Rochelle Riley

Is it wrong to say that I haven’t seen the new Harry Potter films “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Parts I and II?”

I know why I haven’t seen it. My daughter has outgrown him. Yes, I was one of those parents standing in line with a child too young to be reading a book so dark, buying a book so dark and then watching her read it all night.

Publishing phenomenon or not, the entire set of Harry Potter books sits within three feet of me in my library (save “Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix,” which I can’t seem to find anywhere), and I have yet to read any of them.

But I did see the films – glorious, nicely done fantasies – at least the first four.

Until I see “Order of the Phoenix,” I can’t head for the “Deathly Hallows.” But I don’t know whether I want to. The Harry Potter I knew was young and not in danger so much all the time. The older Harry Potter facing Ralph Fiennes in a body condom, seems to be facing hell.

I’m sure I’ll decide soon. I do so want to see the end of a 10-year journey for myself.

But more important, I plan to read the books and study the films and think about my own contribution to literature and cinema. What I want more than watching someone else’s story is creating one of my own. I want to create and then make a film about a character who will leave an indelible mark on those who meet her. I want to conjure up someone who – forever after – will need no introduction other than her name: Ferris Bueller, Forrest Gump, James Bond, Indiana Jones, Rocky Balboa – or Harry Potter.

Except, she’ll be a girl. Bolder than Annie Hall. Happier than Buffy. More serious than Holly Golightly. Less serious than Ripley in all her Alien forms.

Maybe the problem is: I need to write a book about her first. That not only will make recreation easier, but I’ll really know her, all about her, before everyone else does.

But first, I’ll have to read the “Harry Potter” books and see “Order of the Phoenix.” That’s where I last knew ye, Harry.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and my friend, Walter, had arrived so that we could go shopping for a new TV. The last time I bought a TV, Bill Clinton was president and “Survivor” was a hot new show.

We began our journey at a Meijer’s, which had one that I figured was perfect. We waited and waited for a clerk, before finally calling for help on a red hotline mounted on a nearby pole. A young woman came over. We asked the difference between an LED and a LCD set. She said: “I don’t know,” as if we’d asked how far to get to the moon.

She left to find somebody. We left to find a store with actual TV salespeople. We weren’t mad at her. We just knew that she’d drawn the short straw that forced her to leave the comfort of whatever break room she was in and that the next person would be no more eager to sell us a set than she. Thought we’d save them the time.

We headed to Best Buy.

Although their prices weren’t as low, their customer service got high marks after a knowledgeable young lady talked me through screen size and models and pixels and other features that one should consider before purchasing a set. I chose one that was only a little more expensive than the one I’d seen earlier. And we took it home.

Now, this is where the story gets a little funny and a little weird. I told Walter that the set was for my woman-cave, a female version of a man cave. He was, at the least, inordinately unimpressed, and at most, horrified.

“There is no such thing as a woman cave, and if there was, this wouldn’t be it,” he said sweeping his arm around at the books on every wall and the glass writing table in the corner.

“Why?” I asked.

“Man-caves,” he said, “are fun. This says work.”

Man caves, I told him, are for sloth. Most are dark places with big sofas and sports paraphernalia and ratty chairs that are impossible to stain. And they are for nothing but watching TV.

A woman cave, I told him, is a place of relaxation and refuge but also a place for intellectual stimulation.

“The writing table is to scrapbook!” I said. And I pointed determinedly at the leather recliner that my nephew had helped me maneuver in the week before. “Look! There’s even a cave chair!”

No, he said. You can’t have a desk or writing table or books or any items that require thought or can be used for work.

“You need to have a jersey or two on the wall!” he explained in exasperation. What I had, he said, was a cove. I told him that a cove required water.

Instead, what I have is a quiet all-in-one room where I can watch “27 Dresses” or “An Affair to Remember,” where I can manipulate photographs and sheer silk, where I can – as I did after Walter left – drink a cup of tea while lying in a recliner, watching re-runs of “The Sentinel” on SyFy. Or where I can watch Wimbledon as I did a few days later.

I’ve thought of a perfect name for my new space, where I can scrapbook, write, cuddle, read novels, watch old episodes of “The Wire” and do crosswords: It’s my cavern.

A woman cavern.

Sports allowed in moderation.