Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married (7 page)

BOOK: Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married
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Plus I'm trying to renovate the house, which is almost impossible since every contractor in Minnesota gets booked up six summers in advance. We get a new cool space-age refrigerator, a wedding present from Brad's investment group. It's an Ice Empress 3000 and takes a forklift to get into the house. Pho walks into the kitchen and stares at the massive chrome beast and says, “Is that . . . an Ice Empress 3000?”

“Yep. Heard of it before?”

Pho scowls at me. “Have I
heard
of it before? Have I heard about the hottest nanotechnology appliance to come out this decade, designed by space-station architects at NASA?”

“I'm guessing . . . you've heard of it
.

“The Ice Empress showcased at the Tokyo Design Fair last year and caused a
stampede.
Do you know how hard it is to make the Japanese
stampede
?”

“No . . . do
you
?”

Pho points to the dark green computer screen set into the door. “You haven't gotten the computer turned on yet?”

“Not yet. I'm trying to.”

Pho takes the manual from me and gives me a tour of the appliance's features: the micro-ecosystem temperature controls, the automatic vegetable-misting nozzles that
sense
when produce is thirsty, the smoked-meat cubby, and the solid teak cheese-aging drawer. It even has a hydrothermal champagne chilling station. “The second-coolest thing about the Ice Empress 3000 is its
zero-tolerance
pest policy. The Ice Empress has a satellite monitoring system inside that detects harmful pests and bacteria; it signals a purification program and built-in infrared lights murder any bugs inside. This cool steam gun sterilizes the kill zone.”

I look at him and blink. “My refrigerator has a kill zone?”

“Afterward, the aromatherapy jets mist the air with a scent of your choice . . . Japanese cherry blossom, huckleberry pie, or roasted Tahitian vanilla bean.”

“So, you said something about the purification system being the second-coolest thing? What's the coolest?”

Pho walks over to the Ice Empress. “You know about the onboard geisha, right?”

“The what?”

He pushes some buttons on the inside panel and shuts the door. The dark green computer screen lights up and Pho steps back beside me. Together we watch the chrome doors.

“Here she comes!” Pho whispers.

Suddenly a disembodied geisha head floats on the dark green computer screen. “What the hell's that?” I point at her. She has a flawless oval face and bright pink lips like a strawberry.

“That's the Ice Empress,” Pho says.

“Naniga hoshiino?”
the geisha says suddenly. Ace starts barking at her and I look over at Pho.

He shrugs at me. “Do I look like I speak Japanese?”

“Well . . . yeah. You do.”

He rolls his eyes at me.

The Ice Empress bows deeply at us.
“Moshi moshi!”
she says.

“Hello.” I bow back.

“You are
American
?” she asks, smiling. How the hell did she know that? Pho says it's her voice-recognition software. She can detect accents. I tell her we're Canadians.

“Why'd you tell her that?” Pho asks.

“Because nothing good comes from being an American. Trust me. You all want your green cards so badly, but I'm telling you, it's the pits.”

“I
am
an American,” Pho says flatly. “I was born in Milwaukee.”

The Ice Empress giggles. “My name is Ice Empress!” she says.

I roll my eyes. “We have an empress in the house.” I sigh. “Great. How high-maintenance is that? It's like
Real Housewives of the Upscale Appliances.

“You're funny!” She giggles. “You are a funny little American!”

“Pardon?”

“I'll name you Aho-Onna!” she says. “That means ‘funny lady with pretty face'!”

“Right. She can learn names?” I ask Pho.

He nods. “She has a wicked proximity linguistics program. She learns new words and uses them.”

“Actually, my name's Jennifer,” I tell her. “You can call me Jen. I guess.”

The Ice Empress bows deeply and says, “
Moshi moshi,
Jen Aho-Onna.”

“Um, Ice Empress?” Pho whispers. “You can call me Pimp-Ninja Pho.”

The Ice Empress bows at Pho. “You are handsome!” she says. “I will name you Inpo Pho. That means ‘handsome one.' ”

“Why is she naming
us
?” I ask him.

He shrugs.

“And what exactly is a
pimp-ninja
? Should I keep you away from geishas?”

He says he's a ninja with computers and a pimp with . . . cars.

“Okay, whew.” I nod. “Cars. Cars is fine.”

I hear something behind me. It's Trevor standing in the doorway.

“Who is she?” he asks, transfixed by the geisha.

