Is Nora Ephron’s op-ed in the New York Times today actually an old Maureen Dowd op-ed from 2001? You make the call. Here’s MoDo back then:

At first, I had separation anxiety.
I missed all the chaos and intrigue, the lies and cover-ups and sweet talk and reconciliations and razzmatazz.
I stalked my ex. I couldn’t help myself.
I drove up to Chappaqua and stood around for hours in the cold and slush of Bill’s driveway. I bought a box of Pepperidge Farm Double Chocolate Chunk cookies at his favorite deli, hoping the aroma would lure him out of the house.
Bill still had trouble written all over him. I still wanted to cover a guy who had trouble written all over him… [snip]
Today, instead of a reunion of his tax families, he could have gathered the fur-clad and Gulfstream-riding Pioneers, the rich Republicans who pumped $90 million, the biggest fundraising haul in history, into W.’s campaign, hoping for a tax windfall.
Lastly, in the spirit of bipartisanship, W. could have ushered out to the cameras a new millionaire who could use a good tax cut now that he’s raking in $100,000 a pop for his speeches: my ex.

And here’s NoPhro today:

I broke up with Bill a long time ago. It’s always hard to remember love – years pass and you say to yourself, was I really in love or was I just kidding myself? Was I really in love or was I just pretending he was the man of my dreams? Was I really in love or was I just desperate? But when it came to Bill, I’m pretty sure it was the real deal. I loved the guy… [snip]
When Bill described the conference, it was riveting. I could see how much he cared; and of course, I could see how smart he was. It was so refreshing. It was practically moving. To my amazement, I could even see why I’d loved the guy in the first place. It made me sadder than I can say. It’s much easier to get over someone if you can delude yourself into thinking you never really cared that much.
Then, later in the week, I was reading about Bill’s conference, and I came upon something that made me think, for just a moment, that Bill might even want me back. “I’ve reached an age now where it doesn’t matter whatever happens to me,” he said. “I just don’t want anyone to die before their time any more.” It almost really got to me. But then I came to my senses. And instead I just wanted to pick up the phone and call him and say, if you genuinely believe that, you hypocrite, why don’t you stand up and take a position against this war?
But I’m not calling. I haven’t called in years and I’m not starting now.

Are they the same column? Or are they the same person? Or are they both Nina Burleigh?

[As quoted by MoDo] The President’s foot lightly, and presumably accidentally, brushed mine once under the table. His hand touched my wrist while he was dealing the cards. When I got up and shook his hand at the end of the game, his eyes wandered over my bike-wrecked, naked legs. And slowly it dawned on me as I walked away: He found me attractive…
There was a time when the hormones of indignant feminism raged in my veins. An open gaze like that, at least from a man of lesser stature, would have annoyed me. But that evening… I felt incandescent. It was riveting to know that the President had appreciated my legs, scarred as they were. If he had asked me to continue the game of hearts back in his room at the Jasper Holiday Inn, I would have been happy to go there and see what happened.

What? Play hearts? I don’t get it.

Ohhhhhh. I see.