The time is (almost) now

Just in the last couple weeks, I've been feeling compelled to start writing again. Not just blogging writing (becaue as I've proven, my blogging is a bit sub-par of late), but actual writing writing.

This is a big deal-- I know a lot of you out there left the MFA program and your day to day life changed very little. I, on the other hand, left school and immediately proceeded to not write anything for the last three and a half years. Essentially, I figured, I had written a (very short) book, and was now entitled to list my name as "Kim Shable, MFA" on my TV Guide subscription.

I think I was just burned out-- kind of the way a greyhound doesn't really feel the need to run after a few years chasing the rabbit. And I also met a sexy dude, and moved into his house, and so writing took a back burner to being a sexy beast.

But just lately, I've been thinking, "maybe I could write something." I don't even know for sure if I could anymore-- I might have too much insurance knowledge in my head right now to make room for anything made up.

So I was wondering-- if I were to start some sort of informal writing group, would anyone be interested in allying themselves to it? I might have to start slow, with prompts and word limits and the whole deal, so I can ease back into it (if I try to write a novel right now, my brain might get tired and give up and go watch reruns of Just Shoot Me).

Any interest? If not, no big. I can continue with my unchecked TV viewing alllll night.

Power of the Pen

If you could, please take a moment to wish my fabulous cousin Katie good luck on her Power of the Pen try-outs tomorrow-- I will attempt to hide my jealousy that I am no longer the best writer in the family!

For those of you who aren't from 'round these parts (although Power of the Pen might be a national thing? But I don't know, because I got my ass kicked at the state level, so I didn't really progress much beyond that), Power of the Pen is a writing competition open to seventh and eighth graders, in which the writers have a limited amount of time to write a short piece based on a prompt given at the start of the session.

My own Power of the Pen story is a tragic one-- in seventh grade, I was felled the evening before the local round of competition by a vicious stomach flu that left me unable to compete. On a side note, that same night I ate a homemade pizza, and, convinced that it had poisoned me and robbed me of my one chance to finally kick ass at a (admittedly nerdily academic) team "sport," I swore off pizza for the next four years.

In the eighth grade I made it to the aforementioned state level, only to be positively crushed, leaving me embittered. Oh, I still wrote-- most famously, I went on to complete the infamous John Boston novel, quite possibly The Worst Novel Ever Written By Anyone, Ever-- but it wasn't really until college that my urge to use writing as a form of ass-kicking-ness returned.

Based on the story that Katie read me tonight, though, I have no doubts that, if such a thing exists, she will make it to the nationals. And I will ride on her coat tails to glory!

Good luck, Katie!

I've been trying to come up with something interesting to blog about for the past few days-- I promised that, upon my return, I would be a blogging machine, right? But thus far, nothing really of note has occurred. I did get a really bitchin' haircut (only one day after returning from my honeymoon, which prompted my boss to announce that "pretty soon, I would be going on an All-McDonald's Diet and going to sleep in flannel pajamas with a chastity belt underneath," because apparently cutting one's hair is tantamount to Giving Up Entirely), but hesitate to comment on it further until I can get a decent picture of it to share with you.

But other than the new 'do, there just hasn't been much happening. Or maybe there has, but because the wedding was such a gigantic event, it makes all other events in my life seem insanely small and lame? Possibly.

Either way, I'm beginning to worry that I have become boring. What's worse, I fear that I may have been boring for some time now, but had the crutch of Discussing the Wedding to fall back on.

I guess it's kind of like when you go on an amazing vacation, and take tons of pictures, but as soon as you return and people start asking you about the trip, you can't think of anything to say, other than, "it was really, really fun." Also: "We went putt-putt golfing," because you always go putt-putt golfing on vacation. We would have gone in Mexico, but such a thing did not seem to exist there. Which is silly, since the whole thing could have been Mayan-themed, which would have been awesome.

Anyway, I'm hoping to get my Person of Interest Mojo back shortly. Actually, I just thought of something way better to blog about than what I just wrote, but I think I'll save it for tomorrow-- I can't blow all my interestingness at once.

Will post more as soon as...

