Deep in the Hallows of Death

On a whim and fueled by an intense marketing frenzy, I acquired my copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows at 1 am Saturday morning. Things just worked out in my favor. After a tremendously successful opening show of COLE Friday night the cast, crew & band went out for a few soft drinks...alright, I'm sure I can't pull that wool over your eyes. We had cocktails, alcoholic beverages, sinful sips of Satan's libations at the local pub, ok? Well, by the time we completed our celebratory toasting the clock hands had moved well passed midnight. As I drove home (completely sober, of course) I decided on a whim to just pass by the Barnes & Noble and see if the Potter feeding frenzy was still going on. It was. The mall parking lot reminded me of the final Christmas Eve rush. Packed like sardines, they were. "What the heck," said I, and pulled into the lot and screeched into a spot just emptied by a jumping 12 yr old and his weary eyed mother. I entered the store to discover stacks of the final Harry Potter books behind the registers and a line that snaked throughout the store, past the magazines, through the history section, between the biographies & Sci Fi, and ending in the self help isle. At least as I took my place in line I could read up on exactly why the hell I was behaving like a lemming jumping off a cliff and following the crowd at 1 am in the morning. It took about 10 minutes to wind through the store and end up at a register where the unusually cheerful sales rep asked, “how many copies?” I felt like saying, “I just need the new issue of Playboy Magazine, please.” But I figured it was 1:10 am and her cheerful smile was merely plastered on her face and she wouldn’t appreciate the humor. Well done, self censor. So I received and paid for my one copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, went straight home and read the first two chapters before falling into a deep opening night slumber. In her usual style, J.K. Rowling has opened the book with a bang, jumping right into conflict and putting Harry in severe peril. Oooo….what will happen? After reading 175 pages this weekend I still have only cracked the book. Only about 600 pages to go! I better stock up on chocolate. This is going to take a while.

Shyaddup and Eat Your Poop

Photo by Jocelyn McCuley First, I can’t wait to find out what Google searches end up on this entry. (You sickos!) Little Goonie is 5 (“and a half”) and has reached the stage where all things Poop releated are the funniest jokes on the planet. Simply mentioning the word ‘Poop’ gets her rolling hysterically on the floor. Bobo the Klingon had her #2 birthday this week. She adores her big sister and anything funny to Goonie is worthy of being funny for her. Goonie has lured Bobo into the fold of “poop is funny”. When she has soiled her diaper she makes no hesitation to run up to a parental unit and shout “POOP!” ‘Course, in her little Klingon accent it comes out more like ‘pyooooop’ making her embarrassing moments in public a little more cute and endurable. But Bobo only knows the shape, color texture of her own poop and the little tiny poop droppings from the Chihuahua. Stay with me… On Bobo’s birthday we went with my in-laws to dine at Sweet Tomatoes. If you’re not familiar with Sweet Tomatoes, it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet style restaurant except the buffet line is about a quarter mile long stocked with all varieties of salads, noodle salads, toppings & dressings, creating a sweet sensation of ‘I’m gorging on healthy food so it’s ok to overeat’. After devouring two mountainous plates of salad there was still room for desert. So I headed for the desert bar and found a delicious variety of chocolate pudding and chocolate mousse. (Review my addiction here) I piled about three servings full onto a plate and sat back down. Bobo sat across from me and when she saw the giant glop of brown gelatinous pudding she all but screamed, “POOOP!! Poop, Dada!” All eyes in the crowded restaurant flashed our direction to see what the poop commotion was about. I’m sure they didn’t want to step in anything as they left in disgust. I grabbed a spoon, hunched over my plate of ‘poop’, looked at Bobo and said, “shyaddup, kid. Here, eat some poop.” Goonie witnessed the entire ordeal and could not contain herself after I offered poop to her younger sister. “Poop! You’re eating poop! Ha ha!” For the rest of the meal and the entire ride home it was a “POOP!”-fest for the girls. Songs about poop. Farting noises. Uncontainable laughter. Then when the laughter subsided a little, Bobo would say, “pyoooop” and hysterics started again. I guess Bobo’s subconscious worked overtime with the topic of the day, ‘cause when we got home…you guessed it! A very large token of appreciation awaited us in her diaper. Whew! I’m pooped.