THE NAKED TRUTH
Alesia's Novella: THE NAKED TRUTH ABOUT GUYS
excerpt copyright Alesia Holliday, 2005

As seen in The Seattle Times:

The Naked Truth About Guys, by columnist C.J. Murphy

Marriage and Herring, or Other Smelly Fish

When you bring up marriage (because it will always be you who brings it up), a Guy will say:  “I’m just not ready to make that kind of commitment.”

In Human Speak, this means:  “Are you OUT of your MIND?  I’m living the free, happy, single life [NOTE:  A Guy will think this even if he’s living in his mother’s basement], and the LAST thing I want is to tie myself down to a healthy, secure, monogamous relationship.  Because at ANY TIME, a busload of hot Swedish bikini models might drive by and say, ‘Hey, YOU!  The guy with the ring on his finger! We were going to take you on our Bus of Unrestrained Sexual Urges and oil you up like a sexy little herring of lust.  But we see that you’re married.  Too bad; your loss!” 

(Except, maybe, they might say it in Swedish).

This kind of thinking is rampant in the typical Guy mind. 

What “I’m just not ready to make that kind of commitment” does NOT mean includes the following:

1.    “If you make yourself over completely until you’re a carbon copy of me and pretend to enjoy sports, keg parties, and Hooters, I’ll marry you,” OR

2.    “If you give up your friends, your hobbies, and your life to sit around by the phone waiting for me to call, I’ll marry you,” OR

3.    “If you make me jealous by dating my best friend, I’ll marry you.”

So, STOP THE MADNESS!!  Reclaim your self-esteem.  If your Guy says he’s not the marrying kind, believe him. Then kick him to the curb.  Remember that old saying about fish in the sea?  (And we’re not talking oily herring . . .)

Until next time, remember:  Guys!  Can’t live with ‘em, can’t attack them with your new corkscrew. 

­

Chapter 1

“C.J., you’ve got another marriage proposal.  Looks like maybe two or three of them, if this envelope with somebody’s unwashed lucky socks sticking out are any clue.  What does that make, fourteen this month?”  My editor strode into the tiny closet that served as my office with a whole pile of envelopes and a couple of boxes.

I felt my lips curl.  “Socks?  Yuck.  And some idiot thinks I’ll marry him after that?  And it was only nine before today, so don’t exaggerate.”  Slouching back in my totally-not-ergonomic desk chair, I scanned my desk for an inch of free space.  Bingo!  I lifted my shabby running shoe (and the foot inside of it) from its resting place on top of the pile of old magazines I like to call “research material” and crossed it over my right foot, which had pride of place on top of my college Webster’s.

(It helps my status in the office if I at least pretend to look like a real reporter, instead of what I really am:  somebody who makes fun of herself, other people, and the human condition for a living.  Or, as my brilliant agent Steve calls me:  a humor columnist.  He ought to know, I guess.  He just got me a sweet syndication deal.) 

I grinned, as the boss dumped the pile of mail in the middle of my desk, on top of my feet.  “Just put that anywhere, Donny.”

Donald Donaldson, managing editor of the Times for the past twenty-two years, aimed one of his most menacing snarls at me – even the tips of his spiky white hair trembling in annoyance.  “Don’t call me Donny.  Donny is for toddlers or Osmonds.  It’s Boss or Mr. Donaldson to the likes of you, Murphy.”

I laughed and swung my feet down to the floor, scattering envelopes everywhere.  “Oh, right.  Doing your ‘Spidey’s boss’ impersonation, again, Boss? If you’d schedule these fits of grouchiness in advance, I’d be able to work up a more convincing intimidated cower.  Plus, since when are you the mail dude?”

He grumbled again, but I could see the edges of his lips twitching.  He was just an old softy at heart, but I seemed to be one of the few people at the paper who realized it.  When you grow up as the lone female in a house with a cop for a Dad and five older brothers, it takes a lot to intimidate you.  Mr. Donaldson didn’t even come close. 

“Curiosity.  The socks got me,” he said.  He turned and stalked back out of the office, then stopped at the door.  “C. J., ‘sexy little herring of lust’?  Your mind must be a very scary place.”

I stuck my tongue out at his departing back, then started sorting through the mail, playing my daily game of “try to separate the positive (good job; yeah, I agree; my guy is just like that, too) from the negative (you suck; you are a sexist pig; you must be a man-hating lesbian) from the screwball (my birthday is the same month as yours, so we should plan a joint birthday party; will you marry me) from the downright creepy (you must be my soulmate; I’m writing from prison and you sound like my type; my girlfriend took your advice, so she left me, and now I’m going to hack off your arm).

