By Nora Ephron
Along with her disarming, intimate, thoroughly available voice, and dry humorousness, Nora Ephron stocks with us her ups and downs in i believe undesirable approximately My Neck, a candid, hilarious examine girls who're aging and working with the tribulations of upkeep, menopause, empty nests, and lifestyles itself.
Ephron chronicles her lifestyles as an obsessed cook dinner, passionate urban dweller, and hapless mother or father. yet usually she speaks frankly and uproariously approximately lifestyles as a girl of a undeniable age. totally brave, uproariously humorous, and unexpectedly relocating in its fact telling, i believe undesirable approximately My Neck is a delicious, impossible to resist deal with of a publication, choked with truths, snicker out loud moments that would attract readers of every age.
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Extra resources for I Feel Bad About My Neck
Dad told us we were having something special for dessert—a flaming ice-cream cake. The waiter wheeled out a tray with the cake on it, and the woman with the gloves lit it with a taper. Everyone stopped eating to watch. The flames had a slow, watery movement, rolling up into the air like ribbons. Everyone started clapping, and Dad jumped up and raised the waiter’s hand above his head as if he’d won first prize. A few days later, Mom and Dad went off to the blackjack table and then almost immediately came looking for us.
Then Grandma would make a snide comment about Dad being shiftless. Dad would say something about selfish old crones with more money than they knew what to do with, and soon enough they’d be face-to-face in what amounted to a full-fledged cussing contest. ” Grandma would scream. ” Dad would shout back. ” Dad had the more inventive vocabulary, but Grandma Smith could outshout him; plus, she had the home-court advantage. A time would come when Dad had had enough and he’d tell us kids to get in the car.
Mom, however, told us that the FBI wasn’t really after Dad; he just liked to say they were because it was more fun having the FBI on your tail than bill collectors. We moved around like nomads. We lived in dusty little mining towns in Nevada, Arizona, and California. They were usually nothing but a tiny cluster of sad, sunken shacks, a gas station, a dry-goods store, and a bar or two. They had names like Needles and Bouse, Pie, Goffs, and Why, and they were near places like the Superstition Mountains, the dried-up Soda Lake, and the Old Woman Mountain.