“Trevor, this is the Ice Empress.”

He walks up to the glowing screen and the Ice Empress smiles at him.

“You're so pretty,” he whispers.

She bows deeply. “You are very wise,” she says. “I will call you Akiko.”

Trevor nods solemnly and bows deeply back.

“What else does she do besides name people?” I ask Pho.

Pho shrugs and asks the Ice Empress for a Yoo-hoo.

“Hai!”
she says, and the dispenser lid flips open, revealing a cold chocolate Yoo-hoo sitting in the frosty little nook. Pho takes it and I ask Trevor if he wants anything. He says no. It's the first time ever he doesn't want something, and when I ask him why, he says, “I don't want to bother her.” I don't mind bothering her. I ask the Ice Empress for a Coke and she tilts her petal-white face at me. “You mean a
Diet
Coke?” she says.

I say no, a
regular
Coke.

“A
Diet
Coke?” she repeats.

“No!” I shout. “A regular Coke!”

She giggles and tells me I'm funny. Then the lid opens and a chilled Coke sits there in the frosty nook. I take it, keeping my eye on her.

“So long!” She waves good-bye.
“Kutabare!”

“Why did she ask me if I wanted a Diet Coke?” I ask Pho, and he shrugs. I can't help but think she's insinuating something. Great. That's just what I need.

Another critic in the house.

Finally the big day for my trophy wife transformation arrives. Christopher's finished all the shopping and assembled all the products and services and other gay bees I'll need. He's bought all my new clothes, shoes, makeup, and jewelry. I haven't seen any of it but I know he's spent a bloody fortune. The credit card company has called twice. He says not to worry, we can return anything that I don't like, but I don't have the stamina to go through all this again. It will be whatever it will be. I welcome and accept his decision . . .

Just like I welcome and accept death.

Christopher books an entire day for me at Jeremy's salon and has no fewer than
seven
other gay bees of various industries and artistries meet us there to help do my hair, nails, teeth, skin, and makeup and of course . . . clothes. I have no idea what look they're trying to achieve; I clamp my eyes shut and tell them, “Just do it.”

Six hours later I emerge from a cloud of perfume with sleek platinum-blond hair, smooth, tan skin, and blindingly bright white teeth. I'm wearing a tailored coral suit with cream cuffs and a simple strand of pearls. On top of my glossed blond head is a small coral pillbox hat, pinned neatly into place. “So,” Christopher says. “Did we get it right, honey?”

I stand there, staring in the mirror. The room gets very quiet.

“I look like a Fortune 500 powerbroker . . . crossed with a Stepford wife . . . and with a little Dallas cheerleader sprinkled on top.”

Christopher looks worried. “Is that
good
?”

I touch my face to make sure it's me in the mirror.

“It's . . . amazing. I look like I belong on
Housewives of the GOP.

A huge cheer erupts in the room and everyone starts laughing and clapping. Christopher comes over and smiles at me. “I think we tamed you, little shrew.”

I nod and tears start to well.

“Oh no, honey!” Christopher says. “Blink it back now . . . blink it back! You
cannot
cry until those lash extensions are set. Understand me?
Jeremy!
” he shouts. “Jeremy, we need tissues ASAP! It's an emergency!” I hold perfectly still until emergency tissues are flown in from the sidelines and he carefully dabs my tears away.

“There,” he says. “All better.”

“How did you do it, Christopher? What look did you pick?”

“Looks,”
he says. “This is three rolled into one. Callista Gingrich, Betty Ford, and Flight Attendant Barbie.”

“I love it . . . I really do.”

“Well, if you like this, then you have an entire new wardrobe waiting for you . . . a style I created and named just for you.”

“What's the name?”

“You, darling, are ‘Elegantly Invincible.' ”

5

Grace Under Fire

B
rad and I start going to church. His parents' church, Grace-Trinity Lutheran. I've been dreading it and putting it off as long as possible, but I knew it was coming. We couldn't put it off forever. Plus, I want to support my husband in his never-ending quest to convince his parents that we're exemplary citizens and pillars of the community.

Sitting in the pews, we certainly look the part. Brad has on a blue Brooks Brothers suit and I'm wearing a tailored plum peplum dress with pearls. So what if my pantyhose have duct tape on the crotch? I tried to dry them in the toaster oven this morning, when they were still damp from the dryer. Bad idea. It doesn't matter though, because here it's not what's on the inside that matters, it's what's on the outside . . . because that's the part people see, judge, and gossip about.

