Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Married Read Online Free PDF

he—”
    â€œYou know what? I’ll tell you what. No way am I handing over the helm to my idiot-dipshit little brother. Not without one motherfucking hell of a fight. Got it?”
    I nod, afraid she might sprout fangs and eat me right there on the spot.
    We hear a child shriek in the front hall and my eyes go wide with fear.
    Trevor?
    Demon Trevor speeds around the corner full-tilt, arms open, and slams painfully into me, grabbing my legs and hanging on like a koala bear, his hands sticky with something.
    â€œAuntie Jen! Auntie Jen! Guess how old I am. ”
    â€œForty-seven?” I say. “Forty-six?”
    â€œSeven and three-quarters !” he shouts at me.
    â€œTrevor!” Sarah grabs his arm. “You have candy. Why do you have candy? I said no candy! Give me that candy.”
    â€œNo!” He sticks his hands behind his back. “Daddy gave it to me.”
    â€œOh, I’ll bet he did,” she says. “Give me that candy this minute, Trevor, or I’ll tell Santa Claus that you get no presents ever again. ”
    He looks at her.
    â€œI mean it,” she growls.
    Trevor lets go of my legs and stares up, his lips trembling. “Santa?” he says, and I want to call child services.
    â€œDid you hear me?” Sarah shouts at him. “Give them to me . . . now !”
    Trevor thrusts two peppermint candies out and starts crying.
    â€œGo wash your hands,” she says. “They’re filthy!”
    Weeping, he trudges toward the kitchen, head hung low. I swear, there is not enough therapy in the world to fix that kid. “You know,” I say carefully, “a little candy isn’t that bad . . .”
    â€œBill?” she shouts as her husband walks in. He still has his coat on.
    â€œWhat?” he says. “I was parking the car. Oh, hey, Jen! Welcome back.”
    â€œBill!” Sarah snaps. “Did you give Trevor candy?”
    â€œOh. Yeah. It’s . . . that sugar-free stuff your mom got. For him.”
    Sarah rolls her eyes in disgust. “He doesn’t know it’s sugar-free, Bill. He’s got to learn about healthy eating habits or he’ll end up with weight issues like his father!”
    Bill sighs. “All right then.” He nods. “Better go wash up.” He disappears to the kitchen.
    Poor Bill.
    â€œGod.” Sarah shakes her head in disgust. “Men! Can you believe that?”
    â€œNope.” I sigh. “I really can’t.”
    Ed returns with our burning peppery handmade apple cider, which I gulp down, or try to, and Mother Keller returns with my parents, who are mightily impressed with our snow blower.
    â€œThat’s some snow blower you got out there, honey,” my dad says. “You should make sure that snow blower’s on your home insurance.”
    Mother Keller announces dinner is served, directing us to the stack of plates on “my” sideboard, where a banquet of her most vile dishes awaits us. “Eat your clam blankets before they cool,” she warns us. Somehow all her dishes always sound vaguely and specifically sexual at the same time. Clam blankets are baked clams and bacon. There are also codfish balls, which are diced cod, potatoes, and egg pressed into balls and baked. Mulled fishwives are sardines soaked in sherry. Meat jelly is exactly what it sounds like. For dessert there’s prune whip: Take unsuspecting prunes, soak, and chuck in blender with heavy cream. Puree until they sing and the rest of us weep. I mournfully survey the buffet table.
    Hailey winks at me. “We stopped at McDonald’s on the way over,” she whispers.
    â€œNot fair!” I whine. “Then why is Lenny eating?” I nod at my brother-in-law, who is heaping up a big plate of grub. Hailey shrugs.
    â€œI don’t know,” she says. “He’ll eat anything.”
    â€œDamn this looks good!” Lenny grins. “Shit, I’m