Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married (6 page)

BOOK: Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married
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“Um . . . Is this really all I need to know for the foreign-investor dinner?” I ask her. “I mean, I don't see any phone numbers for a caterer or a florist or—”

“Oh, that's all been taken care of for you, Mrs. Keller. Did you see the caterer's schedule? She was supposed to list all the setup times.”

“I have it. It says the rental place delivers dinnerware and linens at nine in the morning, then the catering staff sets up at ten thirty and the florist delivers orchids at noon. Guests come for cocktails at six and dinner is served at seven.”

“Sounds perfect,” she says.

“Yes, because it won't be
me
in the kitchen. I seriously can't cook anything.”

“Oh, of course you can, Mrs. Keller!”

“Call me Jennifer, sweetie, and no, I literally once set fire to tap water.”

I stay up and read the article on entertaining Japanese people. I make copious notes and commit to memorizing everything. I want this to dinner to go perfectly.

I climb into bed around ten and take my journal with me. There, tucked into the covers, I take out a pen and make my very first list for Emily, starting with the basics.

Top Five Things Virgins Should Remember

1. Nine out of ten penises are ugly.

2. The art of foreplay was lost with the Incas.

3. Sex feels like being hit by a shopping cart.

4. You might be shaved and waxed, but he'll still be hairy. Be prepared when he takes his sweater off; it might look like he's still wearing a sweater.

5. You'll never appreciate the word “deflowering” again.

 

It's just for fun. Obviously I would never show this to her, even if it is accurate and potentially helpful. Sex is no ballet. The faster you accept that, the better.

When Brad finally comes home, it's late. I'm already in bed, having fallen asleep with all the lights on. Brad gently shakes my shoulder. “Babe? You up? I have something to tell you!” He's terribly excited. I manage to put on my bathrobe and reheat his dinner—takeout from D'Amico—as he explains the situation.

Apparently, Ed Keller is putting both Brad and Sarah on “probation” until next spring, and at the end of that time whoever proves to be the better candidate will get the job. He says it's the way to get everything he wants. To run the company without his sister. Brad says our entire future depends on what we do in the next several months. How we act. Who we are. How we seem. “We have to become the obvious candidates for the position,” Brad says. “Dad wants to see which of us handles the pressure and the responsibility better. He's going to watch us and test us, and whoever does better gets everything.”

I can't believe Ed's pitting his
own children
against each other. What am I saying? Of course he is. When Great-Grandpa Keller built the company, he designed the bylaws so that no individual family member could own the company outright. He made it impossible for any one family member to own more shares than the others. He knew what a pack of jackals they could be. The rule was to prevent hostile takeovers among loved ones.

Smart guy.

“Right now, I can't own more shares of the company than Sarah does,” Brad explains, “and vice versa, but if I become the president, I'll have veto power. I can petition for and even force a board member's removal.”

“You'd get rid of your sister?”

“Jen, I'm not trying to sound dramatic . . . but she's evil. She buried me alive once.
Literally.
She buried me in a cave up at the cabin. Then she told my parents I ran away. It took them three days to find me.”

“You know she tells that story differently. In her version you're evil.”

“Todd says once I replace her—and enough of the board members—I can petition to change the bylaws themselves, which means I can own the whole thing!”

“Todd?”

“I like the Brock,” he says. “The Brock is on our side.”

I want to say
the Brock
is on my hit list . . . but I don't want to dampen the mood.

We put together the perfect plan for becoming the perfect couple right then and there. It's a concept I've been working on all along, but it's nice to have my husband on board. Brad is determined to show his parents that
we
are worthy of running Keller's and I'm so glad/honored/relieved to be in on one of Brad's schemes for once, I pour cup after cup of coffee and eagerly agree to all his ideas. I promise to be the most perfect wife around. Ed Keller will see our amazing, awesome life and he'll have no choice but to hand Brad the store. Like all strong military campaigns, ours has a name. We call our plan Operation Hotdish.

I'm to become a trophy wife, a beautiful, poised, and gracious goddess of all domestic skills. We'll go to the Kellers' house for supper; we'll attend church and show up at the country club for all the right social occasions. Brad will work strict hours at the office; he'll have dinners, drinks, and regular tee times with investors, importers, clients, and key customers, not to mention with the dusty old white-haired board members. We'll both attend any and all company functions, parties, picnics, and employee pep rallies. And since Horrible Todd Brockman holds the keys to Keller's financial kingdom, we'll befriend him as well.

