I hate to admit it, but I haven’t read the last two Harry Potter books. I think it’s the last two. I got half way through the one where he’s such a snotty teenager and just couldn’t keep slogging on. I’m also behind on the movies. Oh, I know what happened thanks to the Internet and friends, but canonically speaking, I’m a bit of a heretic.

I know, or knew, even less about Rowling, but I was curious to hear the interview and see something more of an author who wrote her way to a level of fame I don’t want, but a degree of security I think we all crave. Frankly, it didn’t surprise me all that much to be introduced to a woman who seemed considerably less than comfortable in front of the camera.

When her husband was asked what it was like to live with her, he described a person who, when she feels pressured, pulls farther and farther away, not asking for any help and thus getting herself into even more of a pickle. I’m not saying I can relate or anything . . .

But the really interesting thing was that at the end of the program R. turned to me and said, “Why don’t you write a book and solve all our problems.” Well sure, I’ll just go whip that puppy out tonight and get it sold by Monday. Not a problem. (Never mind the writing of the Potter books encompassed 17 years.)

Truth be told, I am finishing up the novel I started five years ago for National Novel Writer’s Month and I am planning to make it available through an on-demand press. But an idea like Rowling’s and the fairy tale way it all came to be? That’s the stuff of legends.

There were however, two things Rowling said that I can identify with strongly. That she liked the way she’d wrapped things up and that she knew for some people to like what she’d written, others had to hate it. That’s a truly balanced way to approach story telling, I think.

The other was that she had to write an epilogue to the last book and disclose in broad strokes what happened to the characters because it was her world and her story and she had to be the one who had the final say about their future. I have become incredibly attached to these characters of mine over five years and nurse the same proprietary protectiveness.

I did not, however, come away from watching the interview thinking we’ve heard the last of Harry and Hogwarts, no matter what Rowling herself may say. She created a world that took on a life of its own and I think she’s going to be compelled to do more than sketch it out in broad strokes at some future date. At any rate, an interview well worth watching — even though I’m not headed out to see the movie any time soon.

Things I’ve blogged about and those I can’t yet blog, have conspired to create loss of sleep, loss of patience, and loss or anything that passes for a precious and darling disposition. I’m just downright damned surly and I know it.

In some parts of my life I feel I’m being toyed with. The Empress, on the other hand, went for full bore manipulation. I am sick unto death of economizing down to the penny, much less having someone else — namely the Old Bat next door — start spending my imaginary money for me.

At least the Universe was merciful enough to break the heat wave for a few days. We’re only supposed to hit 98 today, which may sound God awful to some of you, but try 107 without a cloud in the sky. I have literally stood in front of the thermostat and wept over the five-pound electric bill that will arrive in next month’s mail.

I have been following the preparations for the cycling departure of Russ and Laura over at PathLessPedaled dot com with some mixture of wistful lust and envy. Would I ever sell or store all my possessions and take off on a bike like they’re doing? No, but the urge? Oh, my God, the urge to chuck it all? Yeah, that one I have.

I’m probably overdue for a morning excursion on Slim, but I don’t see that happening for several more days. I have been riding extra long sessions on the Bicycle Going Nowhere. About the time I actually feel sweat running down my face I get enough of an endorphin hit to make it through the day. Now I wonder how I ever coped without a daily workout. (Today is the 580th consecutive day.)

When you grow up in the country I call home and your Dad has no sons, you acquire skills most women don’t think they need or want. Although I no longer hunt for personal, ethical reasons, I often find that the things Papa taught me about the hunt have enormous implications in life. One of those lessons was about the dangerous nature of cornered animals.

People, I feel exactly like a wounded badger up in a corner. You want a piece of me, Mr. Grizzly Bear called Life? Bring it. ‘Cause I am all prepared to take a chunk of your sorry hide with me on my way out.

I tried valiantly to ride out my frustrations on the Bicycle Going Nowhere. I was pedaling so hard at the end of 13 miles the bike was actually rocking on the floor, hard to do with a heavy recumbent. The cats backed away slowly saying, “We’ll just be in the living room. Let us know if we can do anything for you.”

Last night I left a letter in the Empress’ mailbox telling her what I am prepared to do. Now that she’s badgered me into speaking with my insurer, I’m cornered. I have six months to get an adjustor out here or lose the benefit. If and only if she lines up one roofer to do all the roofs for the price of the insurance settlement minus the deductible will I move forward.

Otherwise, I’ll wait out the six months, get the check, and take the year I then have to actually use the money to address replacing a roof that doesn’t need to be replaced — hopefully at the most inconvenient time for her I can possibly manage.

This whole damn thing started because she let a hungry roofer rattle her and now she’s fixated on it. When I tell someone no three times, chances are I mean “no,” but she just would not let it go. I swear to God if the woman uses the phrase “property value” with me one more time I will snap.

Of course there was no way of keeping any of this from R. since I came back from the Imperial Presence purple with rage. R. immediately started in on “let’s sell and move.” And yet again I had to explain that with current home values, we are damned closed to being underwater on the mortgage and the expenses of a move would effectively scuttle us.

