Twilight is sucking my life away...

Right now, I should be doing many other things. I should be addressing Christmas cards, wrapping presents from Santa, vacuuming and dusting the house, finishing the shopping that I've procrastinated about like I do every year, blah blah yadda yadda. And yet, I'm not.
I don't even want to be sitting here, writing this, really. But I need to write, as I haven't so much as touched my novel-in-progress in a week, even though I'm at a crucial point (as in: It's almost done, after four friggin' years!!!). But, no, I'm still in my jammies, hair all bed-headed, last night's mascara still smudged under my eyes, teeth mildly fuzzy due to an over-abundance of peppermintinis and a hot tub. And still I sit.

Now, some of you know me and know that I am the queen of procrastination, that me letting the house fall into complete chaos is not so much news. But this is just getting insane. It's worse this time, I promise.
Why the over-abundance of procrastination? Why is this normally laid-back-but-at-least-somewhat-productive housewife completely blowing off all responsibilities?

I'll tell you why. But it ain't gonna be pretty.

Twilight.

You heard me.

As loathe as I am to admit it because I swore I would never read it (I'll detail my book snobbery momentarily), I inhaled the first book in 3 days and am halfway through the second one, which I started yesterday. I can't put the stupid thing down.

So why was I so obstinately hesitant to read it in the first place?
1. It's by a BYU graduate. That right there is repulsive.
2. It's being fawned over by the women around here. The women who have very carefully decided that I am not one of them. The women whose idea of a Mom's Night Out involves squealing over the latest scrapbooking crap, whereas mine involves bottomless martinis and squealing over cute men who are not my husband. It is my personal crusade to rebel against all things Utah Housewife. Even though I am, technically, one.
3. I figured that the things in 1 and 2 immediately indicated that these books would be akin to the likes of Nora Roberts (*gag*) and Mary Higgens Clark (*retch*). I hate those kind of books. Hate them. The phony dialog, the implausibly convenient plot twists, the retarded narrative. They are written by and for mental midgets. (See? Book snob. Yes I am. Sorry if you're a fan.) I don't want to read about throbbing manhoods, windswept hair, smoldering looks, and bursting bodices. I need a good story and some realistically angst-driven conflict. Not girlie crap.

So, then, why the hell am I enjoying this story so much?
1. It's an easy read, and not unpleasant. She's got a good voice, and absolutely does not sound like she's from BYU. There are actual funny quips, snarky lines, the characterizations are realistic (yes, even the vampires), and even though there are smoldering looks, it's done without much cheese.
2. I'm a secret fantasy believer. Love the Anne Rice books, love all things Harry Potter (written anyway. Don't get me started on the movies). Somewhere inside me, I want to believe that this shit could really happen, and love it when authors can make it plausible.
3. There's a chance that I, the snarky Domestic Goddess, might just be a bit of a romantic.

There. I said it. I'll even go further.

I want an Edward. I have been yearning for an Edward my whole life. (Hey, there's some cheese now!) I am addicted to that whole pulled-toward-someone, to the first blooming moments of wanting someone. To the leaning, the covert looks, the tentative touches, the forgetting the rest of the world exists when you look at someone. It's an addiction that has almost cost me my marriage. It's something that I've done a lot of work to bury. I've written my own 12-step program for it.

We can go into the whole "Why don't you have that with your husband" thing, but, come on. As much as I love him, as lucky as I know I am, as handsome and caring and selfless as he is, there will always be something about an Edward. And I don't think Edward would be an Edward after 12 years. Comfort and happiness and knowing someone's annoying little personality quirks can just....delete the smoldering. I'm pretty sure I don't smolder when he thinks of me, either. We love each other, can't imagine life without each other, and there is occasionally some romance.

And we had those first moments with the glancing and the touching and the smoldering. We did. And it lasted longer than with anyone else. But, then, well....life happened.

So, I'm going to go read some more, before I absolutely have to rejoin the real world to get my daughter from school and take her flute shopping.

How about you? Any books that you never thought you'd enjoy and then ended up absorbed in?