Joy.

We'll be disciplined and learn to live the way his parents want us to. We'll have to work hard because Sarah has the upper hand right now. She's older, she's been working at the company longer, and she's not a recovering alcoholic, like Brad is. “Also she has a kid, which is massive points for the grandparents.” Brad looks over at me and says, “Babe, we need a kid.”

I melt. I smile at him and say, “I thought you'd never ask.” Then we head back upstairs and have sex for the rest of the night. Brad's so excited and happy right now, I don't have the heart to tell him that the whole plan to act like people we aren't in order to dupe his parents into trusting us sounds a little evil. Every time I think I might mention it he gives me a long deep kiss and I see fiery stars. I've never been so happy.

This must be how Eva Braun felt.

4

Operation Hotdish

T
he perfect woman is actually three women rolled into one: Mrs. Howell, Mary Ann, and Ginger from
Gilligan's Island
. Three women who when combined become the whole package. The refined lady, the demure sweetheart, and the sultry sex kitten, all in one. A woman who can bake coconut pies, charm cannibals, and cavort on white-sand beaches in six-inch stilettos.

Simply put, the perfect woman is a sweet rich slut.

Being a trophy wife is something I know nothing about. Yes, I have a wealthy husband, a beautiful house, three dozen matching wineglasses, and a legal cable connection . . . but how any of this happened is a mystery. I come from more of a Spam-and-spray-cheese set. My people polka. They drink Bud Light and spend more money on their snowmobiles than their life insurance, because as Lenny says, if you got one, you really don't need the other.

I turn to Christopher for help, because let's face it, he knows more about being a woman than I do. I tell him about Operation Hotdish and Brad's plan to become the perfect couple, and he's 100 percent behind it. “This is the dream challenge of a gay bee's lifetime!” he says. “To transform a plain lump-of-coal midwestern girl into a sparkling grande-dame diamond.”

“I don't know. I hate hair spray.”

“Fear not,” he says. “We will tame you, my little shrew.”

“Easy on the shrew metaphors, Petruchio.”

“We'll turn you into the bitchiest of bitchy divas. You'll be magnificent! And just think, you already have the bitchy part down perfectly!”

Top Ten Traits of a Trophy Wife

  1. Gorgeous/sexy/big boobs/small waist

  2. Is seen and not heard

  3. Without too many opinions of her own

  4. Skinny/loves working out

  5. Always elegantly dressed and immaculately groomed, even when sick, sleeping, or giving birth

  6. Elicits high-five signs from other men

  7. Elicits true hatred from other women

  8. Skilled in the domestic arts, or at least in delegating to maids

  9. Appreciates fine wine, fast cars, and her husband's Viagra prescription

10. Sexually advanced: expert at oral/open to anal

 

We begin researching other attributes of the perfect trophy wife, skimming almost a dozen online articles, glancing over at least two advice columns, and mostly watching tens of hours of television, including such classic trophy-wife-centric shows as
Desperate Housewives,
Dallas, The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills,
and
Falcon Crest
. What we learn is: Every group has a different set of rules. One man's trophy wife is another man's white trash. For example:

Top Ten Traits of a Hells Angels Trophy Wife

  1. Big tits, tiny waist, and leather lingerie collection

  2. Likes loud bikes and long roads

  3. Hangs on, sits still, and shuts up

  4. Wears buttless black leather chaps to bed

  5. Wins lube-wrestling contests

  6. Packs a G-string Derringer .38

  7. Has pierced at least three lobes of skin

  8. Tattoos her man's name somewhere sexy, like crotch

  9. Serves Jägermeister shots in her navel

10. Will give cops a blow job to spring her man out of jail

Top Ten Traits of a Fundamentalist Mormon Trophy Wife

  1. Intact virginity

  2. Doesn't have a driver's license or a social security number

  3. Unaware of the outside world or of government programs like social services

  4. Sews her own burlap menstrual pads

  5. Doesn't sass

  6. Obeys her sister wives—all twelve of them

  7. Can feed a family of forty people on forty cents a week

  8. Can simultaneously churn butter and slaughter a chicken

  9. Her children are Good & Plenty, her uterus is Good & Fertile

10. Patiently reads Bible while husband is in adjoining shack, banging another wife

 

