Look, I pretty much moved to New York to meet Nora Ephron and eat some Krispy Kreme donuts with her, and now she’s up and died on me, that horrible bitch.
This keeps happening. You know who I moved to New York to meet? Dominick Dunne. I met him. Then he died. And that was as good as it got. The other two people I moved to New York to meet were Elaine (of Elaine’s) and Nora Ephron. Well, Elaine died. Okay. Fine. There was still Nora.
Who’s left? That dude at Shopsin’s who’s supposed to be an asshole? I guess that’s something.
But my plan was to go to Shopsin’s with Nora Ephron in the imaginary world that existed in my head. I’d talk about my problems and she’d be all “stop being Zelda Fitzgerald, pull yourself together!” And then we’d laugh. Oh, how we’d laugh.
And we’d eat. I mean, we’d really eat, not the way a lot of New York lady writers eat, which is to say that you order a plate of nachos and they stare at you and say “is it your cheat day? I’m not sure I’d even eat that on a cheat day.” And then you are like “why are we in Shopsin’s? The whole point of going here is to have mac ‘n’ cheese pancakes.”
I know this because one of my favorite Nora Ephron quotes is “I don’t think any day is worth living without thinking about what you’re going to eat next at all times.”
Have you read Heartburn? Read it right now! It’s not only a great story about the breakdown of a perfect marriage – and one that akes you frankly really glad that you don’t live in the 70’s so you don’t have to go to women’s conciousness raising sessions – it’s a book with great recipes for mashed potatoes.
And please, please don’t even get me started on Wallflower at the Orgy. The title is inspired by one of Nora’s exes’ fixation with attending an orgy, to which Nora replied that she was pretty sure it would be awful. He asked why, she explained that it would be just like picking sports teas in iddle school, except everyone would be naked. But then, she realized, being a journalist is supposed to be like being a wallflower at an orgy. And wallflowers at orgies are the best people ever. I mean, the best people ever if you want to read a hilarious, withering takedown of Love Story, which, admittedly, makes you cry buckets if you have a human heart, but is also a super manipulative book. You’re not into that? There’s a great profile of Helen Gurley Brown (and why she keeps crying) as well as Nora’s own makeover (false eyelashes like spiders).
Oh, Nora, I swear, I could have made some good jokes about false eyelashes. Or I couldn’t have. Maybe I would have just left that to you.
Because I think you are the imaginary friend of every smart, funny girl who has been picked last for a team in middle school and still kind of loves make-up and makeovers. That is to say, I assue that, in heaven, they have made you the patron saint of ladybloggers.
But still. I resent that we’ll never fake orgasm’s at Katz’s deli together.
You feel bad about your neck, Nora? I feel bad about you dying on me.