So I Posted That Last One Twice

            So apparently I posted that last blog twice. Here’s to internet fails. I’m also gonna try not to aim for obnoxious humor this time around. Let’s see how long that lasts, I’m guessing about two hundred and thirty seven words.

            Maybe one of the grown ups can help me with this. The other day I was talking to my sisters (only one of which is actually related to me), and I got this feeling that, given any small amount of choice in the matter, I’m never moving back to California again. Ever. More specifically, I’m never living around family again. Does that make me a bad person?

            The conversation was one of those “what are you doing with your life” interrogations, which sibling tends to give me way more than is necessary. Throw in a little bit of “why are you moving in with your girlfriend” crabbiness and it was just a grand old time.

            My sister, as far as I know, has never even entertained the idea of living anywhere but a stone’s throw from our parents’ house. And by stone’s throw I men two hour drive. She went from San Francisco to the parental residence to her boyfriend’s house (which is like three miles down the road). Not exactly a world traveler, that one.

            She also tends to get all bent out of shape when I tell her I ave no intention of moving back to the Golden State, and even more upset when I list places that are at least a two hour plane ride from her. Part of that, I’m sure is protective older sister syndrome, so it isn’t a major crime. But it does make me think I’m a little bit…off. That’s probably the only way I know how to phrase it.

            Is that normal? I know there’s the expected branching out phase when you first move out, but it’s been five years, which I think is a bit too long for a phase. I can only think of one other person I know that is actively opposed to moving back to Cali, but she lives in Hawaii, which I wouldn’t want to leave either.

            Not that I don’t like my family—they have their moments. My dad and I went a whole ten days without getting into a row last time I was down there. Had to have been a post 2006 record. Not that we don’t get along, we just tend to agree with one another better when we’re not sleeping under the same roof. That actually doesn’t concern me, morally speaking.

            What concerns me is this need I seem to have about family and distance. I’d really like to think this is just a twenty-three year old male thing, but pretty much everyone I know lives in the same town as their parentals, and quite a few of them share an address, which makes me think I’m weird. Not that I have no intention of ever seeing them again, I just have this overwhelming desire to live some place where they are physically incapable of surprising me at my doorstep.

            So to all the grown ups: is that weird?

Effing H I Hate This Time of Year

            I’ll give someone a dollar if they can point out something good about this time of year. Seriously. Final papers. Final classes (I’m pretty sure I’ll miss you lot). People getting sick or sliding their trucks into ditches because it’s balls ass cold out and there’s more ice on the road than road. Having to pick up extra shifts at work because people are getting sick or sliding their trucks into ditches because it’s balls ass cold out and there’s more ice on the road than snow. Tidal Echoes madness and emails and more madness and sorting through a bajillion submissions and slightly more madness and a lot more chaos, which you can’t get to for like three days because of aforementioned ice and balls ass cold. I’ll seriously give someone a dollar if they can name one good thing about this time of year.

            I was kidding about the dollar. I’m poor, don’t carry cash around, and need that dollar for laundry money.

            That was me bitching for no particular reason; I’m actually in a fairly good mood. Which I really shouldn’t be, considering the aforementioned chaos that comes with the end of the semester. Plus I’m looking for an apartment big enough to comfortably share with my redhead of choice, which is a surprisingly good excuse to be horribly unproductive. Or at least productive in all the wrong categories.

            Although I have discovered a helpful tip for getting through this insanity. Ready for it? Here it is: don’t be productive.

            Seriously. I’ve discovered that reading about a hundred pages or so of something I like and isn’t assigned keeps my sanity long enough to get to, or sometimes even through, whatever it is I have to do.

            See Emily? Crappy rhyming like that is reason enough for me to stay the Hell away from poetry.

            I suggested this to Courtney when I bumped into her in the library (after a surprisingly detailed conversation about the many reasons my name is the greatest name of all time), and the lady politely suggested I was out of my effing mind, and suggested, respectfully, that I put Order of the Phoenix down and start hacking away at the mountain of assignments I had to do before the end of the term.

            She also did that awesomely hilarious stare that only she can do, where you’re being an idiot, and she knows you’re being an idiot, but won’t tell you you’re being an idiot, because that would be rude. That look’s in my top ten patently individual stares/looks/expressions of all time (Emily has like six of the remaining nine).

            Seriously though, read X amount of stuff that you actually like to read every, and you’ll stay slightly saner than you would otherwise. I’d be willing to be a dollar on it. Doesn’t have to be a hundred pages, that just works for me because a hundred is pretty much the best number ever, and only takes like two hours, tops, for me to get through. Provided I actually like what I’m reading.

