Nora
Ephron is back with this slim, delightful volume of short essays
about what it's like to be a modern woman, particularly a woman "of
a certain age." No odes to Jimmy Choos and Birkin bags here. No
long boozy discourses on unattainable men while drinking
cosmopolitans. On the contrary, Ephron spends a great deal of time
discussing the very real frustrations of being a modern woman.
She's not one to suffer gladly from "purse envy": In the aptly
titled "I Hate My Purse" she warns: "If you're one of those women
who think there's something great about purses, don't even bother
reading this because there will be nothing here for you." She
details a recent trip to Paris with a friend whose mission it was
to obtain a vintage Kelly Bag, which she did, only to sit for hours
at a café because she didn't want to get her new bag wet in
the rain. All that money and fuss for something that loose Tic Tacs
will litter the bottom of, the author muses.

One of the more enjoyable essays serves as a sort of culinary
memoir. In "Serial Monogamy: A Memoir," Ephron recalls her
introduction to cuisine and cooking, with the gift of THE GOURMET
COOKBOOK from her mother in 1962. Intrigued by trying out new
recipes and admiring those who write them, she gleans what she can
from everyone from Julia Child to Martha Stewart. In addition to
savory memories of meals past, she imparts helpful information such
as "the Rule of Four," something she picked up from a chef
specializing in southern cuisine, the idea being that "most people
serve three things for dinner --- some sort of meat, some sort of
starch, and some sort of vegetable --- but Lee always served four.
And the fourth thing was always unexpected...whatever it was, that
fourth thing seemed to have an almost magical effect on the eating
process." If "Serial Monogamy" doesn't send you running for your
cookbooks, then nothing will.

The title essay, as well as "On Maintenance," directly addresses
the issue of aging in this youth-obsessed culture. Ephron wishes
she could do something about her sagging neck instead of always
wearing scarves and turtlenecks to compensate. But she knows that
to do something about her neck would require a full face-lift and
she's not quite ready for that level of surgical commitment. What
about exercise? This is a woman who views her DVD of the musical
Chicago as a workout tape, so logging time on the treadmill is her
idea of hell. If there are any young readers of this collection,
Ephron suggests they appreciate their youthful beauty while they
have it, which means to put on a bikini and don't take it off until
you're 34.

The ode to New York living, "Moving On," which was published in
The New Yorker prior to this collection, might find
resonance with only metropolitan readers, but most of these essays
remind us of just why we love Nora Ephron in the first place.
Always witty, urbane but not alienating, inviting and funny, she
charms her readers with her agonies and ecstasies of being a woman.
Reading I FEEL BAD ABOUT MY NECK is the literary equivalent of
having lunch with a close girlfriend.