1. Office where computer is kept is reverted back to its normal state, away from its current state of Giant Messy Wedding Present Holding Pen

2. I get tired of my new shredder, or run out of things to shred

3. I work up the nerve to call my very nice but still somewhat intimidating photographer to find out how, exactly, we go about building our album

4. I find a way to re-enter society as Kim Oja, Married Girl, rather than Kim Shable, wedding-obsessed engaged girl who can talk about nothing other than her wedding

Until then, please enjoy this picture of Mexico, and please, don't be shy about goading me into posting, as I will likely recline in my living room under my souvenir Mexican blanket watching reruns of "The First 48" until the end of time.

PS: This picture was taken at Xel-Ha, which is where they filmed the movie Blue Lagoon, which means that I have gone swimming in the same water as Brooke Shields. I find that sort of gross.

Things I learned in Mexico

1. If the Atlanta airport loses your luggage, as they so often do, do not panic. Luckily for us all, Wal-Mart has penetrated even the most beautiful of locations. Once there, you will find an excellent Mexican Wal-Mart swimsuit, some perfectly serviceable Mexican Wal-Mart toiletries, and a most excellent Mexican Wal-Mart skort. Upon your return from Mexican Wal-Mart, your luggage will arrive.

2. It is helpful if you try to learn at least some phrases in Spanish before traveling to Mexico. For instance:

What time is it?

Where are we?

What is this I'm eating?

All those would have been helpful phrases for me to learn. However, my Sesame Street Spanish of Ola!, Gracias, Agua and Por Favor got me much farther than I would have anticipated.

3. For your information, the letter X is pronounced as a SH sound in the Mayan language. I tell you this so that you can avoid the embarassment that followed me pronouncing Xcaret and Xel-Ha as Excarrot and Excelha.

4. The Mayans still exist today, which I totally did not know, having assumed that, like the Aztecs, they were largely wiped out. Not so! In fact, they still comprise a large portion of the population in the Riviera Maya, where we stayed; over 10% of the population of Mexico is Mayan, and does not speak Spanish. (There is no joke in this one; I just found it extremely interesting.) On a side note, though, Mayan tour guides do enjoy making perhaps too many human sacrifice jokes.

5. They do not have squirrels in Mexico, but rather iguanas, wild pigs, feral cats, and some animal that we couldn't actually identify, but insisted on calling a Badgerito, which I'm sure is highly offensive, but which we found unendingly funny. They also have this weird half midget-deer, half-gopher thing that was weirdly ominous.

6. The movie Blue Lagoon was filmed in the previously mentioned Xel-ha; however, do not hold that against it, as it is probably the most beautiful place I've ever seen. Also, it has several all-you-can-eat buffets, which is definitely a bonus.

7. In all, Mexico-- specifically the Riviera Maya-- is about the greatest, most romantic place you can ever go for your honeymoon; its only real downfall is that it is, in fact, so spectacular that it makes the prospect of going to work tomorrow make me throw up a little in my mouth.

Pictures to follow tomorrow as soon as Blogger ceases its broken-ness!

Ojas at the hitchin' post

Greatest. Day. Ever. Thanks to everyone who made it so special-- those who were present, and those who were present in spirit. Special thanks to the greatest maid of honor and matron of honor ever, Ashley and Megan, and to my new sister-in-law (weird!) Becki, and most thanks of all to my wonderful, amazing, astounding husband Ben. If you want to check out more pictures, or if you were in attendance and have pictures you still need to upload to fulfill your friendly honor (hint hint), go to our Snapfish site.

Now, to Mexico. Ole!

The last you'll hear from Kim Shable

With the wedding rapidly approaching, I have decided it best not to try to cram in any more blog posts until after I get back from my honeymoon, at which point I will officially be Kim Oja. Thus, this will be my last blog post ever as Kim Shable.

This concept weirds me out a little-- not that I don't want to change my name, because it's obviously my choice to do so. But it still seems a little scary-- what if Kim Oja is nothing like Kim Shable? What if she enjoys collecting Hummel figurines and surfing the Web for midi files of her favorite Sousa marches? What if she's not funny? What if she's not nice? What if she's lame?