Sadly, these are all actual examples from real letters.  That last category gets copied to the Seattle PD and a file I call the “open in case of my disappearance” file. 

When you write a weekly newspaper column, you tend to attract attention.  When you write a column called The Naked Truth about Guys, you attract a lot of attraction.

Not all of it good.

As I half-heartedly dug around in a drawer for my letter opener, shoving last year’s Buckeye football schedule, a flyer for Wok and Bowl (our traditional twice-a-week lunch hangout), and several dried-up pens out of my way, I heard one of my favorite voices.

“Hey, Gorgeous.  I hear you’re getting married a few more times.”  Bill Curran, the best sportswriter on the west coast (and seriously cute guy), stood in my doorway, grinning.  “I bet it was the lust tadpole thing.”

I closed my eyes and moaned.  “If you’re going to mock me, at least get it right.  It was herring.  Lust herring.”

“Yeah, but most of those guys have probably got more of a tadpole, if you know what I mean,” he said, measuring out what looked like about two inches between his outstretched index fingers.

I tried to look stern, but couldn’t help cracking up.  “Right.  Is that two inches a personal best, or more like an aspiration for you, Cheese Head?”

(Bill was born and raised in Wisconsin and the rest of us tried never to let him forget it.  He had the blue-eyed, blond-haired, corn-fed farm boy look to him, too, but we already called Margaret down in obits Farm Girl, so you see the problem.) 

He winced.  “Ouch!  Kick a man right in the gonads, why don’t you?  That’s what I love about you, Murphy.  You’re one of the guys.” 

He shoved his hands in his pockets and left, whistling, while I dropped my head on my arms on top of my latest batch of mail. 

Great.  The story of my entire love life.  Just one of the guys.

* * *

“Quit moping, already, you big baby.  I hear I’m ahead in the marriage proposal pool – I bet seventeen this mongh.  Did you get two or three today, Chica?”

My beautiful and annoyingly tall and thin best friend, Paola Rossini, stood by my desk.  I could never figure out how she can sneak around so quietly in three-inch heels.  I raised my head and glared at her.  “I don’t know.  I can’t bring myself to open it yet.  And you’re Italian; you don’t call people Chica.  You call them . . . something Italian.  Anyway, what kind of best friend bets against me in the office pool?”

She shook her head of perfect, shiny black hair and smiled.  “It’s not betting against you; it’s betting . . . near you.  Come on, I’ll buy you lunch.  I want to show you my new car.”

I considered refusing, but the way to my heart was definitely through my (loudly growling) stomach. 

Plus, I may break down and ask her for help, thinks desperate me.

But, I don’t want help, thinks too-proud me.

“Yeah, but I need help,” I muttered, stuffing my nondescript mud-brown curls under a nondescript mud-brown ball cap.  I stood up and glanced down at the old t-shirt I wore over my faded blue jeans.  Brown again.  I sighed and rushed to catch up with Paola, eyeing her perfect little red suit, perfectly accessorized, in her usual . . . perfect . . . way.

Maybe just a little bit of help . . .

* * * 

I took a deep breath, inhaling the spicy aromas of my favorite restaurant as my favorite server brought our food.  “Szechuan chicken, C.J.  You need to branch out, at least try the Szechuan beef, sometime,” Lin said, as she placed my lunch on the black-lacquered tabletop. 

I laughed.  “Maybe next time.  Thanks, Lin.”

She grinned.  “No problem.  Loved that column on men and commitment.”

After Lin walked away, Paola unwrapped her chopsticks and stole a chunk of sesame beef from Bill’s plate. 

“Hey!” he protested.  “Why don’t you ever order the beef yourself, instead of stealing mine?”

“Yours tastes better.  Why are you the only man who doesn’t give me exactly what I want?” she replied, doing a fake eyelash bat.

He rolled his eyes.  “Yeah.  Like that Mercedes in the parking lot?  What did you have to do to earn that?”

I gasped, a little, but it didn’t faze Paola at all.  “I took Lulu to Fashion Week with me in New York and pointed her to clothes that actually suit her.  Her hubby was so happy, he gave me the car.  It’s just a lease; I have to give it back in three years.”

The hubby she so casually referred to owned half the Mercedes dealerships on the west coast; his wife Lulu was known for spending vast quantities of his money on truly hideous clothes.  No wonder he was so happy with Paola.  For a woman who never, ever had sex (“not till I’m in a serious relationship”), rich men always seemed to give her expensive presents.  

