Reinventing Mona by Jennifer Coburn Read Free Book Online Page B

world.
    In the end, ladies, we resent the shit out of your telling us what to say and do. If you — let me repeat — if you are scripting your boyfriend, you have control issues. (See, we’ve picked up some of your psychobabble terminology. And you thought we weren’t listening.)
    Trust me when I tell you I never said any of this to my latest ex-girlfriend despite her many pleas to be “totally honest.” Women say they want to communicate, but that’s code for “I’m talking and you’re listening.” Men get the illusion of a chance to talk, too, but it damn well better be what women want to hear or we’re “withholding emotionally.” What happened to honesty?
    Until next month, my friends, don’t let the bitches get you down.
    I stared agape at the column long after I read the final words. What offensive, tired old stereotypes about women! What was the point? What trite, uninspired, unoriginal horseshit. Or was it? Maximum for Him was the number-one rated men’s magazine in the country and The Dog House was a monthly column that, according to the letters to the editor section, really resonated with guys. This was all so confusing. There was a certain beauty and simplicity to my life of virtual hermitage. I wasn’t sure I was ready for this. But one thing was certain. If I was going to venture out in to this brave new world, I needed a guide. A guide dog, so to speak.
    I would hire Mike as a guy coach. A male consultant. I would run all ideas to impress Adam by The Dog for the sniff test. The Dog would be the harshest, toughest, meanest, most revolting critic I could find. If I could train with him, I’d be a champion.

Chapter 8
    Two weeks later, Mike the Dog had not returned a single one of my eight phone messages. His assistant, Gwen, was becoming annoyed with me, which I must confess was a tad thrilling. I’d never been a pest before. Gwen was a young woman with an English accent who seemed terribly bored with her job. “I will reissue your message, Miss Warren,” she was burdened with uttering seven times.
    Greta knocked on the door at 7:30 a.m., wearing faded blue sweatpants and a T-shirt with rhinestones warning, “Don’t Mess with Texas!” I was squeezing the last orange for my breakfast drink. “I’m sorry, I’m running a few minutes behind,” I offered. “I’ll just put this in the fridge and we’ll get going.”
    When I returned downstairs in my gray sweat suit (sans warnings), Greta held my yellow notepad beside the telephone. “Who, dare I ask, is The Dog?” she asked with a suspicious brow.
    “Oh,” I hesitated, like a child who had been caught doing something wrong. “He writes a column for a men’s magazine. I was thinking of calling him for some advice.”
    Greta used her tooth-trimmed fingernail to brush an overgrown patch of bangs away from her face. Her green eyes pierced accusingly. “Advice on what?” she asked but already knew.
    “Guy stuff.”
    “Mona.” She sighed with disappointment. “Please tell me you’re not going for the male chauvinist seal of approval to appeal to that Adam guy. Because a man does a good job on your taxes doesn’t mean he’ll be a good life partner.”
    “Let’s get running. We’ll talk about it on the way,” I offered, hoping we’d both gasp for breath so desperately that Greta wouldn’t be able to grill me on my plan for The Dog to show me some new tricks. No such luck. Greta’s slim body moved like a gazelle, and the run didn’t tax her breathing in the least. I, on the other band, hadn’t been running since high school gym class, but promised Greta that part of my reinvention would be a commitment to my health. Running with Greta twice a week and a veggie dinner with her every Sunday night, she made me promise. She said a healthier lifestyle would help me think more clearly. I knew it would trim the extra ten pounds from my amorphous body.
    “So, tell me, Mona,” Greta began. “What on earth is so special about this