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.
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 eve
r 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.”
Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married Page 6
