I cannot believe I am admitting this

After reading my post with all those extraordinary and delightful book recommendations, my friend Marta immediately handed me the first two books in that crack-like Twilight vampire series.

I read Twilight in a night, snuggled in bed with a pint of frozen yogurt. Both were delicious. I was almost equally invested in both. Almost.

I then went on to devour New Moon, which I liked less, but which I understand sets you up well for the third and fourth. Which I cannot wait to read.

And it bothers me. Because I think I should be smarter than this.

The Harry Potter books, they were so well written, and there were all these cool references to clever things. Rowling's character, place, and object names were excellent. Her imagination is fabulous. Her descriptions vivid.

And the Twilight books? Not so much.

The author, she is not a great writer. She's not overly creative. She repeats adjectives.

And yet, I love these books. And I have to face the fact that I'm all kinds of invested in teenage high school angst. Or rather, teenage high school vampire angst.

I will say that I got fairly annoyed in the second book with all the "I love you but I'm not worthy. I don't deserve you." "No, I love you and I'm the one who isn't worthy. I don't deserve you more."

Stupid. But didn't stop me. Even through this, I can't wait to read the next one.

And I am all, oh, dude, just vampire her already! And then you can get it on. Because you cannot make me believe that you are seriously going to go through all four or five or whatever of these fucking books with nothing but declarations of intense, angsty love, and constant internal struggle and occasional passionate kisses and holding of ice cold hands?

And then I think, seriously, Lis? This is the part you're finding unrealistic about these little tales?

And the cold does worse things to some of us than others

I was on the Mall for the swearing in. Because while I am a delicate flower, and loathe the cold more than just about anything, I couldn't bear the idea of not being in the middle of things.

There's no need to go through any of it with you; you saw it first-hand or on TV, and if the latter, had a much more comprehensive view than I did.

So, let's be clear. I am so glad I went. It was exciting. It was incredible to witness, and it felt amazing to be in a crowd so jubilant, so positive. I have no regrets about going.

Also, I got so cold I couldn't wait to leave.

To prepare for the hours in the freezy freezingness, I started with an undershirt. Then a long sleeve shirt, a wool turtleneck, and a fleece jacket. I then wrapped a thick, thick wool scarf around my neck, and then squeezed into my heaviest coat and warmest hat.

I could barely get into the coat, I had so many layers underneath. My arms stuck out a little on the sides.

My weak point was my feet. I had knee-high wool socks and my Dansko clogs - good for all the walking, but no match for hours of standing on the brutally cold ground.

One of the things I learned about myself today is that much like opera, I like outdoor winter events - even momentous, once-in-a-lifetime ones - better in theory than in practice.

At a certain point, I stopped being able to feel my feet. And that point was a good half hour before the swearing in began. And a good couple hours before we got back to my friend's house. And once I reached that point, my feet were almost all I could think of.

My feet, my fucking freezing feet. I bet I have frostbite. How long before there's permanent damage?

I started thinking about that depressing Jack London story, To Build a Fire. The cold creeps up, and you can't get your fire started, and then you fall asleep and die. Your dog even leaves you, if I recall correctly.

So anyway. We walked and walked, stood and stood, and cheered and clapped, and then walked and walked. And after a brief stop at my friend's house to warm up, I headed back into the cold to metro out to Virginia.

As soon as I got home, I stuck my feet as close to the fire as possible. Once I get all bone cold, it takes hours to get unfrozen.

Nick said my feet got so cold because all my blood was rushing to my core to keep it warm. He said my feet were probably extra cold because all your blood leaves your extremities.

He said that when his feet get really cold, he pees a lot.

"You mean," I said, "you just stand there and pee all over them to warm them up?"

This was a strategy that had never occurred to me. Messy, but probably effective. . .

He didn't even respond, just gave me that head cocked, oh no, sweetheart, no, you feeble thing, kind of look.

I wonder if your brain counts as an extremity?

Big Ole Chedo Lino

So you know how you can hear the lyrics of a song wrong?

And then, even after you know the right lyrics, even after learning that your version is completely inane, you still have a hard time letting go of it? That's just how it is, and that's that?

Or maybe this doesn't happen to you.

See, last night Nick said I'd ruined this one particular song for him for good. This song by the Steve Miller Band, called Jet Air Liner. Big old jet airliner, don't carry me too far away. Big old jet airliner, 'cause it's here that I've got to stay.

Or, in my world, the Big Ole Chedo Lino song.

You know, Big Ole Chedo Lino, don't carry me too far away. Big Ole Chedo Lino...

It's a song I think I heard for the first time in high school. And probably didn't learn the correct lyrics until at least a decade later. It was most likely Maude who corrected me, since there are so few people I sing with.

Chedo Lino, in my mind, was roughly the size of Paul Bunyan. Enormous. Not dangerous, just enormous. Fully capable of carrying you too far away. He'd probably carry you back to Bemidji, in fact.

See, I grew up spending my summers in Minnesota and North Dakota. Driving past gigantor Paul Bunyan and his trusty Babe the Blue Ox. Chedo Lino, for me, he wasn't such a stretch.

I'm not saying I'm propagating this version. It's more that it's very hard to let go.

The kind of moments that make me believe that there must be a higher power in the universe

Tuesday night I got to Nick's office and he handed me a letter from England. It was from a friend who had come across some old photos and thought he might like them.

There were several of Nick. In one, he had on this form-fitting, sleeveless, spandex outfit. Which turned out to be a rowing uniform.

Apparently that they have to be tight tight tight and all one piece so that you don't have any extra fabric on which to catch your fingers or oar while you're racing.

Before I could make fun of the spandex, I was all, "You were so hot! You never told me you were so hot! And can you look like this again?"

This was, you see, about a decade and a number of pounds ago. It's not that he's not cute now, and it's not that I don't love him in his entirety. But, goodness.

So ten years ago, Nick packed up his life in Alabama and moved to England for a year. Officially it was to start a PhD program, but I frankly think that he really needed a radical life change and some distance from everything.

After a year he moved to DC and spent better part of the decade just waiting to meet me. Or something like that.

So the England.

While he was there he rowed, and he absolutely loved it. He formed incredibly strong friendships - friendships that last to this day. A number of his groomsmen flew from Europe for the weekend to be in our wedding.

But back to the picture. Or rather, the rowing uniform.

So as I was exclaiming about his hotness, and all fascinated by the outfit, he said, "You know, I still have it."

"Have what?"

"The uniform. I could put it on when we get home and fulfill your fantasy."

"Which fantasy would that be?"

"The one that involves the overweight middle-aged man in a unitard."

I love him so.

The spell check business

I'm sporadic about spell checking my posts and rarely do so with personal email. What's a typo or two among friends?

But at work, of course, I always do.

The thing about spell check, though, is that if it's a real word, it doesn't get caught.

And so you could edit something that said "program manger" rather than "program manager" - and if you weren't paying close attention, you'd miss it. Oops. Luckily, both caught by someone else and not egregious.

This, however, made me think about this old colleague of mine.

Who sent a client an email with the line, "I hope this does not cause you too much incontinence."

The reply? "It did not cause me any incontinence. It didn't inconvenience me, either."

Thank goodness for that.