Good Night Nora

 Nora Ephron 

May 19, 1941 - June 26, 2012 

Good night Nora. Thank you for writing and directing funny, charming, sweet films that dared to "go there." Thank you for choosing a career and children. Thank you for growing older (but not old enough!) with grace and good humor. Thank you for being awesome.

Nora-isms: 

“I don't think any day is worth living without thinking about what you're going to eat next at all times.”

“Here are some questions I am constantly noodling over: Do you splurge or do you hoard? Do you live every day as if it's your last, or do you save your money on the chance you'll live twenty more years? Is life too short, or is it going to be too long? Do you work as hard as you can, or do you slow down to smell the roses? And where do carbohydrates fit into all this? Are we really all going to spend our last years avoiding bread, especially now that bread in American is so unbelievable delicious? And what about chocolate?”

“Above all, be the heroine of your life, not the victim.”



 

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What's In A Name?

Despite not sending any Christmas cards out this year, we received a fair amount of holiday greetings. They spread out over the tops of three shelving units in the living room, forming a merry hodgepodge that inspired a major feng shui attack on Saturday. The cards are all packed away now (why I don't just recycle them, I don't know, but I always pretend I'll use them for "craft projects" at some undetermined date) but the memory of these cheery little greetings live on.

This holiday season that's just passed us by marked Andy's and my fourth Christmas together and our third living together. Ever since that fateful day when I moved in, how the joint mail we receive is addressed has been a source of amusement. More often than not, our holiday cards come addressed to me - my full name - with Andy's first name tacked on after that.  Occasionally it goes the other way though, with my name tacked on in an "afterthought" sort of way. Rare is the sender who lists both our full names (all spelled correctly) and uses our correct address. 

It's a common misconception, but Andy and I are not married. Or engaged. The vast majority of mail we receive recognizes and reflects this fact in its own awkward way.  

So it was a little surprising this holiday season to receive a card addressed to what my married name would be if I weren't planning to hang onto my maiden name anyway. No mention of Andy was made anywhere on the card - just my first name and Andy's last name . . . combined. Andy and I exchanged bemused looks as we examined the envelope.

The percentage of women taking their husband's last names is higher than ever. (The big exception to this rule are women who are firmly established in their careers before marriage.) I have no issues with taking your husband's last name; especially in this land of _____sons if taking your husband's last name lands you with a more unique and interesting name.

But I have no desire to change my name. It's unique, it sounds nice, and it earns me the distinction of being the only person on Facebook with such a name. Sure it gets mispronounced all the time (sometimes I feel like that Ting Tings song - "That's Not My Name"- was written about me), but as a freelance writer, my name is my brand and contains an idea of who I might be.

I looked at my name printed on the envelope with Andy's last name and I felt like I was looking at a ghost of myself. Just let me grabbed my pearls, heels, and the vacuum and call me Mrs. Andy.  Who needs feminism when you've got a man?

One thing that's always irritated me is when a married women's name is reduced to just a "Mrs." in front of her hsuband's full name. I mean, what are we? Chopped liver? Silent partners? Yet, I've been going through the guest books from work lately and happened upon a woman who wrote out her full name then put in parentheses "Mrs. John." I know for a fact her husband has been deceased for years.  

What's in a name? Ideally the person we are most proud of being.

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Women Who Inspire

We writers are supposed to know a thing about inspiration. Yet when faced with today’s Back to Blogging challenge, “write about a women who inspires you” I came up a little befuddled. Let’s face it, writing prompts and I have never been great friends.

I thought about all the women who inspire me: my mom, grandmothers, co-workers, friends, even authors I’ve never met.  For a while I planned to center this post around writers Anne Lamott and Madeleine L’Engle who were both influential in prompting me to trust my pen and lead the life I do.

But a few things happened before I got around to writing that post. For one thing, I had a couple days off. The days off lead to a trip to Duluth, which lead to looking at woodstoves, which lead to a second trip to Duluth to purchase and transport a wood stove home. Before I knew it, it was time to go back to work and I had an article deadline staring me smack-dab in the face. And instead of writing this blog post in the morning like I’d planned, I worked on my deadline this morning and spent the whole day alternating between being mad at my deadline and being mad at myself for procrastinating.  Now I’m writing this post at 8:15 in the evening, after finishing up the drafts of my deadline stuff. Supper might be a good idea. . . .    

While I cursed my poor planning, railed against having to devote my evening to writing articles when I’d rather be doing so many other things, I took a minute to look at the article I was working on. The article profiles the work of our local domestic and sexual violence prevention center.

And I thought to myself, “Listen lady. Wake up and smell the roses. Stop looking for inspiration and open your eyes.”

So I blinked and looked back at my computer screen. In the article I was talking about

women who in the worst of conditions have the courage to tell their stories, to “change their stars.” And volunteers who devote their spare time to being trained and putting in on-call hours so they can help others overcome the affects of violence. These women are so much braver than I’ve ever been and most of the time we don’t even acknowledge that violence is a reality in every one of our communities.

If there isn’t inspiration in the stories of violence survivors, of people like S.A.R.K, of violence center volunteers, then I don’t know what inspiration is. They’re the people who actually wrestle again the hugeness of it all, who trust in change and healing even in the worst of situations. That’s something very few of us do.

Tonight I thought, maybe inspiration isn’t something about realization. It isn’t something that strikes from the heavens. Instead, it’s a re-remembering of something you always knew.

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