The Deathly Hallows

I saw HP7, the first cinematic installment of J.K. Rowling’s’ final Harry Potter book…and it was fantastic.  Fast, scary, action-packed, and much abbreviated from the novel, HP7 had my audience gasping and screaming.  The script writers diverged from the book in several instances, but they way in which they did so worked in order to tell the story as succinctly as they wanted to.  While I could have sat through 458 minutes of Harry Potter without trouble, perhaps their target marketing group couldn’t.  And speaking of target audiences, that movie is way too scary for children.  I flinched and jumped several times during the film and I’m 30 29 24 27 older than many of the kids who love Harry Potter.

But nothing in HP7 is as frightening as what’s going down right here in my own home.  My almost 4 month old charge, King William is trying to killing me.  I have repeatedly called the cops to report his malicious intent only to be told that if I phone them again they’re coming to arrest me.  Me?!  I’m the one whose life is in danger.

Do you know what happens to a woman who is 30 29 24 27 older than many of the kids who love Harry Potter, when she doesn’t get much sleep?  At first nothing, but then like a malefic spell, the damages worm their way up to the surface.  Voldemort?  Giant snakes?  Deathly Hallows?  Pshaw.  Stand behind me when I look in the mirror and you’ll wet your pants.

The Deathly Hallows aren’t what Harry Potter is seeking, they’re the effects of King William on my face.  Note to self: the next time someone asks you to babysit their infant while they run off to Mongolia on a National Geographic expedition, make sure they’re willing to throw in some plastic surgery for afterward.

 

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