AAAAH! Overshare!

I fell in love with the Sookie Stackhouse Southern Vampire Series from Charlaine Harris from the first sentence in "Dead Until Dark." I found the series just as I was missing Virginia and the South desperately. Sookie's adventures as a telepath, barmaid and vampire lover in the Deep South of Louisiana were like a glorious reunion (but without the hog guts and corn pone my neighbor Lurene used to force-feed me at brunch.)

So imagine, if you will, my excitement when HBO announced the "True Blood" series based on Sookie's adventures. The Todd, who HATES gore, gamely made us a special vampire dinner of rare rib roast, red fingerling potatoes and red wine. We excitedly sat down to see my dream come to the small screen.

We both sat frozen for the first, oh, 25 minutes or so as everyone whipped off their clothes and enthusiastically embraced each other in all manner of contortionistic efforts. I finally ventured, "there isn't this much sex in the books..."

"Uh, huh." said The Todd, still staring at Sookie's brother Jason, a harness, an employee from the Stop 'N Shop, a stained couch and a wheel of cheese.

It has nothing to do with taste--The Todd will tell you I have the cultural sensibilities of an 18 year old frat boy. It has nothing to do with squeamishness. I've given birth. 'Nuff said.

It's just--OVERSHARE! I don't even want to watch MYSELF having sex, much less anyone else. It's taking all the fun out of it for me. I want to remember Sookie bravely battling evil vampires from the Dallas syndicate, not the sight of Anna Paquin's bare bosom. For the love of Pete--she won an Oscar for that role as the little girl in "The Piano!" It's like...I don't know...like, seeing my niece in "Playboy" or something.

I'm still watching "True Blood" faithfully every Sunday night. Just, with one hand over one eye. Then, it's only half as creepy and uncomfortable.