            So that was my helpful tip for maintaining a grip on your sanity. It also brings this edition of Inside Andy’s Thought Process to an end. Admittedly it was pretty much pointless, and really just an excuse for me to ramble and blow off a little bit of steam/stress/whathaveyou before I get back to that mountain of assignments Courtney told me to get started on back in the library.

Effing H I Hate This Time of Year

            I’ll give someone a dollar if they can point out something good about this time of year. Seriously. Final papers. Final classes (I’m pretty sure I’ll miss you lot). People getting sick or sliding their trucks into ditches because it’s balls ass cold out and there’s more ice on the road than road. Having to pick up extra shifts at work because people are getting sick or sliding their trucks into ditches because it’s balls ass cold out and there’s more ice on the road than snow. Tidal Echoes madness and emails and more madness and sorting through a bajillion submissions and slightly more madness and a lot more chaos, which you can’t get to for like three days because of aforementioned ice and balls ass cold. I’ll seriously give someone a dollar if they can name one good thing about this time of year.

            I was kidding about the dollar. I’m poor, don’t carry cash around, and need that dollar for laundry money.

            That was me bitching for no particular reason; I’m actually in a fairly good mood. Which I really shouldn’t be, considering the aforementioned chaos that comes with the end of the semester. Plus I’m looking for an apartment big enough to comfortably share with my redhead of choice, which is a surprisingly good excuse to be horribly unproductive. Or at least productive in all the wrong categories.

            Although I have discovered a helpful tip for getting through this insanity. Ready for it? Here it is: don’t be productive.

            Seriously. I’ve discovered that reading about a hundred pages or so of something I like and isn’t assigned keeps my sanity long enough to get to, or sometimes even through, whatever it is I have to do.

            See Emily? Crappy rhyming like that is reason enough for me to stay the Hell away from poetry.

            I suggested this to Courtney when I bumped into her in the library (after a surprisingly detailed conversation about the many reasons my name is the greatest name of all time), and the lady politely suggested I was out of my effing mind, and suggested, respectfully, that I put Order of the Phoenix down and start hacking away at the mountain of assignments I had to do before the end of the term.

            She also did that awesomely hilarious stare that only she can do, where you’re being an idiot, and she knows you’re being an idiot, but won’t tell you you’re being an idiot, because that would be rude. That look’s in my top ten patently individual stares/looks/expressions of all time (Emily has like six of the remaining nine).

            Seriously though, read X amount of stuff that you actually like to read every, and you’ll stay slightly saner than you would otherwise. I’d be willing to be a dollar on it. Doesn’t have to be a hundred pages, that just works for me because a hundred is pretty much the best number ever, and only takes like two hours, tops, for me to get through. Provided I actually like what I’m reading.

            So that was my helpful tip for maintaining a grip on your sanity. It also brings this edition of Inside Andy’s Thought Process to an end. Admittedly it was pretty much pointless, and really just an excuse for me to ramble and blow off a little bit of steam/stress/whathaveyou before I get back to that mountain of assignments Courtney told me to get started on back in the library.

Emily Thinks I'm Snape-Thoughts?

            So the other day Emily and I were having our weekly Tidal Echoes meeting—the theme of this one was “so if you’re an intern you have no free time for the next week.” After sorting out everything that needed to be sorted, we kicked it for a bit and discussed all the things that make us brilliant. As a sidenote: there was what looked like an apparently very timid 110 student waiting in the hall for her turn to meet, and we delayed her by like half an hour. I felt bad. End of sidenote..

            Anyway, our fearless (and prego) workshop leader tells me I would make a good Snape. I’m not so sure about this—for one, my hair is poofy, not greasy. Well, the other day it was greasy, but that was because I’d been stuck at work without a shower for twenty-four hours. Normally it’s poofy. Plus, Snape is pretty a genius when it comes to chemistry. I don’t like chemistry—the labs were fun enough, but the class is what made me decide to not be a biology major. Chemistry and I don’t get along, unless by “chemistry” you mean finding creative ways to burn stuff, and even then I tend to come off slightly more crispy than I would normally prefer. Plus, I was a bio major. Snape was a badass major. Differences: 3. Similarities: 1, and that’s only after twenty-four hours without a shower.

            And Snape’s an asshole. I’m not an asshole.

            Okay, maybe sometimes. But Snape’s ALWAYS and asshole. Granted, he’s an asshole in the “holy balls that was hilarious because he didn’t do that to me” sort of way, but he’s still an asshole. Perma-asshole even.