Can you just imagine how much fun she’s going to be during the actual work when I have to get her up every morning, in the car, and over to Rachel’s? There’s a great deal about that plan that appeals to me, principally being with the cats who will be bunking in her study for the duration, but I may wind up taking us to a hotel anyway so I don’t have to wrangle R. daily. Thankfully, I have until September to work out the details of the mass evacuation.

I tell you, I am reaching my limit of learning from my “challenges.” Any time the Universe sees fit to offer me a spot of good luck, I’m more than ready to accept it with gratitude.

Today, nothing would do but that I walk over there so she could “go over some things with me.” She said that all the insurance adjustors and roofers to whom she has spoken have emphasized how much it would be to my benefit to at least “explore my options” with my own insurance company. That everyone else will be replacing their roofs and that will detract from the value of our unit. And she didn’t want to see that happen. [insert mock sincerity]

I have a personal situation right now that is placing enormous pressure on me and I told her flatly that I did not want to deal with this subject. I was, however, so angry when I came home that I did call my company.

And therein landed the death blow on my neck.

By calling and speaking with them, I now have six months to do something about the roof or any claim I might file will be denied without cause.

Never mind that I cannot afford to make up the difference between a claim and the deductible. Never mind that I have to move my cats and R. out of the house while the work is being done. (Thank God our friend Rachel has offered to take in the cats and give us a place to hide during the day.)

Now, because I sure as hell can’t afford the total cost of a roof replacement in the future, the Empress has me backed right up in the very corner she wanted me in all along. I have to play nice and get the roof done.

So much for concepts like privacy, homeownership, the right to make an independent decision. I can either (a) go to the bank and borrow the money to do this now or (b) let our home drop in value in comparison to the neighbors and pay the total roofing cost at some future date, thus erasing any profits from a potential sale.

Yes, that would be me stretched out over a barrel head.

And I told the old bat so. I also said I have no intention of interviewing roofers. I’ll go along with whoever the rest of them pick, because in the end, it will be who she wants anyway. I will, however, absolutely require a time estimate to make the necessary plans to accommodate MY family during the time that WE are being dislocated from OUR home by HER wishes.

No, it wasn’t pretty and I don’t intend for one goddamn minute to be gracious about any of it.

One of my dearest friends might weigh 110 lbs. soaking wet. She is the epitome of girly girl. Honestly. I’ve seen her wear pearls with a western shirt and jeans. And she routinely unloads as much as a ton of feed on her own, works livestock, and grubs brush. I know women who are at home wielding chain saws and driving back hoes who are equally feminine.

But R? Just a total wilting lilly. Now don’t get me wrong. She’s been my friend for going on 18 years, but depend on her to get you across the desert? Just go ahead and lay down and die and don’t waste your time trying to survive.

For years everyone around R. has had to accommodate this inability to tolerate heat — the kind of inability that has led to more than one public fainting spell — but it wasn’t until the stroke that the unbelievable bitching and whining kicked in.

Like many people with brain damage, R. is at her best first thing in the morning and at her worst in the evening. These days if we make it to 3 o’clock before the drama starts I’m lucky. I would be much more sympathetic if I weren’t watching the electric meter rotating at 70 mph running up kwh I get to pay for as the air conditioner labors to bring this place down to 72 degrees when it’s 103 outside and we don’t have so much as a speck of shade on this roof.

I have fans blasting air in every room and rotate out cold packs on R.’s neck every 45 minutes throughout the afternoon. There is no way this woman is hot. None. Does not slow her down one little bit. And if you think she can come up with excuses not to eat on a regular basis, she is in creative overdrive right now. This leads to nothing but calls in the middle of the night to address the fact that she’s ravenous. Well, hell. Eat what’s put in front of you at meal time and you won’t be ready to chew your arm off at midnight.

Yesterday, the History Channel ran a marathon of “Expedition Africa” leading up to the finale in the evening. I put it on and got to listen to an equally lengthy marathon from R. about how Africa had no appeal to her and she’d never go anywhere with that much dirt, that many insects, all those life forms that want to eat you.

Like most people, I, too, am more attracted to the idea of that kind of exploration than actually doing it, but that’s more laziness than inability to suck it up and deal with a degree of hardship. I finished watching the show after R. insisted on going to bed at 8 and there were lots of things I probably couldn’t have made myself do, like cross some of those rivers. I can’t swim.

Of course, having said that, I once waded the South Llano in water above my waist because my truck was stuck on a gravel bar and the river was coming down. I balanced out the chances of someone coming to get me before I washed out against my having sense enough to wade a 20-foot crossing and decided dying because I was too much of a chicken shit to help myself wasn’t an acceptable way to go.

As I look at the five day forecast the numbers are: 105, 103, 102, 100, 97, 98. Our air conditioner can fight a 97 degree day and win. Which means my domestic picture will improve long about Friday. God I hate Mondays.

Not let’s review. She won’t eat leftovers, so I can only prepare what can be consumed by two people at one meal and she has significant prejudices about what equipment is used in food preparation. She has decided all Crock Pot food, for instance, is boiled and she won’t touch it. Unless biscuits are made from scratch, they’re not fit to eat. Butter must be “real,” cream must be “heavy,” potatoes must be “crisp” — getting the picture?