Trophies look different to everyone, so we must build the perfect trophy for this particular group, and since we're trying to impress Brad's parents, I need to become
their
idea of a trophy wife. They're white upper-class Minnesotans with heavy corporate overtones, ingrained Lutheran values, and Norwegian-themed clothing. When I make a list of what attributes they prize most, however . . . I realize that my recently reformed bad boy of a husband hates all the things they revere. He may want to impress them, but my goal is to impress
him . . .
He's a ne'er-do-well, black-sheep bad boy who likes fast cars and strong drinks and has none of his parents' core values whatsoever. I need to run two races at the same time, his and theirs. Two completely different races, two opposite trophy wives . . . one me.

No problem.

Where there's a determined woman . . . there's always a way.

 

BRAD'S PARENTS' IDEA OF A TROPHY WIFE:
BRAD'S IDEA OF A TROPHY WIFE:
A girl who loves America and Jesus
A girl who loves porn and bacon
A sweetheart who bakes cookies like Grandma
A temptress who grills steak in a thong
A timid soul who doesn't like to touch or talk about money
A confident woman who pays her own bills
A predictable woman who embraces routine like an autistic child
A spontaneous firecracker who's wild and unpredictable, unless he wants to stay in
An avid baker who can win any pie contest at the state fair
A chesty bombshell who can win any wet T-shirt contest in Florida
A properly dressed lady who orders pantsuits from Talbots
A real stunner who wears sleek power suits with stilettos
A kind soul who's also a trained nurse
A trained nurse who's also a trained stripper
A pious lady who's fertile and regards sex as a grim necessity
A sexpert who's like a porn star in bed and also on the pill
A cranky virgin who wears a floor-length plaid flannel nightgown to bed
A free spirit who wears nothing but baby oil to bed
A good wife who's as clever as she is clingy and able to track down their son like a Saint Bernard
A cool wife who's as easygoing and nonjudgmental as a golden retriever and never asks where he was or who he was with, just wags her tail whenever she sees him

 

Examining the statistical data of these two different trophy wives, we find that despite the many differences, there are also a few crossover areas that both groups value, and we tackle those areas first. The most obvious area is how I look. Everybody wants me to look damn good, all the damn time. It makes me wonder if there are any living creatures anywhere in the world that
don't
care about looks. I mean, even penguins are pretty picky about only hooking up with other penguins . . . so they're making a few judgment calls out there on the tundra . . . and penguins seem like the nicest group around, so it's down to only one possibility. The Mole People.

God bless you, Mole People.

Dig on.

Up here aboveground, people are dicks. I hate that I have to “look good,” especially since “good” means an elastic-waistband pantsuit to the Kellers and buttless chaps to Brad. I'm not really okay with either one, but that's clearly beside the point. Using a rather sophisticated virtual-makeover program, Christopher starts putting together some looks for me incorporating elements that might appeal to both groups. Basically, I have to find a way to look like a sexy conservative.

The idea makes me nervous, and not in a good way. We're now wandering into the scary and sometimes insane territory of Michele Bachmann Land and Sarah Palin City. Say what you will . . . those women have balls. I do not.

I'm screwed.

Christopher compiles “look books” showcasing the various styles of conservative women. I'm supposed to pick one I like, or even pick more than one and he'll blend them together. I consider Ann Coulter's “Severe Sweetheart” look, Michelle Malkin's “Perky Assassin” style, Pamela Geller's “Aristo-Slut” ensembles, and little Meghan McCain's “Cupcake with a Knife” look. Of course there's always Sarah Palin's ever-popular visage, which Christopher calls “Fresh as a Daisy, Kill-Kill-Kill.” I have no idea who to choose . . . so I make Christopher do it.

“Just pick one for me,” I beg him.

He happily agrees to, certain his choice will be far superior to any of mine, but he takes his time, which makes me really nervous. “You're not picking something crazy, are you? Like Laura Bush or Tammy Faye Bakker?”

“Huh. Well, now that you mention it . . .”

“Christopher, this is serious.”

“I know!” he says. “Don't worry. I got this.”

