I'm the Vampire, That's Why by Michele Bardsley

What's on the back of the book:
Does drinking blood make me a bad mother?
Broken Heart is the city with the highest rate of divorce and highest percentage of single parents in Oklahoma. A I, Jessica Matthews, have been a member of that club ever since my husband dumped me for his twentysomething secretary and then had the gall to die in a car accident.
Now I'm not just a single mother trying to make ends meet in this crazy world. . . .I'm also a vampire. One minute I was taking out the garbage; the next I awoke sucking on the thigh of superhot vampire Patrick O'Halloran.
But though my stretch marks have disappeared and my vision has improved, I can't rest until the thing that did this to me is caught. My kids' future is at stake. . .as is my sex life. Once a vampire does the dirty deed, it hitches her to the object of her affection for at least one hundred years. I just don't know if I'm ready for that kind of commitment. . . .

A piece from the book:
The night I died, I was wrestling a garbage can to the curb.
I had a perfectly healthy fourteen-year-old son who should have taken out the garbage after dinner, but he, and let me quote him directly here, "forgot."
Every Sunday and Wednesday night we had the same conversation, usually five minutes after he crawled into bed. Here's the script:
Enter the Mother into the Pit of Despair. I refuse to walk more than a foot into the Pit because I'm afraid a radiated tentacle might emerge from a gooey pile of papers and clothes and drag me, screaming and clutching at the faded carpet, into the smells-like-lima-beans clutter. I open the door, try not to inhale any noxious boy-room fumes, and delicately scoot one Keds-protected foot inside. Cue dialogue.
"G'night, honey. And Bry? Did you take out the garbage?"
"Oops."
"It's twice a week. It's your only chore. I pay you ten bucks every Friday morning to do it."
"It's a heinous chore."
"I know. That's why I pay you to do it."
"Sorry, Mom. I forgot."
At this point in the twice-weekly argument, variations occurred. Sometimes, Bryan faked snores until I went away, sometimes he actually fell asleep mid-lecture, and sometimes he whined about how his nine-year-old sister Jenny didn't do chores, and I still paid her five dollars every Friday morning.
So, yet again, just after ten p.m. on a Wednesday night, I found myself pulling first one, then the second thirty-gallon garbage can down the driveway, and trying to align the grimy plastic containers near, but not off, the curb. Do not get me started on sloppy, lid-flinging, half-trash-dumping garbage men who are extraordinarily picky about the definition of "curbside pickup."
When huge, hairy hands grabbed ny shoulders and heaved me across the street and into Mrs. Ryerson's prized rose bushes, I didn't have time to scream, much less panic. The whatever-it-was leapt upon me and ripped open my neck, snuffling and snarling as it sucked at the bleeding wound.
Good God. What sort of man-creature could hold a grown woman down like a Great Dane and gnaw on her like a favorite chew toy? It slurped and slurped and slurped . . . until the excruciating pain (and honey, I've suffered through labor twice) faded into a feeling of weightlessness. I felt very floaty, like my body had turned into mist, or like that time in college when I took a hit of acid and had the "Tinkerbell" episode. I knew that if I just let go, I'd rise into the night sky and free myself from gravity . . . from responsibility . . . from Bryan and Jenny.
Just thinking about my kids slammed me down to earth. My husband had passed away little more than a year ago in a car accident. Don't feel to sorry for me though. I was in the middle of divorcing the son of a bitch.
I couldn't scream. I couldn't lift my arms. I couldn't open my eyes. But I felt my body again, every aching, pain-throbbing inch of it. The heavy, smelly thing pressing my limp body into thorny branches and noisily smacking against my throat grunted and rolled off. Dry grass crunched and leaves rattled as it moved, growling and groaning like a well-fed coyote. I didn't flicker an eyelid for fear it would try for a killing blow, though if the state of my neck wound was as bad as I thought, I was dead anyway. Then I heard the sounds of bare feet slapping against pavement and realized the thing was running away. Fast.
I don't remember how I disentangled my sorry self from the bushes. I have vague memories of the roses' too sweet scent as I crawled across the street and collapsed near my knocked-over garbage cans.
For those who know me, meeting my end amid muttered curses and spilled refuse was not a great shock. But, shock or not, it was still a crappy way to go.