Since Kim Shable and Kim Oja will (soon) be the same person, I realize these fears are ridiculous. But still, giving up the last name that you've had for twenty-eight years, it's fucking weird.

And more than a little sad-- most of my friends know me as, and call me, Kimshable, as if it were all one word. And there are no male Shables left to carry on the name-- my dad and his brother only had one child each, and we were both girls who married. So by taking the Oja name, I officially close the door on the last of the Shables.

Which is a silly thought-- if I had stayed single forever, there would still be no kids to carry on the name. And if I kept my name, I would still want the kids to have Ben's last name. But it's still very sad, knowing my time as a Shable has come to a close.

I hope Kim Oja is cool. I hope she writes a book that makes her famous. I know she'll be married to the man that she loves, and she'll always be happy.

And I've already been practicing her signature, and it looks pretty rad. All in all, an auspicious start to what I know will be an amazing marriage.

An Elegy for Geauga Lake

I emerge from my pre-wedding blitzkrieg (twelve days and counting!) with sad news: though many of you probably never visited it, the hallowed theme park of my youth, Geauga Lake, announced late last week that it will be removing all but its water rides effective immediately, thus turning it into yet another water park.

I don't know about other areas of the nation, but northeast Ohio already seems pretty saturated with water parks-- Holiday Sands (although no one seems to remember Holiday Sands but me, so maybe I just made it up), Dover Park, Pioneer Waterland... This, sadly, only strengthens my belief that Geauga Lake, as a whole, will be dead within five years, making Aurora devoid of theme-related amusement, but leaving behind it one humongous parking lot.

Unlike many other people, I didn't bat an eye when Sea World left town-- I'm not a big fan of being splashed in the face by whales who are, quite obviously, swimming around in their own urine.

But Geauga Lake was a huge part of my life growing up-- I never worked there (though many of my friends and classmates did, throughout the years-- I prefered the quiet and air-conditioned-ness that my job as a local library bookshelver afforded me), but my dad, being a Geauga Lake FANATIC, took me there three times a week for ten summers: a total of over 400 times.

Did I get sick of Geauga Lake? Yes. There are only so many times you can ride the Big Dipper before you begin to realize that it's just not that much fun to have your soul rattled out of you on a mediocre wooden roller coaster.

But now that it's leaving, I can't help but feel a little maudlin. My dad and I spent many, many hours of our lives there together-- that space needle thing might not have been exciting, or even remotely fun, but it's always been a landmark in my map of the past.

So farewell, Geauga Lake: you will be missed. Except by my mom, who seems thrilled that she will finally be free of your chokehold on my dad.

Where to?

As a gift at my bridal shower two weeks ago, Ben's mom bought me a most extravagant Garmin navigation system. She and I both share an all-consuming fear of getting lost in strange places, so it was a perfectly suited gift.

Unfortunately, though, in the past two weeks I have not actually been called upon to go anywhere I don't already know how to get to (except for Old Time Pottery in Parma, which Garmin led us to most efficiently). So for right now, I'm mostly just performing the age old ritual of Fucking Around With My New Toy Until I Accidentally Break It.

So far, the best feature (other than its obvious navigational abilities) is the fact that I can customize the voice in which the Garmin speaks. For its first two weeks, it was an erudite, Russian-sounding woman named Jill, but just this morning, in a bit of a funk with pre-wedding jitters and mall anxiety (attempting to find a suitable gift for my parents), I changed it over to the soothing sounds of Daniel, a smoking-hot British dude who probably looks a lot like Colin Firth (at least, this is my aural impression of him).

Tonight, I might upload some MP3s and pictures to it, just because I can. And when the price of gas goes down to a more tolerable $2.80 level, I plan to drive myself out into the middle of nowhere and let Daniel lead me home with his sexy, sexy robot voice.

