Chelsey Cosh's Blog: From Mind to Mouth - Posts Tagged "relationships"
I Dedicate This Pitchy Love Song to Nora. This One's For You.
I'm having a Nora Ephron nostalgia fest. As anyone who knows me at least thirty percent, they know I have an exceptional fondness for the film When Harry Met Sally…, a film that, upon first viewing, I detested and now I could not fathom why. I watch it on a regular basis, never going more than a few months without screening it. I can recite it. Maybe that's not saying much, but you get the point.
Anyway, earlier tonight, I concluded that I was dying. Everything hurt. My fiancé told me, without an ounce of empathy or sympathy for my pain, that he had obviously upset me deeply, that I was hurt emotionally, and that my physical symptoms were clearly a manifestation of that. Clearly. Then he went to sleep early.
So what he clearly did not understand was that I was clearly dying a premature death of which the causes were hopelessly un...clear.
In traditional Chelsey fashion, though, I did what I used to do when I would take ill and stay home from school: lie with my head on a pillow, watch a movie or two, and moan periodically to ensure the world knew I was still dying. Almost there but not yet fully croaked.
So tonight, after a few mindless minutes on YouTube, I took to HBO movies and found a documentary on my beloved Nora, made by her son, entitled Everything is Copy.
First but far from foremost, I love that phrase. Everything is copy. All of life can be used, none of it a waste. It's up to you to use it. Every woe (and every high, if you want to be that annoying bitch of a writer, but hey, that's your prerogative) can be turned into a story, if you can just get over yourself.
Now the place of this phrase in Nora's life is as the adage sang by her mother to her. Nora said it best: "When you slip on a banana peel, people laugh at you, but when you tell people you slipped on a banana peel, it's your laugh, so you become the hero, rather than the victim, of the joke."
I like that idea.
So there I was lying in bed, succumbing to death.
None of this could possibly be copy.
I swiftly became enthralled as I do and looked up the whole list of books Nora Ephron had published. I added them to my wishlist although I have read them all. Honestly, that's why I added them. Some books are meant to be read once. Some you will read once a year for the rest of your life, a pilgrimage on an annual basis to words that feel like a prayer to you. For me, those words are Nora's.
I'm not the only one, considering this documentary; frankly the prevalence of her romantic comedies speaks volumes. People are listening. They get it because Nora got it.
So about three minutes after my Fitbit told me bluntly to go to sleep and two minutes after having read the table of contents of The Most of Nora Ephron (which I would love as a birthday gift three weeks from now, for anyone benevolent that happens to be reading this, thank you very much), I fell upon one of the most insightful articles (or hindsightful, as it was for most of us) that she wrote.
Arguably, it's a pair of articles: "What I won't miss" and "What I will miss".
Anyone who has never read I Remember Nothing, I insist you go do that. These articles are in there, right at the end making that resounding statement that we all missed like the dolts we are. But resound it did in her passing.
I miss her.
Anyway, since I am about seventy percent sure that I'm still dying, I figured I would take a crack at it myself. As a lunatic and ridiculous fan of hers, I hope she or anyone close to her isn't too incensed at my unsavoury and lame attempt at imitation. And if they are, I am, in true Nora fashion, not going to give too much of a shit about it.
So here it goes.
What I won't miss
Sunburns.
That uncomfortable feeling after eating lunch too late and then having a snack or seven and then drinking something fizzy and then eating a large dinner too early and realizing that gluttony is a sin and remembering that fact about how the Japanese only eat to about 70% of fullness and that is why they live so long, and then leaning over with a hunch, holding in a belch or a fart because you're in public, you animal, and deciding that, unlike the Japanese, you're going to die prematurely, and concluding that, since you already feel tremendously shitty, you might as well kick the bucket now just to end this feeling.
E-mail inboxes with the number of unread email messages in bold, judgmental as ever.
The basement.
Waiting for my hair to dry after a shower.
Bras. (On this point, Nora and I agree.)
News about COVID-19.
News about "President" Donald Trump.
Anyone who wants to explain the economy and stocks, like they're Miss Cleo looking into the crystal ball.
Visits to gynecologists.
Birds.
Gremlins. No, not Mogwai, the cute furby-looking things that sing. Gremlins are the little green fuckers they turn into if you're a bad pet owner that cannot follow three simple rules and now my childhood trauma is showing.
Sending emails or text messages to the wrong recipient.
Explaining feminism to anyone who mistakes feminism with lesbianism. (Truly exhausting.)
Waiting for nail polish to dry.
Racing anywhere for the ideal parking spot only for it to be unquestionably taken by someone with a stupid vanity licence plate.
What I will miss
My sister.
My step-grandson.
Ice cream.
Warm breezes on temperate evenings.
Kisses.
A good stack of pancakes.
Pasta with the right amount of cheese.
Dancing to loud music.
Stratford Festival.
Live concerts of bands from the seventies and eighties where all those singing are original members.
Spending the entire day at the cinema.
Spending the entire day in bed.
Being near the water.
Being in the water.
Speaking another language and everything going as planned without stumbling on a word you've never used before.
Laughter.
Christmas.
Saturday nights.
Sunday mornings.
When someone pours you a rum and diet coke without ever asking if you wanted one (because, of course, you do).
That little carved statue someone got me from Cuba and the little carved car I won in a "name that tune" contest while I was there.
Foot massages that put you to sleep.
.....