He surveys my wardrobe to see if I have any pieces that would work for his new look. “You have way too much black in here,” he says, frowning at my closet. “I thought we decided you weren't going to wear any more black.”

I remind him that
he
decided that. I wear black when I feel fat . . . which is always.

“Jennifer, come on,” he says. “I don't care if you're the size of a water buffalo . . . you can't wear all black to Hillcrest Country Club, or the only friend you'll make is the headwaiter.”

“Don't be silly. Black is elegant. It's the color of midnight and tuxedos . . .”

“That's Manhattan, sweetheart. In
Minnesota,
the only people who wear black are cops, poets, drug users, Democrats, and depressed teens wearing capes, and none of them are welcome at Hillcrest Country Club. There are no colors in here. Where are your muted jewel tones? Your sparkling champagnes? Where are your Cuban reds and canary yellows?”

“I don't know, but I'm guessing Cuban red is somewhere near Miami.”

Christopher makes me try on every single piece of clothing in my closet and hates almost everything, mostly because of the colors. He says black makes me look tired, olive makes me look old, oxblood is communist, eggplant should exist only on actual eggplants, and all shades of gray are shady—“Like black's suspicious cousins.” Finally I give up. I tell him I'll figure out my wardrobe on my own. I'm not throwing everything dark away. I'm comfortable in black. I like black. He ignores me and unhappily sorts through my clothing, lecturing me all the while.

“This is your new life, Jen. You worked hard for it. You sacrificed things you wanted. You overcame your fear of sleeping with men who wear Dockers . . . you even learned how to use
a coaster,
for God's sake.
A coaster!
I never thought I'd live to see the day. Now you've arrived. It's a new world, so why not try new things out? Sure, you could wear your old army fatigues and eat cold cereal out of the box like you used to, but why? Why not look around and see what the natives do? And I'll tell you what they do. They wear things that are happy. You need clothes like that, that are happy and cheerful and unaware of the recession.”

“How about this skirt?” I ask him. “It looks mildly amused.”

“No. You want clothes that look expensive, fragile, like you couldn't wear it in a coal mine. We need to get you more soft colors. Think tranquil and soothing. Think hospital gowns for the criminally insane.”

I can't handle it anymore.

I hand over my gold card and tell him to go shopping without me, which might sound like he's doing me a huge favor, but in Christopher's case it's more like telling a two-year-old he now owns a candy store. Besides, I'm way too busy with a million other Operation Hotdish projects, like befriending Sarah. Brad wants her to like us more . . . which results in my offering to babysit Trevor. Before I know it, her silver Mercedes is pulling into our driveway every other day and Trevor bursts through our door like a tornado looking for a trailer park.

So added to my list of duties are “Try to keep Trevor from killing himself” and “Try to keep yourself from killing Trevor.”

Neither comes naturally.

Here's a typical morning. Brad's already gone to work and I see a flash of light cross the window and hear a car honk. I go outside and single-handedly carry in whatever sundry activity bags, art supplies, dance equipment, or ant farms Trevor's chosen to bring over that day. As I struggle toward the house, Sarah gabs on her cell phone and backs down the driveway while Trevor races back and forth up and down the driveway beside her . . . getting closer and closer to the road until I yell at him to
please
come inside. He'll refuse until I promise to make him a milkshake. Then
bam
! He slams through the kitchen door, usually knocking a framed photo onto the floor, which shatters into tiny splinters of sharp glass. He's already kicked off his shoes by now and I scream, “Don't move! Don't move!” I promise him
two
milkshakes if he just holds still. Then I scramble to jam my feet into Brad's oversize boots and shuffle across the shattered kitchen floor to pick him up and deposit him somewhere safe, like the kitchen island or the downstairs bathtub. There he'll start crying, demanding his treat,
now, now, now!

If I'm not quick enough to answer him, he'll shout, “Feed my worm!” and throw a slimy pink earthworm that he named Mr. Wormy at me. It's not always a worm. He's thrown spiders (“Feed my spidey!”), beetles (“Feed my buggy!”), and even eggs (“Feed my baby chicken!”). These performances usually result in my screaming, shrieking, and doing a get-it-off-of-me Riverdance thing, which more often than not results in more property damage.

BOOK: Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married
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