Things I will have time to do when this wedding is over:

1. Shave my legs more than just for bridal showers and dress fittings

2. Eat real meals, instead of nineteen fistfulls of garlic bagel chips from industrial sized bag purchased at BJs

3. Answer e-mail (I hereby declare E-MAIL BANKRUPTCY on all e-mails currently awaiting answering in my hotmail inbox)

4. Monitor TiVo for reruns of Adult Swim cartoons and shows featuring Will Arnett

5. Dwell on the fact that I have a creepy mini-crush on that kid who played George Michael on Arrested Development and is currently rocking it hardcore in Superbad

6. Order photos of the last nine months' worth of events from Snapfish (always uploading, never buying)

7. Write on my blog more than once every ten days or so (sorry, guys!)

8. Actually eat lunch, rather than spending lunch arguing with the people at the Aurora Inn, who apparently have no recollection of the block of rooms I reserved there

9. Go back to avoiding craft stores, instead of spending hours in them choosing just the right fake nasturtiums

10. Sleep. Oh, sweet sleep, I miss you.

Meanwhile, I refuse to give up the fact that our wedding is going to be mega-kick-ass. So in the end, it's all worth it. Superbad!

The art of beauty

As the wedding grows closer, I find myself attempting, often in vain, to somehow correct the years of bad habits and master the unlearned arts of beauty maintenance. On my list this week:

1. Fade embarrassing tan lines
2. Curb insane sweating
3. Artfully shape brows

The tan lines are going to be an issue, because for some reason, my tan never really goes away, which is really great, except that I have tan lines from my past three bathing suits threatening to draw attention away from my sassy dress. Solution: go tanning ($7).

As for the sweating, I figure-- outdoor bridal shower? Outdoor wedding? Many hugs from people who do not want my constant patina of perspiration on their nice dresses and suits? Solution: procure prescription strength Secret deodorant ($8).

And my brows? Manly and wild, like the great forests of Tennesee, they must be contained. Solution: plucking (free!).

Sounds like I have it all under control. But you would be wrong. So, so wrong.

For all three beautification rituals collided in a shocking miasma of decline on Tuesday, when, armed (no pun intended) with a liberal coating of prescription strength anti-stink and sporting a bald spot in my left brow that apparently no one can see but me, I entered the stand-up tanning bed, only to learn that even the most powerful anti-perspirant is no match for the 100-watt bulbs of fury, and that, when exposed, the skin under your eyebrows can burn.

So now I am a stinky, piebald, sunburned mess (although I will say that after my stinging all-over burn subsides, my tan lines WILL be almost gone), just in time for my engagement photos, which were earlier tonight, and my shower and bachelorette party, which is this weekend. After which I will be sealing myself in a large Ziploc baggie to prevent any further damage. But you might have to let me out after awhile, due to the stink.

The people you came in with

Today was the last day at work for one of my co-workers, a guy named Todd, who secretly fed me most of my information about the Cavs so I could go home and look smart in front of Ben (it was Todd who tipped me off to the fact that Daniel Gibson was nicknamed Booby long before everyone else started calling him that). In the old building, I sat diagonally from Todd; in the new building, I sat right across from him. We were never really friends, but I really liked Todd-- he was funny, and a good worker, and a very smart guy. And now he's gone, and I'll probably never see him again.

In fact, a lot of people have left my office lately, mostly because of the drive, as my new office is about seven hundred miles from everywhere, and you must drive around something called Dead Man's Curve to get there. In fact, of the original group I worked with at the old office, only two people remain, other than my boss and the other supervisor. We've got new people, and they're awesome, but there's something to be said for the people you came in with.

I've always had a lot of friends-- not to sound pompous, but I am insanely likeable. But co-workers are a different breed of friends. They're like stealth friends-- you don't even realize how much you like them until they leave.

And if you think about it, you probably spend more time with your co-workers during any given week than you do with any of your other, outside-world friends-- even, probably, more than you spend with your significant other or family. So the sudden void left by Todd's absense is troubling.

The sudden fact that there is now only one dude in my entire department is also troubling, because now we could all begin crying at a moment's notice, with no dudes there to hold us back. On the plus side, I don't have to hide the secret departmental tampon supply anymore, but that is but small consolation.

Farewell, Todd-- you will be missed.

