Curse You, Perry the Platypus.

And by “Perry the Platypus,” I really meant E. (Unfortunately for most of the adults in my life, Disney channel sitcoms frequently color my expressions these days. It’s the price of being a mom, I guess.)

By my best friend E’s hand, I have unwittingly joined the Twilight cult, and as embarrassed as I am by this, I stayed up almost the entire night reading the first installment in one go. And adding to that humility (I must be a masochist with these confessions), I actually just took an inconvenient trip to Target for the rest of the books under the pretense that Bug needed more socks.  And finally, because why stop there? I am eagerly awaiting Bug’s bedtime so I can curl up on the couch with Robert Pattinson on Comcast onDemand. I have reduced to a thirteen-year-old girl, the way I’m anticipating reading the rest of the novels like it’s prom night.

So that ups my book count to ten for the year. No, make that eleven, because before my Twilight crush, I read Sideways. Which I loved and which I will properly synopsize later, because unfortunately for Rex Pickett, his brilliance is forgettable right now. Sorry, Homes. (It’s too bad; I wish someone out there could appreciate my wit. Just then. Back up. Yep, right about there.)

Ah, hell, let’s just go ahead and make the final count for the weekend fourteen, because there are four books in the Twilight saga, and, honey, I’m just getting started.

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