Ideal Bite

Don't call me this weekend. Or email. Or knock on my door. Or try to make plans. Or expect me to workout, or even to sleep for that matter. I will be holed up in my room from Saturday morning onward, reading the final book until my eyes burn and pop further out of my head than Dobby's, aimlessly reaching for salted almonds, probably drooling slightly. (OK, OK, I'll most likely have finished it by the end of the day on Saturday, and if he's dead, you can come over and save me from my wine-soaked angst over the death of a fictitious, teenage, um, wizard).

Oh yes, I am that much of a Harry-Potter-loving geek. The fact that the book's paper has a higher recycled content? Gravy.

For me (and my sister-in-law and about a million little kids all over the world), it's the end of an era. Never again will there be this point in time - a final day when we don't know what happens. Culturally fascinating, really. From here on out, the movies will be out on DVD, the stories will be told, everyone will already know if he's dead or alive at the end of the series. Poor, poor little future Harry Potter readers. (Does it make me even more odd that I am leaning toward having a kid just so we can read HP together? Hmmmm.)

All right, I know, I know. "Oooooh-Kaaaay, Heather...It's.  Just.  A.  Book."

Yeah, right. And Fox Mulder is just a regular ole FBI agent...

-Heather... off to, well, buy some eyedrops...