Two Random Mix CDs, and what they say about my life at the time of their creation (roughly)

Random CD 1:

1. Come On Over-- Christina Aguilera
2. Wonderful-- Everclear
3. Simple Kind of Life-- No Doubt
4. Music-- Madonna
5. Why Does It Always Rain On Me?-- Travis
6. Absolutely (Story of a Girl)-- 9 Days
7. Don't Change Your Plans-- Ben Folds Five
8. Anyway-- Dynamite Hack
9. Faith-- Limp Biskit
10. You're a God-- Vertical Horizon
11. Boys in the Hood-- Dynamite Hack
12. Hero-- Foo Fighters
13. Thong Song-- Sisqo
14. Everything You Want-- Vertical Horizon
15. Sour Girl-- Stone Temple Pilots
16. Say My Name-- Destiny's Child
17. Superman (Kryptonite)-- 3 Doors Down
18. These Are Not My Pants-- Five Iron Frenzy

What it says:

1. I must have been in college at the time, because had I known I had a CD like this among my possessions while I was in graduate school, I probably would have destroyed it so that no one would find out that I had a CD with "Thong Song" on it.

2. I had not yet developed (and subsequently gotten over) my short-lived but intense hatred of Christina Aguilera.

3. I likely listened to the radio a lot more, as this is mostly top ten hits (with the possible exception of "These Are Not My Pants").

4. I apparently liked a band called Dynamite Hack, and even owned their CD-- I just went through my collection and found it as proof.

Random CD 2:

1. No Such Thing-- John Mayer
2. Ohio-- CSN & Y
3. Lose Yourself-- Eminem
4. Yesterday-- The Beatles
5. Push-- Matchbox 20
6. Cool Blue Reason-- Cake
7. How You Remind Me-- Nickelback
8. Somebody To Love-- Queen
9. Margaret-- Jill Sobule
10. Trunk Fulla Amps-- Self
11. Song Sung Blue (Live)-- Neil Diamond
12. Blame It On You-- Gin Blossoms
13. Who Will Save Your Soul?-- Jewel
14. Go Tell It On the Mountain-- Harry Simeone Chorale
15. Misery-- Green Day
16. Piece of My Heart-- Janis Joplin
17. Forever In Blue Jeans-- Neil Diamond
18. As Is-- Ani DiFranco
19. 45-- Elvis Costello
20. These Apples-- Barenaked Ladies
21. Leave the Biker-- Fountains of Wayne

What it says:

1. I must have been super depressed when I made this CD, because the only time I ever put "Song Sung Blue (Live)" on a CD was when I was super depressed. Same with "Go Tell It On the Mountain," unless it was a Christmas CD.

2. I must have been in graduate school at this point, because with the exception of Neil Diamond and the Gin Blossoms and Nickelback, this is a somewhat more socially acceptable group.

3. I liked Fountains of Wayne WAY before "Stacy's Mom" came out.

As a side note, on a second listen, I have determined that this is the CD that Ash, Pen and I were listening to when we got stopped by the military convoy on the way to my birthday party, and I got the ominous feeling that something bad was going to happen, and then it did. Creepy.

Today: two massive thunderstorms, with actual lightning, not that crap lightning that just lights up the clouds. Two near-power-outages, a great deal of really loud, teeth-chattering thunder, and a car abandoned on a flooded street (not mine). Oh, the glory of it all!

I love, love, love thunderstorms, to the point that it's probably unhealthy. As in, I wish it would thunderstorm every day. I wish for thunderblizzards in the winter (does such a thing even exist? If so, I must be a part of it). I like to hang out in the Rainforest at the zoo, just for the simulated thunderstorm. I even like it at the grocery store when they have the fake thunderstorm over the produce.

I do wonder where my love of thunderstorms comes from-- somehow it seems romantic, or exciting, like I might suddenly be kidnapped by a handsome and well-meaning stranger who takes me to his castle and makes me his love kitten. (This would only happen during a thunderstorm, as it would be highly anticlimactic to be kidnapped by a lovestarved castle-dweller on a hot, sunny day.) Or maybe it's just a break from the ordinary-- sunny or rainy, windy or humid, or whatever, you must admit that a storm really breaks up the monotony.

