Free Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married by Heather McElhatton Page A

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.”
    â€œHow about this skirt?” I ask him. “It looks mildly amused.”
    â€œNo. 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.
    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?”
    â€œYep. 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