No, not Book 7.
While my husband and oldest daughter are plowing through the latest, instead I've decided to forget everything I've ever gleaned about Harry Potter by simply not living under a rock for the last ten or so years and Actually Read the Books.
Journey back with me for a moment, won't you? The year is 1998. I've just started a job at a nifty little local publishing company that hasn't yet been purchased by several different larger corporations. I'm busily making copies alongside my new coworker friend who is yet to become Fluid Pudding, and I'm floating a little because I've just met the man I'll end up marrying.
And then, my goody-two-shoes cube mate (we'll call her Stephanie), pokes her chubby, annoying face around my cube wall and strikes up a conversation.
"Hey there! Have you read any of the Harry Potter books? They're really good!"
"No, haven't." I tell Stephanie, silently vowing that I would never read whatever books these were, lest I accidentally have something in common to discuss with this girl.
So Stephanie lost 50 pounds and moved to Florida where she's no doubt teaching poor children about Jesus, and frankly, I want my Harry Potter experience back.
If you tell me the Harry Potter books are really good and that I should read them, I'll probably say, "Oh really? Who writes them?" as I reach for a pencil to jot down the name.
Because I am blissfully immersed in chapter three of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone.
And yes. It IS really good.