And I especially love power outages, although they seem to happen less and less frequently. In fact, I couldn't really tell you when the last storm-related power outage I experienced was, although Ashley can tell you how pissed I was when the power didn't go out during Hurricane Isabel, the Lamest Hurricane Ever (I nearly had to fistfight an old woman for the last flashlight in Walmart, and did I even get to use it? No.).

On a side note, I must admit distaste for fully grown adults who act like they're afraid of storms. If my cat can sit through a thunderclap without flinching, so can you. There. I said it.

Fanscots of Glory

This weekend, Ben and I had the enormous privilege of being invited to the official NFL Fanscot reunion, held in scenic Canton, Ohio (home of the Football Hall of Fame-- because that's right, bitches, we have two halls of fame to your none, unless you live somewhere where there's a hall of fame, which you probably don't).

This was due, in large part, to the fact that Ben's sister is dating the Philadelphia Eagles' fanscot Birdman, who, in real life, is an awesome guy named Joe. Awesome enough, in fact, to lend us these Birdman beaks and masks, so we could experience the sensation of being a fanscot, if only for a few moments. (The sensation was that of being stared at a lot.)

Following the Hall of Fame parade (in which many bands appeared, although none of the trombonists had the good sense to keep their horns up, nor did any of them perform horn swings, much to my chagrin), we went back to the hotel where the fanscots were staying. There, each fanscot had decorated his or her door with team paraphernalia-- Joe, for instance, was stationed across from the Hogettes, who had covered their door with Hog Balls. Which is highly upsetting.

Throughout the day, I learned many interesting things about the Fanscots-- what they do, where they live, what they look like without their pope hats on. I learned that Big Dawg was at a wedding and couldn't make it (although a very strange fellow named Brownie the Elvis Elf was there in his stead, giving me horrible Aurora Greenman flashbacks), so that kind of dashed my hopes of meeting my own personal Browns Fanscot, although Joe promised to arrange a meeting one of these days, which will probably just make me pass out, because I have a weird mascot fetish that I don't care to discuss.

All in all, I learned that Fanscots really are just normal people. Who really, really like football. And dressing up. Which, when you really think about it, couldn't that be said about any one of us?

It lives

I really am sorry for the lack of communication lately-- I know I got on a roll there for awhile, and even extricated myself from the You Should Blog More section of Pen and M's blog. But I am sorry to report that absolutely nothing of interest has happened to me lately, with the exception of the following things:

1. Ben's sister and her boyfriend are coming tomorrow to take us to the Football Hall of Fame induction ceremony. Which, as you know, I would not normally find interesting. But it just so happens that Becki's boyfriend is the Philadelphia Birdman, Eagles superfan of high local acclaim (so I am told-- as a some-time Browns fan, I recognize only the superfandom of Big Dawg). I have been informed that there will be many other superfans there, which will allow me to indulge in my lifelong love of mascots, both official and unofficial.

2. I picked up a copy of my mentor Joe Mackall's newest book, "Plain Secrets," which is about the Amish. I happen to love the Amish for many reasons, among them the fact that I personally know two people that lost their virginity to an Amish, which you have to admit is totally interesting. Anyway, I will read this book soon, in theory, so long as I do not first die from a massive paper-cutter wound while attempting to assemble the final pieces parts of my invitations. But you should read the book right now. Go on! What are you waiting for? You're not going to learn about the Amish sitting here reading this! Except for the fact that, aside from the virginity thing, I'm also obsessed with the Amish because they got rollerblades before I did, which I thought was totally unfair.

But other than that, my life has mostly consisted of handwriting addresses onto envelopes, struggling to learn how to print things on both sides of a piece of paper ("Why the fuck is it printing upside down now? I will kill you, bastard printer of Hades!"), and staring forlornly at my bike, who it appears will remain locked in my garage for the rest of the summer.

Mundane-gus Fletcher

Okay, so I know I haven't been the best at blogging recently, even though I promised to stop being on hiatus and start bringing the awesome again. But quite honestly, other than reading Harry Potter and doing some occasional wedding stuff, not much has happened. A short breakdown of the week's events:

*I saw the Simpsons movie on Friday, and it was highly hilarious, based solely on the line "Spider Pig/Spider Pig/Does whatever a Spider Pig does." If you go to see it, I recommend staying all the way through the credits. Also, just a warning-- you'll get to see Bart's ween, which is totally disturbing.

