Last night, my wife spent a sizable chunk of her precious free time painting all of her nails with lightning bolts in the colors of Gryffindor House. Rachel assures me that this is "perfectly normal...100%." But then, Rachel would say that. Tonight, my wife and her other Potterphile pals will head to the very Diagon Alleyish Olsson's bookstore in Old Town, Alexandria to stand on line with a bunch of starry-eyed kids and their patient parents to purchase Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, and really, I've more or less resigned myself to the fact that there will be one topic of conversation around my house for the next four days, unless Dick Cheney declares himself Sith Lord or something and starts shooting lightning bolts from his eyes, which wouldn't be all that bad as a breaker-upper of the monotony.
Living with a Harry Potter fanatic can be interesting. My wife's confessed to having anxiety attacks reading Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince, which, mind you, she's now read four times. I have to guard against an overabundance of Potter themed décor around the house. The last time a Potter movie came out, she hosted a pre-show party, complete with Potter trivia quiz, the questions to which were all crazy impossible. But to my wife, knowing what color shirt some minor character wore on page 347 is just the most natural thing in the world. She once expressed an interest in buying the Potter-themed "Scene It" DVD trivia game, and I had to gently dissuade her from doing so, because no one in their right mind would attempt to play against her. I'm not always so gentle: she can tell you how tiresome it is when I tell her that Rupert Grint is going to look like Rupert Murdoch by the time they finish filming those movies.
Still, even though I am nothing more than a dilettante in the world of unending Potter hype, I have to say, even I'm a little sad that the series is ending. Yeah, it's cheesy, but it's nice to see kids packing in bookstores, nice to see parents playing along. And, let's face it, while no one's going to confuse J.K. Rowling with Don DeLillo, the books are ace--Rowling runs a straight up storytelling clinic, mixes melodramatic tradition with iconic twists, and should especially be lauded for finding just the right balance between allowing her readers to feel intelligent while still catching them unawares now and again.
Besides, everyone's a little fanatical about something. For example, I am to Tina Fey what my wife is to Harry Potter, and I'm sure that my wife would tell you that during the month last year where it looked like NBC might cancel 30 Rock, I was insufferable. I've never said such mean things about Andy Richter in all my life, and I wish I could take them back, because he seems like a perfectly decent fellow. But, the prospect of losing 30 Rock just shriveled my mind grapes. It was untoward. It was not toward
Though, in my defense, Rachel would say that my love for 30 Rock was "perfectly normal...100%." So there you have it. It all comes back to Rachel Sklar. Or, Rupert Murdoch, I guess. Which is who Rupert Grint could look like by the time they finish making the movies. Seriously. Hurry up with those! (And bring back Alfonso Cuaron for the seventh!)