So, when I went to the grocery store earlier in the week I bought eight TV dinners. Each evening about six, I put them on the table and she can pick what she wants to eat. Last night she whined that she just wasn’t hungry, that everything tasted the same, and food just wasn’t “fun” any more.

“Okay,” I said. “I’m going to fix myself something then.”

Whoa, she wasn’t expecting that.

I could feel her eyes boring into my back as I got out the rice steamer, cut a chicken breast into bite sized chunks, put them in the steamer, covered them with a variety of chopped vegetables and turned the device on. While that cooked, I made myself a green salad and read the editorial section of the paper.

About 20 minutes later the steamer clicked off. I filled my plate with chicken and vegetables, added a little seasoning, and sat down at the table with my salad and a glass of lime water. I continued to read while I ate, all the while feeling R.’s hangdog eyes on me. I had made my own supper in nothing flat with one item to wash and danged if that pedestrian chow didn’t smell pretty good.

When I finished, she said weakly, “I think I’ll have something now.”

Out came the boxes. She made her choice. Four minutes in the microwave. Slapped that baby on a plate and set it down in front of her with a, “Here you go.” Don’t think food is fun? We can go with that. I’ll give her this. She ate it, albeit looking like someone had left an unwanted liquid in her Post Toasties.

While I don’t enjoy the constant food wars or the games, I did get just a little vision of those nights when supper for me will be a 20 minute affair with a good book. And I have to say, I enjoyed it. Caregivers are a self-guilty lot. We feel bad about thinking of that time when our time is once again our own, but I’ve learned over the past seven years that if you don’t let yourself believe that this is not forever, you’ll go quietly nuts.

It’s made me realize several things. During the seven years I’ve been living with R., I’ve come to rely on the ability to freeze live TV, first with Tivo and then with a DVR from the cable company. In the absence of that, and in the absence of an online guide, basic service is all but useless to me.

Watching online gives me back the critical ability to pause the broadcast. Since I get constantly interrupted, what seems to be a luxury becomes a necessity if I’m ever going to see anything in its entirely or follow any series.

Even though Elisabeth Hasselbeck makes me crazy, I watch “The View” every day. The Tour overlaps their program time. By waiting a day, I can catch my favorite part of the show — Hot Topics — in High Definition streaming from ABC. (Takes about a day for the current ep to show up.)

People, it is so much sharper and better than what comes across my old Sony — and it’s available when I want it with the ability to pause — there’s no going back.

I caught up with all of “Dollhouse” on Hulu, but now I’ve been given a reason to access what the networks are making available and for all practical purposes, it’s as good or better than using a DVR. Both are on-demand. One I have to think about, the other I don’t.

Maintaining sanity as a caregiver is all about protecting the little coping mechanisms. I have really, sorely missed my DVR. It’s the one budget cut to date that truly bothered me personally. (Strangely, for R., it was her subscription to “Time,” which I’m giving in and renewing.)

Often at the end of the day, which is one of R.’s hot button difficult times (that and supper time are the worst), I need to unwind when I come to my room. I used to do it catching up with the stuff sitting on my DVR. More or less by accident I’ve gotten that basic ability back and as silly as it sounds, it’s an enormous help.

These are, for now at least, the most enjoyable hours in the day for me. R. has shifted into summer bitch mode (she would use the term for herself, so I’m allowed) and there seems to be no getting her out of it. I’m steadily headed to the poor house keeping this place cool in the afternoon and you’d think I was asking her to live in a blast furnace.

And, because that’s not enough fuzzy joy in and of itself, she’s in one of her food snits again that erupted into full-scale battle last night. I know. I know. I shouldn’t have engaged, but I’m not sleeping well and have a lot on my mind right now and she picked the wrong moment to shift into melodrama.

It’s the same argument every time, with the same things said, but it’s unpleasant — and ridiculous — all the same. So, today during my grocery shopping, she gets put back on Lean Cuisine. I’m perfectly happy to have a chicken breast and vegetables and since she’s taken all the pleasure out of mealtime for me (seven and a half years now I’ve been fighting her about food), I can do that for a long time.

Sooner or later she’ll simmer down and be prepared to eat my cooking again, but right now, I’m not playing.

On other fronts, I’ve been wondering what to say about the Michael Jackson memorial yesterday, just as I did about the death of Anna Nicole Smith. In the end, I felt rather sorry for Smith and, all accusations and innuendo notwithstanding, that’s more or less how I feel about Jackson. Yesterday’s service was much more tasteful and subdued than I would have anticipated and of course, the crowning moment that shut most detractors up, even for a few seconds, was when his daughter briefly spoke.

And that, I think, is the kindest thing to remember at the moment. Absolutely the man was a crashing eccentric and maybe worse, but as I always try to remember, someone loved him. Obviously, that little girl loved him. It wouldn’t hurt us, in the midst of our great societal preoccupation with voyeurism, to remember that, even if for only a little while.

Now, if the whole celebrity brouhaha thing could settle down for a few weeks, that would be good.