The Junk Drawer

They ask me how it’s possible.

How is it that I’ve missed out on the greatest story ever told this side of the Bible?

How is it that I don’t know Harry Potter?

Part of the reason is that when my sister loaned me the first book in the series, I didn’t make it past the first 25 pages or so.

Why?

Because poor Harry was locked in a closet under the steps by mean relatives after his parents were killed. Or something.

That’s as far as I got before I was too sad to continue. Despite encouragement from friends and family to give it another shot – and that I’d be well-rewarded if I did – I never picked it up again.

I also never saw a single Potter movie.

So I missed the multi-bazillion dollar franchise that even newborn babies knew about because their mothers read them the books while they were pregnant.

I do know bits and pieces of the story because you can’t avoid hearing about it unless you’ve been in a coma for 15 years.

So here is the story of Harry Potter, as told by someone who doesn’t know Harry Potter.

Harry’s parents are killed by some mean guy. Voldemort? I think he’s the guy they call “He Who Shall Not Be Named.”

An owl visits Harry at the house of his mean relatives and tells him to go to a train station. If he blasts through a wall at just the right spot, he’ll be transported to Hogwarts, a school for wizards.

Harry is a wizard.

We know this because there’s a lightening bolt tattooed to his forehead. I think it makes him extra special, right?

Harry also wears big round Carol Channing glasses.

He meets a red-headed kid on the train on the way to Hogwarts.

They meet a chick, Hermaine.

Is Harry sweet on her? I do not know.

Everyone at the school wears black graduation gowns and carries wands.

They do wizardy things at the wizard school.

They fly. Do they fly? Yes, I think they fly.

They also morph into animals and other things when the situation warrants. Maybe? I do not know.

There are muggles. I don’t know what muggles are, but they sound like furry slippers to me. Are they furry slippers?

Some gigantic, hairy man tells Harry he can avenge his parents’ murder by … by…. I do not know. Killing Voldemort?

How does he do this?

All together now! I do not know!

I’m sure there was some other stuff in between all that. Five, six, seven books’ worth and maybe one million words? I missed a few.

And thus concludes my knowledge of Harry Potter. How’d I do?

Are you mortified I don’t know the story? Is my life incomplete? Do you want to nail me down to a chair and make me read it, at least until I know what a muggle is?

Are there any of you out there who are Harry Potter-ignorant like me?

Little Miss Muffet

Sat on a tuffet

Eating her bag of Lay’s.

Along came a chip,

That she wanted to skip.

Because, really, how often do you find one with a big, fat exclamation point in the middle of it?

Or something like that.

I love the word kerfuffle (noun. A commotion or fuss.)

I wish I could work it into everyday language, but there are never enough commotions or fusses going on, which I suppose is a good thing.

The word makes me happy. Probably because it sounds like the equally fun-sounding word kiffle, a pastry rolled paper thin and stuffed with assorted fillings, then baked.

I don’t like kiffles because they’re too dry and hard. Maybe I’ve just had bad kiffles. Anyway, I prefer a softer sort of cookie, like Toll House.

Incidentally, I recently visited an official Nestle Toll House Ice Cream Shop, where I bought their chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream and I was deeply disappointed.

The cookie dough was soft, broke apart too easily and practically dissolved into my ice cream. The hell? It’s supposed to be harder and, frankly, could have used more chips.

I mean, they make the stuff. It’s their product and they couldn’t even get it right.

Where was I?

Oh, yeah.

Favorite words.

I like kerfuffle.

What do you like? Extra points if you use it in a sentence. I’ll post grades on the bulletin board outside the principal’s office later in the week.

Major renovations are taking place in my building at work. Workmen padded the main elevators that they use for shuffling large and dirty materials all around.

Today I spotted a powdery smudge on the cardboard padding that looked like someone could have painted it, were it not just plain old dirt.

I know it’s faint, but I think you can still make it out.

Do you see what I see?

Yes, people wanted to know what I was doing taking pictures in the elevator.

Yes, they all think there’s something wrong with me.

But that’s OK, because you all know I’m perfectly normal. Right? Right?

After nearly four months of sweated bliss, it’s official. I divorced my gym.

I knew the separation was coming, since I’d started seeing someone else. I found a new love on Exercise TV and his name is Kendell Hogan. Kendell knows how to move me and we’ve become quite a couple.

I knew parting ways with my gym would be difficult and guilt-ridden. On the first attempt to divorce them, they lured me back with the promise that a “woman of my age” who does strength training will see bigger and better results than one who doesn’t.

You really need to come in and do weights, they said. And so I did. For two weeks.

But the love was already gone. While I was busy heaving, pushing and pulling, my thoughts were always with Kendell.

Kendell the Cardio Man.

Kendell says “Come on! You can do it! Fight it. Make it happen!”

My gym says “You can’t live without us.”

Oh, but I can. I don’t need you and your treadmills. I don’t need your mind-numbingly boring ellipticals either. Although I did love your ample parking, bank of TVs and sparkling bathrooms. Don’t feel bad.

Truth be told, we were good together in the beginning. You got me started. Made me feel better about myself and encouraged me every step of the way. You got me results.

But now I’ve graduated to someone better, Kendell KickAsserson.

Someone who screams sweet nothings in my ear. “Push through! Now squat thrusts!”

Someone who makes me sweat more than I ever did at the gym.

Someone who comes to my house every day whenever I want him to. Sometimes twice and he never complains.

Someone who doesn’t charge me $48 a month to show up at the crack of dark.

So it’s over, gym. I can’t see you anymore. We were something special, but we are no more. I thank you for helping me lose 25lbs so far.

But the next 25 belong to Kendell. Or maybe a shiny new kettlebell. I’m fickle, you know.