Nora Ephron

As everyone probably knows, the famed screenwriter/director/author/journalist died a couple of weeks ago.  She leaves behind legions of friends and admirers – worshippers, really – all of whom have waxed poetic about her too-early passing. Tom Hanks, Meryl Streep, Diane Sawyer, Mayor Bloomberg, Sally Quinn, Arianna Huffington, Carrie Fisher – I could go on and on – spoke of her elegance, humor, fabulous cooking, zest for life, legendary dinner parties.  She was apparently one of those people who elevated and brought out the best in everyone.

Except me.

What is it that has me obsessed with her?  I used to read her Esquire columns back in the 70s, loved “Heartburn,” enjoyed some of her movies while finding most of them a bit corny for my taste, and found her funny, but a little too glib.  A little too certain.

And yet, after she died, and all these tributes poured in, I found myself googling her incessantly.   How could anyone be that witty?  How could she have not just succeeded, but THRIVED, in four different careers?  I wanted to know the secrets of her cooking, and her knack for putting together just the right people for a dinner party. 

I would read for a while, and these thoughts would start nagging at me.  Did she really believe every witty, deadpan observation she threw out? Did she have ANY non-celebrity friends? And I didn’t like that snarky comment she made to Charlie Rose about people who lived in “horrible places” like New Jersey, while she couldn’t conceive of living anywhere but Manhattan.

I know it. I KNOW it.  I’m a bitch. A petty, jealous, fault-finding bitch. But I’ll own it.  I will not drink the Kool Aid. Nora, rest in peace.  I mean it.  I’m sure you were wonderful, and I don’t understand why you bring out this side of me.  Meanwhile, I’ve checked “Heartburn” out of the library, and just ordered Ina Garten’s “Back to Basics” because I read an interview in which you said it was one of the best cookbooks you’ve read in years.  Bear with me.  I’m working through this thing.

Yesterday was my day off.  I couldn’t wait to walk tonight because it was a comfortable 95 degrees, and I wasn’t going to waste a sub-100 degree July afternoon in the gym.  Please explain to me why it felt hotter than the typical 102 degree day.  It's been a while since I've taken the Stacy hills, but I did, after I dropped Banks off. I just felt wet the whole time.  I think I'll go back to the gym tomorrow.