Not disposed to educate or alienate her audience, Ms. Ephron can't believe that beautiful women or women with breasts have anything to complain about…. This implies, of course, that only plain women earn the right to question a sexist society—presumably because they are less readily accepted by it. Ephron's audience can, no doubt, speak with some authority here. Unfortunately, Ms. Ephron herself never asks why beauty is such an important commodity in this society and fails to recognize that when ludicrous physical standards are created, we all become losers—plain, ugly and beautiful.

Nor does she feel sympathy with mothers and housewives; she confesses to voluptuous fantasies about rape. Nevertheless, Nora Ephron assures us that she is committed to the women's movement and possesses a most empathetic personality. In Crazy Salad it is difficult to find evidence of either. But what is most disturbing about this book and its critical reception from other feminists is its display of feminine self-hatred. (p. 412)

To be fair, Ephron recognizes that fundamental changes in ourselves are required before relationships between men and women can be improved, even to the point of altering our basic fantasies. "Vaginal Politics," on health care for women, is eminently worth reading, as is "Dealing with the, uh, Problem," an essay about vaginal sprays. "Truth and Consequences" stresses the importance of overcoming one's political prejudices and reporting and accepting unpleasant truths. And she is correct about the potential dangers of consciousness-raising groups.

But the truth is that Nora Ephron refuses to take women seriously. Take her essay, "Baking Off," on the Pillsbury contest. She never uses her skill to probe these women. She prefers, rather, to quote the silliest member of the lot. She does not ask why some women find it imperative to enter the Pillsbury contest or why they struggle to be "super" homemakers. Unable to understand that many women honestly enjoy the homemaker role, she never questions their isolation from the women's movement.

One wishes she had addressed herself to the problem of why so many women for whom this movement is ostensibly intended feel so alienated from it. "In the women's movement, to be called the mother of anything is rarely a compliment." More's the pity, for this is exactly where the movement is at its weakest. (pp. 412-13)

Nor does Ephron deal with the obvious profitability of sexism. She's too busy scoring points off those Pillsbury ladies….

Unable to "understand any woman's wanting to be the first woman to do anything," Nora Ephron treads too many well-worn grooves: Julie Nixon Eisenhower, Rosemary Woods, one more negative comment about women in Israel. We have all been there before. But Ms. Ephron is not in business to tell her audience anything it does not wish to hear. After all, there are men lurking in those Esquire bushes. (p. 413)

What most of these media phenomena [described in Scribble Scribble] have in common, besides Ephron's contempt for them, is that they had no merit or standing B.E. Two exceptions are a discerning low-key interview with Russell Baker and a funny piece on "Uncle Art" Ephron the TV carpet campaigner. The pity of it is, she knows better: every damning thing that can be said about this compost heap, Ephron says about one or another of her trashy subjects (and, covering her tracks, about herself for having written about them). Including "Nobody really cares."