            Here’s where I start drawing similarities. Snape’s brilliant. I’m brilliant. Snape likes redheads (well…one of them anyway). I like redheads. Snape can lie like a mother. I can lie like a mother. Snape’s brilliant. I’m brilliant.

            Snape’s full of himself a wee bit. I’m full of myself when writing blogs. And occasionally when I start talking. But that’s hardly a reflection of overall character.

           

            Also, how the Hell is Dumbledore in Word’s dictionary and not Snape? It even does the automatic capitalization shenanigans. Le sigh…Slytherins get no love.

            Right, back the matter at hand. Emily called Snape the second smartest person in the series. Personally I think Snape trumps all when you just consider sheer brilliance, but Voldy’s an evil shit and Dumbledore’s older than balls, so they had a bit of an unfair advantage. Snape just wanted to teach and do dirty things to that redhead.

            Seriously though, if Snape ever decided to take over the world…woe be to all. WOE. BE. TO. ALL.

            Which I guess makes Snape more like me (or is it the other way around). I have no desire to take over the world, but if I ever have a change of heart, you’re all screwed. Just remember: I like steak and cheese, and I’m rather fond of free back rubs.

            Also: I formally apologize to the timid 110 looking student who was waiting for Emily for like half an hour while we talked about Harry Potter. You rather reminded me of Neville whenever he’s in the presence of Snape, except you didn’t have a toad and aren’t a dude.

Hogwarts: kicking the shit out of real schools for over a thousand years

            Anyone else feel like Hogwarts does more right than we do? And before I get going, apparently Hogwarts is in the Microsoft word dictionary. This is either fantastically awesome or a complete travesty. Hopefully I’ll decide before I’m done.

            Anyway, I decided I was going to reread J.K. Rowling’s (who is also in the dictionary, although if Hogwarts is I probably should have seen that coming) goldmine of a series before I saw the seventh movie, and I’ve come to many a shocking philosophical revelation. The first being you should never start reading a seven book series a week before finals. That just spells disaster for your free time.

            The second is that Hogwarts kicks the unholy Hell out of our school system. Maybe because the teachers there are ridiculously better than ours (except Emily, who has the magical ability to fail me with a wave of her mouse, which is really the most difficult kind of magic there is. Remember: I gave you an apple). Seriously though—two wizards were ready to take over the world when they were seventeen, which makes a twenty-three year old white kid who can’t grow a beard and is doing just about everything possible to delay growing up and joining the real world look like a complete failure at life. Tom Riddle: 1. Me: negative 426739.

            Hell, one of the wizards that took over the world at seventeen didn’t even finish school. Home boy got kicked out in his sixth year, and still managed to become the ruler of all things—all the dude needed was a stick. Apologies to anyone who hasn’t read the seventh book, because you probably have no idea who I’m talking about. Here’s a hint: he’s a wizard.

            And if that wasn’t enough, T.M. Riddle became a goddam immortal by chillin out in the library and reading a few choice novels. Might have been a tad more complicated than that, but seriously—you don’t even have to go to class to learn these shenanigans? Does UAS have a muggle exchange program?

            For those who frown on the dark arts (party poopers), that magical castle academy churned out an old dude who could’ve taken over the world when he was seventeen, but instead he decided he was gonna be an old dude for a while, then he was gonna save it. Seriously (do I use that word too much?), teacher man just wakes up one morning and goes “after breakfast I think I’ll save the world. And take that guy’s stick. I do love me a good stick, and that there’s a nice lookin stick.”

            I may have just completely tarnished all memory of Dumbledore. My apologies.

            I guess you can say Harry saved the world too, and he skipped his last year. But Harry’s a bit of an idiot, plus he had just a tad bit of help, so I’m gonna say that doesn’t count. Plus those kids need some serious acting lessons, unless they’ve improved since the last movie, in which case I have the following message:

DON’T HURT ME I DIDN’T MEAN IT PLEASE DON’T TURN ME INTO A FERRET!!!! 

I guess you could call this nostalgia

            Now that my obligatory family rant is out of the way, I guess I should actually do this whole retrospective thing, since your only sister only gets married once (knock on wood).

            As someone who fancies himself a writer, I look for stories pretty much everywhere. I can finagle one about the little girl bowing bubbles in the park, or the knee I blew out in high school, or the northern lights over the lake. Whether those stories are worth reading/hearing/writing is entirely different matter—point is they’re there. And like I said in the speech that made my sister cry, I have a lot of stories about my sister. Twenty three years, five months and (now) thirteen days.

