A Confessional Book Review

Y'all, something tragic has happened.  Brace yourselves because I'm sure you are going to want to hit your knees in prayer when I tell you:  my index finger is killing me.  Seriously, I keep trying to stretch it out and move it around and it is really rude to point so I have been incredibly rude in the past few days.  This is the unforeseen consequence of feeling the need to type out every single mundane and ridiculous thought I have had since I started this blogging adventure.  Actually, I'm not sure it's the typing itself.  I think it's the scrolling around, up and down and clicking here and there to see these kind and encouraging comments. Oops.  Pretty sure I told myself I most certainly would not do that because I do not need compliments, I just need a place to spill all the words swirling around in my brain.  But, y'all have been so nice, so I'm going to blame you for the severe muscle pull in my index finger.  (Is there a muscle in my index finger?)

In any case, I'm going to go ahead and post today and try to be less wordy (yea, right) than usual because I feel the need to let you in on a little secret and a little book review/recommendation I have for you.  If you did not spend the 80s in high school or college or if you think of yourself as a bit of a book snob, you will likely not heed my advice here, but you will be missing out.

First, I'll point out that I have tried to be a book snob.  If you've read any of my Daybooks about what I've been reading I have smugly noted Lonesome Dove (858 pages, thank you very much), Gone with the Wind (750ish pages.  Again, thank you.), and The Catcher in the Rye.  Oh and the Holy Bible (pretty lengthy). I'm telling the truth about reading those and those books are all classics and deserve all the awards and places on Book Club book lists and all that.  But, the book that I am going to risk further injury to my finger to tell you about is one that I read during Kyle's hockey practices in the fall.  I will admit that I took the book jacket off and might have tried to make out the words behind dark sunglasses in the corner of the hockey facility, but it turned out to be one of the most enjoyable books I read in the past year:  Stories I Only Tell My Friends by the one, the only Rob Lowe.  No, I'm not kidding.

If you had that poster of Rob Lowe as Billy Hix with the headband and the earring on your wall in 1986ish, get it.  If you watched About Last Night 635 times, get it.  If you remember that you could not wait for The Outsiders to come out and you and your friends argued about who was the cutest and you always chose Sodapop, get it.  If you remember The Brat Pack and you thought they were just the coolest ever, get it.  I'm telling you it really is well-written and full of interesting stories about all those Hollywood people.  Then there is the very heartwarming story of his facing alcoholism and recovery and his commitment to his one (!) marriage.  Also, I've seen him on a talk show or two and he is smart and pretty funny...pretty and funny, I mean.  I think it's out in paperback now, but if you want to borrow it, I have the hardback book.  Yes, I do.

And here is the best story I have about reading this book.  I was sitting in bed reading it.  Husband was sitting in bed reading something juvenile like 1776.  I somehow forgot for a second that he is my husband and I said, "Look at this picture of Rob Lowe!  He's wearing a wetsuit and waxing his surfboard.  I mean, just.look.at.him!  He's like, 50 now.  Seriously, can you believe that he still looks like that?"  My husband glanced over at the picture, glanced back at his book and with an absolutely bored-out-of-his-mind expression, said, "So?  I could look like that...I just don't feel like it."  And that is why I would pick my man over Rob Lowe and his surfboard every single day. :)