And naturally, there are many men out there who want to know . . . why would a big, macho, chain-saw toting guy like you be reading a book about a woman's perspective on the monthly cycle, menopause, beauty products, gynecology, and divorce?
Answer: because I've got two women in my household who often feel bad about their necks and because I'm still trying to figure out what I can say (or not say), do (or not do), depending upon that dark and mysterious mood-altering phenomenon of the moon and what, if anything, I can do about it. Do I live outdoors for a few days? Should I join a convent and take vows of celibacy? What can I do to keep my wife from screaming at me just because I suggest having beans and wieners for dinner?
Nora Ephron's book, and other books like it, help me to answer these and other wild and woolly questions that have perplexed men for centuries. I read chick lit to understand women, and to better navigate the dark jungle of the home. I read chick lit to be a better father and husband . . . though Lord knows, I've not read a chick lit book yet that has offered me any sure-fire help. Just when I think I'm making progress (purchasing perfume, jewelry, flowers, and writing incredible poems that I feel should make my wife's knees buckle), I experience a set-back . . . a hastily hand-scribbled note detailing the fifty ways I messed up the grocery list, or, perhaps, a passionate kiss in public where, given the parameters of a decent society and the plethora of watchful eyes, I can't take further advantage of the situation . . . all tease and no sleaze. What is she trying to do to me?
Yes, that's the reason I read chick lit after I've fired up the chain saw and cut off two fingers. It is the reason I look to writers like Ms. Ephron: to express succinctly and effectively what women really want and why they want it and how I can give it to 'em. And now that I'm sandwiched in the home between the young love of my engaged daughter and the old-battle-worn routines of an arthritic wife, I've got to find answers. NOW!
I have to thank Nora Ephron for opening my eyes and helping me to see that she wrote her book to express how she feels. She didn't know I would be reading her essays. After perusing this book, I felt like I'd been beaten with a bag of oranges. I'm such a failure. I have no manswers. Probably no manners, either. I'm just an old guy trapped in 2-milligrams of testosterone (and falling) and a vocabulary that must be expanded through the use of a thesaurus.
Tomorrow, I'm going back to the old game plan: Rise before dawn, take two hours to formulate an opening comment while my wife and daughter are applying makeup, fix them coffee and breakfast, and then run like hell.
It's worked for me all these years. What does Nora know?
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