All right, that's enough, the Ephron estate must feel thoroughly disgusted by now. My pitiful homage feels just as pitiful as I do. Since I have to work tomorrow if by some chance I don't die, I should at least attempt sleeping. If I don't wake up tomorrow, though, which is still fifty-five percent certain, let the fiancé know he can finish the rest of Mad Men without me. Unless my death is related to something he clearly did. In which case, ruin it for him, the bastard.
Thanks, Nora.
Anyway, earlier tonight, I concluded that I was dying. Everything hurt. My fiancé told me, without an ounce of empathy or sympathy for my pain, that he had obviously upset me deeply, that I was hurt emotionally, and that my physical symptoms were clearly a manifestation of that. Clearly. Then he went to sleep early.
So what he clearly did not understand was that I was clearly dying a premature death of which the causes were hopelessly un...clear.
In traditional Chelsey fashion, though, I did what I used to do when I would take ill and stay home from school: lie with my head on a pillow, watch a movie or two, and moan periodically to ensure the world knew I was still dying. Almost there but not yet fully croaked.
So tonight, after a few mindless minutes on YouTube, I took to HBO movies and found a documentary on my beloved Nora, made by her son, entitled Everything is Copy.
First but far from foremost, I love that phrase. Everything is copy. All of life can be used, none of it a waste. It's up to you to use it. Every woe (and every high, if you want to be that annoying bitch of a writer, but hey, that's your prerogative) can be turned into a story, if you can just get over yourself.
Now the place of this phrase in Nora's life is as the adage sang by her mother to her. Nora said it best: "When you slip on a banana peel, people laugh at you, but when you tell people you slipped on a banana peel, it's your laugh, so you become the hero, rather than the victim, of the joke."
I like that idea.
So there I was lying in bed, succumbing to death.
None of this could possibly be copy.
I swiftly became enthralled as I do and looked up the whole list of books Nora Ephron had published. I added them to my wishlist although I have read them all. Honestly, that's why I added them. Some books are meant to be read once. Some you will read once a year for the rest of your life, a pilgrimage on an annual basis to words that feel like a prayer to you. For me, those words are Nora's.
I'm not the only one, considering this documentary; frankly the prevalence of her romantic comedies speaks volumes. People are listening. They get it because Nora got it.
So about three minutes after my Fitbit told me bluntly to go to sleep and two minutes after having read the table of contents of The Most of Nora Ephron (which I would love as a birthday gift three weeks from now, for anyone benevolent that happens to be reading this, thank you very much), I fell upon one of the most insightful articles (or hindsightful, as it was for most of us) that she wrote.
Arguably, it's a pair of articles: "What I won't miss" and "What I will miss".
Anyone who has never read I Remember Nothing, I insist you go do that. These articles are in there, right at the end making that resounding statement that we all missed like the dolts we are. But resound it did in her passing.
I miss her.
Anyway, since I am about seventy percent sure that I'm still dying, I figured I would take a crack at it myself. As a lunatic and ridiculous fan of hers, I hope she or anyone close to her isn't too incensed at my unsavoury and lame attempt at imitation. And if they are, I am, in true Nora fashion, not going to give too much of a shit about it.
So here it goes.
What I won't miss
Sunburns.
That uncomfortable feeling after eating lunch too late and then having a snack or seven and then drinking something fizzy and then eating a large dinner too early and realizing that gluttony is a sin and remembering that fact about how the Japanese only eat to about 70% of fullness and that is why they live so long, and then leaning over with a hunch, holding in a belch or a fart because you're in public, you animal, and deciding that, unlike the Japanese, you're going to die prematurely, and concluding that, since you already feel tremendously shitty, you might as well kick the bucket now just to end this feeling.
E-mail inboxes with the number of unread email messages in bold, judgmental as ever.
The basement.
Waiting for my hair to dry after a shower.
Bras. (On this point, Nora and I agree.)
News about COVID-19.
News about "President" Donald Trump.
Anyone who wants to explain the economy and stocks, like they're Miss Cleo looking into the crystal ball.
Visits to gynecologists.
Birds.
Gremlins. No, not Mogwai, the cute furby-looking things that sing. Gremlins are the little green fuckers they turn into if you're a bad pet owner that cannot follow three simple rules and now my childhood trauma is showing.
Sending emails or text messages to the wrong recipient.
Explaining feminism to anyone who mistakes feminism with lesbianism. (Truly exhausting.)
Waiting for nail polish to dry.
Racing anywhere for the ideal parking spot only for it to be unquestionably taken by someone with a stupid vanity licence plate.
What I will miss
My sister.
My step-grandson.
Ice cream.
Warm breezes on temperate evenings.
Kisses.
A good stack of pancakes.
Pasta with the right amount of cheese.
Dancing to loud music.
Stratford Festival.
Live concerts of bands from the seventies and eighties where all those singing are original members.
Spending the entire day at the cinema.
Spending the entire day in bed.
Being near the water.
Being in the water.
Speaking another language and everything going as planned without stumbling on a word you've never used before.
Laughter.
Christmas.
Saturday nights.
Sunday mornings.
When someone pours you a rum and diet coke without ever asking if you wanted one (because, of course, you do).
That little carved statue someone got me from Cuba and the little carved car I won in a "name that tune" contest while I was there.
Foot massages that put you to sleep.
.....
All right, that's enough, the Ephron estate must feel thoroughly disgusted by now. My pitiful homage feels just as pitiful as I do. Since I have to work tomorrow if by some chance I don't die, I should at least attempt sleeping. If I don't wake up tomorrow, though, which is still fifty-five percent certain, let the fiancé know he can finish the rest of Mad Men without me. Unless my death is related to something he clearly did. In which case, ruin it for him, the bastard.
Thanks, Nora.