I smacked Bill on the hand as he reached for the last potsticker and snagged it for myself.  “How come I never get sweet deals like that?  I’d be glad to take some rich guy’s wife shopping.  Or . . . what did you do that last time?  Pet sit for the champion shit zoos?  I can do that,” I said.

Paola shuddered, delicately, then wiped her mouth carefully.  “Shih Tzus, C.J.  Not shit zoos.  And I simply have a talent for being in the right place at the right time.”  She aimed a sweeping look at me from ball cap on down.  “Also, dressed in the right clothes.”

Sweeping a hand through the air, she continued.  “Do you think your . . . clothes . . . would inspire confidence in someone?  You dress like a . . . like a . . . “

Bill interrupted.  “She dresses like a reporter.  Not everybody is a fashionista like you, Paola.”

I stared at Bill, surprised that he even knew the word.  “Fashionista, Bill?  You’ll lose access to the locker rooms, if the Mariners or the Seahawks ever find out you know the word fashionista.”

Paola brushed imaginary crumbs off of her white silk blouse.  “Speaking of fashion, let’s talk about that makeover, C. J.”  She moved her plate out of the way, more than two-thirds of her meal uneaten, and leaned forward.  “Are you ready for me to make you over into a star?”

Bill glanced up midway through shoveling a huge bite of spring roll in his mouth.  “Um, waaggg erten?”

“Manners, Bill.  Manners.”  Paola rolled her eyes. 

Bill swallowed hastily and took a drink of water.  “What are you talking about?  Why would you want to make her over?  She’s fine like she is.  Not everybody wants to be an overdressed princess, Rossini.”

I knew we were in trouble at the word “overdressed” and tried to ward off the battle.

Too late.

“Princess?  Every woman is a princess, you Neanderthal.  And how dare you call me overdressed?  Just because you prefer to look like you rolled in to work off of a three-day bender doesn’t mean you can mock those of us who take pride in our appearance.  Fashion is not a dirty word.”

Bill aimed a disbelieving glance at me.  “Are you really buying into this crap?  You’re one of the guys.  If you start prancing around in spike heels, it’ll throw off the whole working dynamic of the newsroom.”

“Well, I . . .”

“Working dynamic?” Paola spat out.  “Aren’t those big words for a sports hound?  The day we need your input into fashion is the day I quit my job to . . . to . . . work at some job that makes me wear a polyester uniform.”

The word polyester stunned us into silence.  But she went even further.

“With a nametag.”

Nobody could top the idea of Paola wearing a nametag on a polyester uniform, so we selected our fortune cookies in silence.  Bill crunched his cookie in half, pulled the fortune out, and read it aloud, a tradition on our lunches.  “Change your thoughts and you change your world.”

Paola sighed, but read hers, too, willing to let the fashion debate drop temporarily.  “Coming together is a beginning; keeping together is progress; working together is success.”

I grinned.  “These are always the same.  Nothing specific, always vague and wisdom-y. Nobody ever gets bad news in a fortune cookie.”

I snapped my cookie in half and pulled out the slip of paper, then read it.  “See, greatness and fame.  Ha!  ‘Greatness and fame will . . .’ um, what?”  Staring at the fortune, I wondered if stress was killing the brain cells that worked my optic nerve. 

Paola reached over and plucked it out of my hand.  “What, already?  Greatness and fame what?”  She studied the fortune and did a classic double take, blinking owlishly, then read aloud slowly.  “Greatness and fame will pass you by, and you will lead a life of bleak despair.”

Bill rolled his eyes.  “Very funny.”

“No, really.  Read it,” she said, shoving the fortune toward him.  He picked it up and read it, and his face did the same funny kind of thing Paola’s had.  “No shit. This is freaky.  I thought these things had to be positive; there’s some kind of fortune cookie rule or something, isn’t there?”

We all stared at each other, spooked, for a second, and then I laughed it off, in spite of a weird squicky feeling down my spine that Grandpa would have called a goose walking over my grave.  “Remember when you were a kid you used to joke about fortunes that said, ‘Help! I’m trapped in a Chinese fortune cookie factory’? Guess somebody really is trapped and forgot her daily Prozac.”

We shoved our chairs back, and I tossed the crumpled fortune on the table.  “I’m guessing I don’t need a fashion makeover for a life of bleak despair, Paola, but thanks anyway.”  I laughed again, but it sounded shaky even to me.  I’m not very superstitious, but I don’t go out of my way to walk under ladders carrying a black cat, for example. 

Bill slung a friendly arm over my shoulders as we walked out.  “No, you don’t need made over.  You’re perfect just the way you are.”

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The Naked Truth
Copyright Alesia Holliday, 2005
Coming from Berkley Sensation, November, 2005