I finished Nora Ephron's Heartburn over a kale salad and French fries at the food truck park by the baseball stadium this afternoon. The book was a gift from my eighth grade girlfriend slash current platonic friend Megan, who had it sent to me after I bitched on this web log about not being able to find a copy anywhere in San Francisco. I know that I say this about almost everything that I attend or read or watch, but this book was totally fucking great. It was funny and well-written and witty as hell and, best of all, while looking into it afterwards I discovered that it's actually autobiographical. Although it's considered a work of fiction it's based on the true story of Nora's marriage to Carl Bernstein of the Watergate scandal fame and it was written as one amazing and beautiful and hilarious 'fuck you' after he cheated on her, which is really great because he seemed like a dick. She, however, seemed like someone that I would want to take a walk with, during which I'd ask her what it was really like directing Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in You've Got Mail and what advice, if any, she gave to Lena Dunham during their lunches together and if I could please see old photos of her apartment in the Apthorp. Then she would solve all of my problems with tough love and teach me how to make a spectacular vinaigrette and send me away with a kiss on the forehead.