            There’s the time she drove through a door and got me grounded. The time we were playing baseball in the front yard and she rang the titanium bat off my forehead. And when she came up to visit me for Thanksgiving and we rowed out to the middle of Auke Lake to watch the lights dance. Then there’s the handful from right before the wedding, like when she tossed me a grapefruit and I tried to cut it in half before it hit the ground, and forty five seconds later she was yelling at me for something neither one of us remembers.

            At her wedding I said the hardest thing about being a writer was admitting when the story wasn’t yours anymore. Recognizing when it’s time to take on a supporting role and hand someone else the reigns (or pen, whatever). I officially handed took on a supporting role and gave Zach the reigns. And it’s official because there was a mic involved. I also put my speech down on paper, so it’s uber official.

           

I’ve never understood why people cry at weddings—particularly the kind of crying which sounds exactly like the dry heaving that comes right before my cat coughs up a hairball. Unless the newlyweds are moving to Singapore with no intention of ever seeing anyone again, I’ve never seen any reason to be anything but various amounts of happy, especially if there’s an open bar and free food.

There was a weird feeling in my gut when I got to the end of my speech though. Not that I broke down into fountains of mournful tears—that would defy all masculine stereotypes, and as we all know, I’m nothing if not the foundation on which masculinity stands.

It was weird. Kinda like watching Ray Bourque retire after he finally won the cup back in 2000. Everyone was glad it happened and he was going out on a high note and on his own terms and all that, but you’d be hard pressed to see find someone who wasn’t sad to see him go. Not that my sister is anywhere near the level of Ray Bourque aesome—that would just be silly talk. But there was that weird mix of glad she finally (can I say “finally” if she’s only 25?) found what she was looking for and sorry that our era had officially come to an end. I’m not sure yet how much of an exaggeration that is.

I find Zach to be acceptable, but I’ll still miss the days when sibling and I would hop around and cause mayhem and destruction, or hit up every fast food place in Silicon Valley because she was having some weird ass cravings, and I’m not gonna get to tell anymore stories of the time she cut off an old lady in traffic and spent the next half an hour wondering if senior citizens carry guns in their glove compartments, and if cutting them off was a valid enough reason to get shot.

It was a beautiful wedding

The most accurate definition of “family” I’ve ever heard of, courtesy of urbandictionary: insane people that mated and decided to have kids to torture and scar mentally just to keep their blood line going with that extra zest for life.

A friendly word of advice to anyone who will ever even remotely consider getting married, or has a sibling who has ever considered getting married, or has ever seen anyone who’s related to anyone who has a sibling who’s considered getting married: don’t do it. Bad idea. If you’re gonna do it,  I’m sure I’ll be happy for you and all that jazz, unless you do it when your only brother has shit to do. And if you’re gonna do it when your only brother has shit to do, make sure you don’t ask him to do ANYTHING to help with the wedding or prewedding activities, and nobody else asks him to help with anything relating to the wedding or prewedding activities.. At all. He will kill you with a butter knife. Slowly.

            Seriously, how hard is it to understand that a student intern has homework to do, and internship duties to complete, in NOVEMBER? Exact midpoint of the semester--not a chance this kid has anything to do except entertain us until midnight, and of course he'll be willing to start the whole routine again at 8:00 am tomorrow. Yea, he’ll love to do that every day for two weeks. Ugh.

            I thought trips to California were supposed to be relaxing? Sunny all the time, seventy degrees at 10:00 at night in middle of November. Well, beginning of November, but it’s still November. I thought I’d have to entertain people for a day or two, and yes, on the day I get to look at the groom and go “HA! She’s yours now buddy!” I would, of course, be respectful and helpful and etcetera etcetera. Maybe one or two minor tasks, scattered here and there like the leaves that are never going to fall off those damn trees because it’s California, and California will always have climate and never have seasons.

I did not think I’d be staying up until 4:00 in the morning to make sure emails were sent, or that books were read, and essays were written, and paperwork was done. I did not think I’d be calling people who had already committed to coming to this—do we call it a celebration?—just to make sure they were still coming, and still knew where the opera house is, because sometimes buildings spontaneously jump up and run around, but we wanted to make sure that wasn’t the case with this particular building.

            I should have expected to retell the same story four hundred and eighty seven thousand times a day, about the time I saw something I see every day, because I live in a state where pedestrians aren’t the only wildlife. And yes, I should have expected to give my unedited opinion of the Sarah Palin debacle. I love my family sometimes, but can they not see that I have apparently have to get this written, because it is sitting on my lap, and I am typing it?

            On the upside, my newly wedded sister and I discovered that cutting a grapefruit in half before it hits the ground is just as much fun as it looks.