Randomly Handy Church Rules

• Look nice, but not too nice, or you look braggy.

• Skinny women are suspicious. Chubby is cheerful.

• Direct eye contact is an act of aggression.

• Candles are wicked unless they're apple-cinnamon scented.

• Bring a hotdish or stay home.

• Supper is served at five. Sinners eat at six.

• Catholics are going to hell, but it's impolite to mention it to them.

• Unmarried women are discouraged.

• Everyone over twenty-one should have children. No exceptions.

• God likes: Minnesota, Canada, and Disneyland.

• Satan loves: New York, New Jersey, and Florida.

 

I make it
clear
to Brad that while I might attend church physically, I will never set foot in the door mentally. I have no intention of listening, learning, reading, understanding, engaging, growing, or participating in one single red-hot thing. Not an idea, event, or action
.
Not even a sesame-seed-size one. I'll sit beside him in the sanctuary with a vapid expression on my face and think of nothing. I will consider it my meditative downtime.

That's the attitude I go in with anyway. I quickly discover, however, that I've underestimated the strength, fortitude, and sheer stubborn willpower those church ladies have. Mother Keller is cochair of the Trinity Committee, otherwise known as the God Squad, a highly organized group of frighteningly unfunny women who plan the church's social functions. Nothing happens at Grace-Trinity Lutheran without the God Squad's say-so. Not a bake sale or a charity drive or a bingo game goes down without their express consent. Nobody goes up against the God Squad. Peril awaits those who do. They're like a terrorist cell with casseroles.

The last lady who defied the squad was Edith Stanley, a strident woman who threw an unsanctioned bingo party in her basement rumpus room and lived to see the consequences. The God Squad discovered her insubo8rdination, and at the next church bake sale, a church elder found a pubic hair in one of Edith's butterscotch brownies. Her humiliation was complete. Nobody ever saw Edith Stanley or her freewheeling, godless deli meats ever again.

Who would voluntarily spend time with these people? Personally I'd rather get a root canal in a butcher shop outside Kazakhstan. The group is populated by orthodox Lutherans, descendants of hardscrabble Scandinavian pioneers and founders of the Finnish Temperance Society, the prim wives of church deacons, and an impressive roster of unkillable blue-haired widows, wealthy dowagers who've inherited fortunes from their dead husbands, all captains of various industries. Mother Keller is vice president of the committee. The
president
is the preposterously shaped Martha Woodcock, a woman whose oddly shaped body resembles a pile of sea lions that have been unjustly trapped inside a large bolt of floral-print fabric. She is Mother Keller's best friend and ongoing nemesis. I don't think Mother Keller has any other kinds of friends.

On our first visit, after “Big Church,” we go to the Newcomers Welcome Party, where someone asks if Brad's my “hubs,” as in “husband.” I learn most Christian wives refer to their husbands as “Hubs,” “Hubby,” or “Dr. Hubstable.” Pastor Mike greets us; he's your average, run-of-the-mill Lutheran pastor: in his late sixties, friendly, smiles a lot, and believes women are good for making hotdish casseroles and babies. Pastor Mike is a widower, which ups the sexual ante quite a bit for the God Squad, especially for Martha Woodcock, who's had her eye on him for years. She'd make a great pastor's wife; she runs a tight ship.

When she asks if I've picked my volunteer committee yet, I say I'd like to wait before signing up for anything. She smiles tightly at me and her eyebrow flinches ever so slightly and I hear a
beep beep beep!
Then she presses a little button on her wristwatch, which she says is actually a rage counter. “My doctor gave it to me for high blood pressure. Every time I get angry, I just push this little button down and the rage counter measures my skin temperature, my heart rate, and my blood pressure, and it keeps track of how many rageful events I have every day, week, and month. Then it tallies up my overall rage scores, so I can keep track of my progress . . . if there is any! See?” She beeps the little button again. “There it is . . . one hundred and fourteen rage events so far today.”

I nod, wondering why she just hit the rage button again. Did she have some supersonic flash of invisible rage just while standing here, smiling at me? Good Lord, if there's ever a sniper in the church bell tower, all my money will be on sweet, smiling little Martha Woodcock. “That sounds like a lot of rageful moments,” I tell her.

