In which I reveal I have maaaybe a few insecurities

Maaaybe you're aware, but I suppose a new Harry Potter book is coming out -- and dare I say it's the last (unless she pulls some Garth Brooks-like move) in 'er successful lit'ul series (that's my British accent for ya)?

And Oshkosh, apparently, loves it (hi, we made CNN). They love it big time. I could prove it with more links, but I won't.

Hi, remember me? I just graded 465 Harry Potter trivia contest entries for The Northwestern's contest. Hello. And much like my similar-boat-ed colleague who's covering the event tonight, I had no freakin' idea what a Muggle is. And I'm aware that that makes me an uninteresting person. It's OK. I've moved on with my life.

I just never got around to reading them, and I'm afraid if I picked the books up now, I'd be like that person who started listening to Death Cab AFTER their song became the "Laguna Beach" commercial-or-theme song.

Anyhow.

Here's where I make a more startling confession. I don't like crowds, being shoved into one alone or, by God, being shoved into one where I'M really the one standing out like a non-Potter-reading woman because I'm not wearing Potter glasses.

And yet ... Dave. I like him, OK? And because I like him, I took his memory card reader to him downtown, where he's presently shooting photos of people standing next to Potter creatures whose names mean little to me. (Or should I say "lit'ul"?)

So I bring my dog because I'm "well into" my 20s and still don't like the thought of going alone. And my dog? He's not only not a Potter fan. He's scared of Harry Potter, apparently. That, and city buses.

I purposefully took him outside before we went downtown because not much is worse than picking poo out of dry grass in front of thousands. But whatever, says Mr. Big, as he sees a bus coming toward him, and "DEAR GOD MOM WHY AREN'T YOU FREAKING OUT TOO?" and he promptly expels another round into a patch of dry grass before cowering behind my legs, pulling me back away from the crowd.

Awesome.

So I grip him and walk on to bring the memory card reader to Dave at Limelite Studios, and there's a line. I call Dave to come get it, all while Big's tugging at my arm on his leash, saying "let's get the heck away from here and all these oddly-dressed creatures, maaaa!", and the guy doesn't answer his phone.

I call again. No answer.

I call again, no answer. No answer. I'm about to pull a dramatic, not-so-much-like-Erin moment, cuz I was feeling like I was lost someplace where I didn't speak the language, thinking I like Dave a teeny bit less than I did five minutes ago.

Then he calls. "I'm not there, just leave it inside," he says. And the lobby is full of people. People Big would rather "expel upon himself" than go near. Riiight.

I hang up, ready to die, and someone I know walks by. "Here," I say, handing out my memory card reader like I'm fleeing the Nazis. "Raise him to know that his mother loved him." Or maybe I said "Could you take this inside and say it's Dave Wasinger's?" and then left.

In the car, I felt as if I'd just swam in a dark pond and accidentally went under a raft, where I couldn't find the beginning or the end, and thought I was going to die. Whew. And that desire I had to read those books? Not so much there anymore.

And now you know all about my present mental conditions. Ha.