Still recovering from HP7, which I devoured within the first 24 hours of purchase. I pretty much read from 8 p.m. to 4 a.m. straight. I am in awe of those who have the discipline to put it down between chapters.
I don't think I'm letting out any spoilers when I say that I found the outcome satisfactory. But dang, Ms. Rowling, that is one wicked gangsta body count.

Not Ready For Prime Time. My husband had a stunned-bunny look on his face the other day. "You should know," he said in a very calmly modulated voice, "that our daughter has told me that she has to be married soon."

Bear in mind that Daddy would sooner give Matsuzaka away to the Yankees for free than admit that someday his daughter might go on a date. The notion of her getting married is simply too awful to imagine.

Then our little girl came up to me and announced, "Mommy, I have to be married soon." At first I thought I'd woken up on the wrong side of the 15th Century. Then I asked her who she planned to marry. She had to think about that for a minute, then she said, "Swiper."

So my two-year-old plans to marry an animated kleptomaniac fox. I can handle that.

Oh, by the way, "Halley" has started scoot-crawling. He can sit up unassisted too. And he giggles like the goat in the AFLAC commercials.

Waiting, waiting, waiting... Once it became clear that I would not see HP&tDH for several days, I picked up my paperback of Book One for a fix. It helps, but it also reminds me that I'm jonesing for a children's book. So to bide my time, and remind me that I'm a grownup, I've picked up the copy of Jonathan Strange and Mr. Norrell my sister-in-law gave me. I am blessed with abundantly cool sisters-in-law.

Deep down I know I did the right thing, establishing domestic tranquility and all that on Friday evening. But I really really really wanted to go downtown, get that ruddy book, and Twitter or phone my peeps back home with "Chapter One..., neener neener." I would have stayed up all night reading and been a wreck the next day.

Now you know that you're getting old when staying up all night and being a useless pile of junk the next day involves reading a book rather than ingesting recreational chemicals.

ARRRRGGGGGGH!!!!!
The four most miserable words in the English language are "SOLD OUT - Pre-Orders Only".

Okay, seriously. I am a reasonable person. I know that there are hundreds of millions of people on this earth in more dire conditions than this. And I complain about closet mildew and the water running out and insects the size of Shetland ponies, but I tell myself that these are blessings compared to the life I could be living.

Then this happens.

I could have had one of these books several hours before the rest of my family. The Island's closest-thing-to-a-metropolis had a street fair launch party, kicking off at midnight London time (i.e. while it's still daylight here Friday night). I wanted to go. But nooooooooooooooooo, I decided I was going to act my age.

I stayed at home, put the kids to bed, cleaned the kitchen, did a load of laundry, took the box fan apart to scrub and soak the mildew off of it, and got a good night's sleep. The next morning, I dropped off a donation at the hospital board's charity shop (is this not good karma, I ask you?!?!?) and went to my morning appointment.

And when I got downtown at 11 a.m. Saturday morning, every book that wasn't spoken for was sold. Gone. Nada. Zilch. Niente. Bupkes.

Who runs the bookstores on this lump of rock anyway?

I even saw people on the street walking around with their copies, and only refrained from jumping them because they had the kids with them.

So I suppose I can only blame myself for not having the presence of mind to pre-order the thing, for expecting that there would be copies aplenty of the most anticipated book of the year, and not adapting my mindset sufficiently to Island Mode.

And I should get a grip on myself, because it is just a book - and one written for people one-third my age - and I will get a copy eventually.

But I am compelled to maintain my media blackout for at least another week. And the last two e-mails that my mom sent me had "Harry Potter" in the title, so I don't dare click on them. (Sorry Mom, better call me if it's important.)

And I repeat, anyone who spoils this book for me meets a nasty fate: I will lock you in the water tank under my house. You will either drown, die of thirst, or be devoured by something with six legs and no conscience. All are warned.

Echoing my Big Brother here: I am jumping on the Hogwarts Express tomorrow, come hell or high water or horcruxes. I am entering a media blackout for the next 72 hours. Anyone who even dreams about putting a spoiler in my path had better wake up and apologize. Then they'd best run for cover before I open a can of Sectumsempra on their sorry behinds.

I fully realize that I should know better. I am closer to 40 than to 30. But deep down, (again, borrowing my bro's words) I am just two thirteen-year-olds and a twelve-year-old.

Even the mediocrity of Movie Five can not kill the buzz of giddy anticipation. See you all at the Burrow.

Happy Birthday to Me! I took the afternoon off work yesterday to take in a matinee of the new Harry Potter movie, because I am not really almost 40, I'm two thirteen-year-olds and a twelve-year-old.
This is the theatre where we went to see "The Departed" last fall, and the film broke about ten minutes before the end. So this place is just full of bad karma, but when there are four theatres on the entire island you can't be picky.
So of course it makes perfect sense that my skiving buzz got killed when we went to pick up Gigi from school, and her teacher said, "We've been trying to call you since 3:00; she has a fever, we've sent four other kids home today with temperatures."
None of this surprises me, of course, because the last time I swore I was taking a "mental health" day off, both kids got sick. I suppose this time the only reason Halley got off lucky was that I spent the first half of the day at work.

How did I spend July 4th? Eating red meat and watching a Spielberg flick about robots beating the crap out of each other. Sounds appropriate enough...

Best Headline This Year.

I'm going to be up half the night giggling over the concept of "too ignorant to be Canadian."

Really, it's going to take Dick Cheney getting his nipple bitten off by a beaver to top that one.

Our fearful trip is done, and I have fallen on the deck, cold and dead. As soon as I've recovered, you get the recap.