“Mercy no,” she says. “You should've seen where I started. Back when I was writing the church newsletter with a typewriter . . . typos left and right. Once when our youth basketball team was playing I wrote, ‘Come out and watch us kill Christ the King!' Mercy no, I have improved. I would've had three hundred rage events by now, just six months ago. My goal is to get the total number of rageful moments to under a hundred a day.”

“Well . . . good luck with that,” I say.

After we all have coffee cake, we enter the sweltering back garden, where we're presented with a white Bible, a welcome packet, and a little clip-on air freshener “Travel Angel” for the dashboard of our car. The angel holds a banner that says
SWEET FOR JESUS
. She smells like peach. “She's actually a real-life guardian angel,” one woman tells me.

“Really?”

“Absolutely. My angel's saved me many times.”

“From unwanted odors!” I joke.

“And sin,” the woman says flatly.

I should let it go but I can't. “So, you're telling me this little piece of plastic, which is made in . . . the People's Republic of China, is a real-life guardian angel? I just clip her on the dashboard and God won't kill us?”

“Jen . . .” Brad smiles at me warningly.

“She absolutely
is,
” the woman says. “She's heavenly and helpful!”

“Not to mention heavily scented!” I add quickly, before Brad has a chance to pinch me.

 

After church we have brunch at Hillcrest Country Club. The club is like the Keller family's other home; Ed plays racquetball there almost every afternoon and Mother Keller attends at least two social functions there a week. Brad works out at the gym, Sarah plays tennis on the club team, and Trevor takes karate lessons.

I go to Mother Keller's bridge game, which she plays with a brittle coterie of octogenarian cronies every Thursday in the solarium. The powdered ladies sit on wicker chairs, sipping iced tea and nibbling sugar cookies as slow bamboo fan blades turn overhead. They volley back and forth across the table, tirelessly working together on vicious, iridescent threads, weaving gossip more masterfully than black orb spiders spin webs.

I witness all this firsthand, sitting up straight in my prim apricot dress as I try to keep up with the mind-bogglingly complicated game. The ladies aren't mean to me exactly; they don't seem to even see me. I think I fall into a category of importance similar to that of a waitress or a sleeping infant or a potted fern. On balance I'd say the experience fits somewhere between Dante's second and third levels of hell, but they do serve cake.

I try to fit in with Brad's club buddies. I join them a few times for a scotch in the clubhouse bar, a dark wood-paneled room with brass railings and deep upholstered wingback chairs. “Unpleasant” sums it up. Not only do I think scotch tastes like cat piss, I am bored beyond belief, caught between a mind-numbing conversation about football at the table and a soporific golf game up on the super-jumbo TV. The only thing worse than watching golf on TV is watching golf on a huge TV, and worse still, in
high definition
. I white-knuckle my way through the keen urge to stand up and scream,
“For the love of God, why?”
But I don't, partly because I have no backup. I am in fact the only woman there. I know the clubhouse is sort of the guys' hangout, and the women usually gather in the solarium.

These aren't rules, however—at least I didn't think they were, but judging by the
malocchio
dagger eyes I get from several women on my way to the bathroom, maybe they are rules and nobody likes my breaking them. Nobody says anything to me . . . they just give me looks and without one word uttered, the message is conveyed loud and clear.

Back off, BITCH.

It's like I've broken some sacred tribal law concerning gender roles or womanhood or menstruation or something and now my clitoris will need to be mutilated into the limp shape of a dick. Plus it never fails to amaze me how good women are at conveying information without speaking, using just their body language and/or facial expressions. We must learn it from each other, because it doesn't work on men. I can shoot Hailey a look and she'll pick up my transmission word for word. Like when she took the last bagel on our family camping trip and I made her cry after facially projecting to her this message:

 

