Free Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married by Heather McElhatton

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.
    â€œJust 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?”
    â€œHuh. Well, now that you mention it . . .”
    â€œChristopher, this is serious.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œJennifer, 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.”
    â€œDon’t be silly. Black is elegant. It’s the color of midnight and tuxedos . . .”
    â€œThat’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?”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThis is your new life, Jen. You worked hard for it. You sacrificed things you wanted. You