*My car appears to have developed its own cloak of invisibility, rendering my translucent whenever I attempt to merge onto the freeway. No less than five cars nearly ran me off the road last week alone.

*I discovered a Wal-Mart that's easily within driving distance of work, which is depressing, because it means I no longer have a reason to beg Ben to go to Target with me in the evening.

*A friend of mine told me the other day that she had seen a special on the Antichrist on television, and that he was supposed to be of Middle Eastern descent, very charismatic, and experience a swift rise to power. Which got me to thinking-- I'm of Middle Eastern descent, very charismatic, and I did become mail audit supervisor shockingly quickly. Perhaps...?

Post Traumatic Potter Sydrome

I don't know about the rest of you, but if you're anything like me, you're still reeling from LOP-- Life After Potter. I personally find myself going to bed early under the pretense of finally getting some sleep (between wedding, Potter and work, I've been averaging 5 hours a night), only to stay up until one a.m. rereading the crucial parts (and purposefully skipping over the two hundred page section in which they do absolutely nothing except camp, which I can experience just by staring at Jellystone Park for a few hours). Also, romantically enough, right this very minute Ben is sitting in the living room, listening to disc 9 of the book on CD.

For those of us unwilling to let the whole thing pass unanalyzed, I suggest heading to Post Potter: After the Deathly Hallows, a support group of sorts created by that Head Girl of Potterdom, Ashley. It is wracked with spoilers, so if you haven't finished reading, or haven't started (riiiiight), do not go there. But if you have, and you want to discuss, there's your chance.

In the meantime, I must retire to (pretend to sleep and) reread The Prince's Tale a couple more times. Alas, poor Snapey. I knew him well.

A Farewell to Wands

Just finished HP & the DH about two hours ago... face is puffy, but spirits are good. I have so much to say, but don't want to spoil anything for those who haven't finished. So here, in extremely censored form, are my thoughts:

1. I heart Harry Potter.

2. I heart cameos-- ride on, Cadogan, ride on!

3. Some people seem a little too brave since the last time we saw them.

4. Some deaths: not necessary?

5. Some: highly necessary. But totally gut-wrenchingly sad.

6. Where the fuck was the Mimbulus Mimbletonia?

I will say this: I am a life-long reader of books, and studied literature in-depth for seven years, and I have never, never cried the way I cried at this book (except maybe at the end of Where the Red Fern Grows, but dude, I was only eight). All in all, a highly satisfying end to a cultural phenomenon I feel proud to have been a part of, even if I wasn't in on the ground floor (much props to Ashley and Denise K. for getting me on board).

So, Potter lovers, where do we go from here? And don't say Lord of the Rings, because I am not doing that.

Dear Snape,

As I prepare to read the final Harry Potter book, I realize that it will be my final chance to tell you how I really feel about you. Which is that I really, really, really love you.

I know you've done some bad things. I know your hair is greasy and and you have a hook nose, and in the book, the pictures of you depict you with a creepy pointed beard and mustache combo, which I am not generally accepting of. But I can't help it. I believe you to be, by far, the most interesting character in the whole series. Including Harry Potter himself.

That's right, America. Harry Potter is lame in comparison to Snape. I don't apologize for my feelings.

Anyway, Snape. What I'm really writing to tell you is that I will be super, super pissed if you turn out to be evil. Don't be evil, Snape! I command you! Be good, and fall in love with Petunia, the sister of your first love. Because that would be so awesome if you were Harry's step uncle. I don't know how we'll deal with the Vernon situation. But you've dealt with so much worse!

[Please note: I do not believe Snape will end up with Petunia, because I am not retarded. But wouldn't it be swell?]

Anyway again, Snape. Sorry for all the interjections. I still feel the need to explain my love for you to those less inclined to accept your sour hatred and intermittent killing sprees.

So, that having been said, do not be evil. Please?

Stay awesome,

Kim

PS: Okay, so maybe Harry's not lame. But I still think you're cooler. Also, please tell Alan Rickman that I want to be his girlfriend. Okay?