YOU TOOK MY FREAKING BAGEL? SERIOUSLY? STUNNING. I'M NOT TRYING TO BE DRAMATIC, BUT YOU'RE MORE SELFISH THAN HITLER. THERE ARE FIVE PEOPLE AND FIVE BAGELS. I HAVE HAD
ZERO
BAGELS. CAN YOU DO THIS MATH? JESUS. THIS IS
JUST
LIKE THE TIME YOU PROMISED TO WALK MR. BARKY AFTER SCHOOL AND THEN WENT TO MARYANN LEWINSKY'S HOUSE INSTEAD AND MR. BARKY PEED ALL OVER THE BRAIDED RUG IN THE KITCHEN AND THEN POOPED IN MOM'S KNITTING BASKET AND SHE YELLED AT
ME
AND WENT LIKE
LEVEL-NINE
NUTS
BECAUSE THE CHORE CHART SAID IT WAS
MY TURN
TO WALK THE DOG, EVEN THOUGH I EXPLAINED WE SWITCHED, SO I CLEANED THE GUNKY DRAIN AND
YOU
WERE SUPPOSED TO WALK THE DOG, BUT MOM DIDN'T CARE BECAUSE HER CRAFT CLUB WAS COMING IN AN HOUR AND SHE BURNED HER PECAN BARS RIGHT AFTER FINDING POOP IN HER KNITTING BASKET. SHE WANTED TO KNOW
HOW EXACTLY
A DOG POOPS
INSIDE
A KNITTING BASKET
WITHOUT HELP,
LIKE I WAS IN ON THE DEAL OR SOMETHING AND NOT ONLY HAD I FORGOTTEN TO WALK MR. BARKY, I HAD SOMEHOW HELPED HIM POOP IN A BASKET. I HAD TO CLEAN UP EVERYTHING BY
MYSELF,
EVEN THOUGH I WAS GAGGING THE
WHOLE TIME,
BECAUSE YOU WERE GONE AND SHE HAD TO QUICKLY MAKE MORE PECAN BARS. THEN YOU CAME HOME, EATING A POPSICLE AND WEARING MARYANN'S BALLERINA TUTU, AND MOM ASKED IF IT WAS
YOUR TURN
OR
MY TURN
TO WALK THE DOG AND I THOUGHT,
HALLELUJAH. HERE WE GO, THE TRUTH AT LAST.
BUT YOU STOOD THERE AND LIED THROUGH YOUR TEETH AND TOLD MOM
IT WAS MY TURN
TO WALK MR. BARKY AND MOM DIDN'T KNOW WHO TO BELIEVE, SO SHE JUST SENT US TO BED AND THAT WAS THE END OF THE “INVESTIGATION.” I KNEW RIGHT THEN JUST
HOW
EVIL YOU REALLY WERE. WE WERE LIVING WITH A POPSICLE-EATING, TUTU-WEARING
MONSTER
WHO WOULD STOP AT NOTHING TO GET WHATEVER SHE WANTED AND STILL DOES TO THIS DAY, AS EVIDENCED BY YOUR NAZI
BAGEL
THEFT
. THERE WAS NO JUSTICE THEN AND THERE'S NONE NOW. YOU LIE AND GET POPSICLES, I TELL THE TRUTH AND GET DOG POOP. THE END. (P.S. YOU WOULD MAKE A TERRIBLE MOTHER.)

 

Yep. Hailey got the whole message. I could've given Lenny the same look and he probably would've just thought about bacon and farted. After some back-and-forth Hailey finally admitted she
had
promised to walk Mr. Barky and I scramble-ran to get Mom so she could hear Hailey's full confession, but she just made a face and said, “We had a dog called
Mr. Barky
?”

I feel awkward at the club and uneasy. Often mildly nauseous. I have zero friends there, because in order to
make
friends, you have to
have
friends, and nobody wants to be friends with somebody with no friends. At the club's social epicenter are the Rathbone sisters.

Addison and Eloise Rathbone, “Addi” and “Ellie” to close friends. They're two of the wealthiest, most popular women in the whole club and they're so cliquish, they only hang out with each other. If I could just get them to like me, everyone would like me. If they decide to include you in their machinations, you are also at the epicenter. If they don't, then like me you basically don't exist. It's like high school all over again, but now everyone drives luxury cars and gets routine Botox injections.

In an effort to win popularity points, I try to join the Hillcrest women's golf team. I don't really fit in with these stocky Republicans, who all have zero tolerance for arts and culture, or any other colossal waste of time, but who spend countless hours on the golf course, chasing around a little white ball. Still, when in Rome . . . I attend the club's semiannual Ladies' Golf Brunch wearing a brand-new pair of expensive all-white ladies' golf shoes and an expensive perky canary-yellow ladies' golf outfit, which consists of a piqué cotton canary-yellow golf shirt, a matching cotton canary-yellow-and-baby-blue plaid pleated miniskirt, and a thick canary-yellow headband. The headband pinches
,
the shirt feels too tight, and I think the skirt is definitely too short. I look like a preppy prostitute. It's perfect.

BOOK: Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married
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