instead, the show’s producers will give a donation equal to the standard cost of each procedure you choose to undergo. Additionally, during the seven-day run of this show, every dollar that viewers donate to Plastic Surgeons without Borders will be matched by the producers as well.”

  Needless to say, at first the women are too stunned to talk.

  Penelope is the first one to react. She squeals, “I am so in!” She practically runs to Franklin. “I know my procedures won’t be many, but anything for, er, a great cause, right?”

  He leans into her face for a really good look. Taken aback, she frowns. “What? Why are you looking at me that way?”

  “Oh…nothing.” He shrugs, but his eyes haven’t left her face. “If you want my opinion—”

  “Of course I do!” she assures him emphatically.

  “Well, then,” Franklin takes a step back to get a better look. “Your face is wonderfully proportioned, so nothing as drastic as, say, any facial contouring—you know, rhinoplasty, or chin or cheek implants.”
/>   Penelope practically preens at his compliment.

  “As for facial rejuvenation, you’ve got about, say five years before considering a facelift,” he continues. “I’d even forego an eye lift or brow lift for another year or two. If you sign up now, the offer to do it for free still stands, since the producers are willing to donate the equivalent of the costs to the charity—and match viewer donations as well.”

  “Sure, okay, sign me up for the works—I mean, for whatever I can do to help such a worthy cause and improve my appearance.” She winks broadly at him.

  “In fact, I can say that about every woman here,” he adds.

  That alone is enough to wipe the smile off her face.

  “But every one of you could use a little body contouring: a tummy tuck for, say, you, Penelope; and maybe Cassandra. Indeed, Donna.” He smiles apologetically to those he’s named.

  Is my slow burn picked up by the cameras? How about my sleight of hand as I slide the icepick off the bar beside me?

  “And if Patty wanted it, I’d perform liposuction,” Franklin adds nonchalantly.

  “She wants it alright,” James growls emphatically.

  All eyes—and cameras—turn to his wife.

  She purses her mouth but nods reluctantly.

  No, the decision is not hers.

  Sienna raises her hand slowly. “Can this be done before our wedding?” She raises her head supremely. “It takes place on the last day of the show.”

  Franklin nods. “As for a breast lift or enhancement”—he looks pointedly at her waif-worthy chest—“I can schedule you and the rest of the ladies as early as tomorrow. I’ve cleared my schedule to accommodate the show’s schedule. And because it’s a laparoscopic procedure, I’ll have you on your feet in no time. In fact, Ariel had her enhancement just two weeks ago.”

  All eyes slide toward the incomparably beautiful woman at his side.

  At the unwanted attention, her cheeks pink up and her mouth puckers downward. Her sarong is strapless, and yet despite the deep dip between her ample breasts, they are magically elevated and outward over her wasp waist and slim hips.