Sickly

So this weekend I spent most of my time wheezing and moving from one couch to another. I did things like watch She's All That. Freddy Prinze Jr. is in that movie. And I'd already seen it.

Suffice it to say, I did the things you do when you have a cold.

I also finished a book I've been reading, and I'm going to take a page from Ruth and write a wee review here.

Love is a Mix Tape by Rob Sheffield isn't the kind of book I would normally read. For one thing, it's nonfiction. I tend to say away from that. But Guy brought it home and was all excited, and I couldn't have that. (You see, he has an assignment--a very important book that he really does have to read, and that he swore he would. And proceeded to scoff and say he could read it in a weekend. I took Love is a Mix Tape away from him for a week, have now finished it, and he STILL hasn't finished his assignment. I'm just saying.)

I started reading it on the subway, and started crying. It's the story of a music geek who fell in love, got married young, and then one day his wife got up to eat a sandwich and died. It's a surprisingly funny and unsurprisingly sad rhapsody on this woman Renee, and on music.

It's well-written, but most of all it's very honest. Renee comes across as one well-loved woman, but also as one well-known woman. He loves, but doesn't romanticize her. And he certainly doesn't romanticize his own grief.

He does romanticize music, but in a very charming way. So much so that he made me want to give Hanson another try (that impusle has faded--and I should clarify--he has some questionable tastes).

So give it a read. When it comes out, which is in, um, January. I'll remind you.

Oh, and I talked to my folks in Hawaii. Everybody's fine. Word is (and they may be lying to me to make me feel better) that it was a really slow news day, and the networks are making it out to be worse than it is.