Is There an Echo in Here? I Wish. That Would Make Conversation a Whole Lot Easier.

You know what I love? Repeating myself. Not only does it double the duration of hearing myself talk, but it also doubles my chances of being heard. It's a good thing I am going into secondary education.

Coming home from school offers bounteous opportunities for repeating myself. You know what I love? Repeating myself. A common conversation at my house goes as follows:

Me: "Mom!!! Phone's for you!"

Dad: "What?"

Mom: "Okay, I'll get it!"

Dad: "What? Are you calling me?"

Me: "No."

Dad: "Anna! Is the phone for me?"

Me: "No, Dad."

I also enjoy telling stories that only get interesting toward the end. That way, people are bound to say, "wait, who did this?" or, "hold on, what happened?" right when I start wrapping things up. Seeing as my stories change with every telling, this gives optimum opportunity to add a little flavor to my tales. It's like getting to roll the bowling ball three times on the last frame. At least, it seems like it would feel like that. I guess I wouldn't know.

My stories often feature the same characters that always make up my life, yet they remain faceless strangers to my parents each time I begin a story.

Mom: "So, who all was there?"

Me: "The usual. Martin..."

Dad: "Martin Milius?"

Me: "No, Dad. The other Martin we know. Plus Kelsey, Brittney, Tom*..."

Dad: "Tom who? Tom Selleck?"

Me: "No, Dad. The one you always say, 'Tom who?' about."

Mom: "Now, who was there?"

Dad: "Tom Johnson? Oh, that Tom boy in our stake?"

Me: "Oh, you know what? Actually nobody was there."

Dad: "What?"

Unfortunately, this conversational trend seems to be genetic. My mom asked me, "Anna, jfwa io fjlkds take down Christmas decorations today?" I can't possibly understand what she was asking of me. It sounded sort of like, "Anna, jklw vni empty jlki the dishwasher," or, "Anna, afie you're fjiofaeio; too old lkanv watch cartoons."

I have concluded that hearing is a gift not to be wasted or overused.

*Name changed to protect the innocent

Annimezing

Welp, it happened. I was invited to see an anime movie. I am not sure what the protocol is on responding to this type of invitation, so I had to think fast. Lucky for me, I am an expert at speaking before thinking.

One time while observing a larger man mount a mechanical bull I remarked, "He shouldn't be riding the bull, the bull should be riding him!" to none other than my larger colleague who merely glanced awkwardly in my direction. "umm... cuz he's so good," I said to clear up the miscommunication. I don't know what he thought I meant by it, I mean the guy was quite the bull rider.

Another time when my mom tried on a shirt in the store dressing room I said, "It's kind of cute but a little worn," to which she remarked, "This is the shirt I came in."

After careful consideration, I have chosen to keep the third example under wraps. See, I am learning from past mistakes!

I knew when my friends started calling having a big mouth "pulling an Anna" that it was time for a change.

In conclusion, watching anime means you are a weirdo and I want nothing to do with it. No amount of thinking is going to change that statement.

Don't Bother Me. I'm Breathing.

The last two times I've tried to write in my blog, I have fallen asleep. I bore myself. That is saying something because I could be entertained in a square, white room with my hands strapped to my back.

I don't see why everyone has to bother me to actually do things. "Anna, let's go to your best friend's birthday party," or "Anna, you can't leave a three-year-old by himself," or "Anna, you should probably get that checked out." "Excuse me," I say, "You are interrupting my breathing."

That's why I try to surround myself with easily entertained people.

Pros?

1. They are a rewarding audience, laughing at simple gibberish words or toot jokes

2. They understand my efficient energy saving techniques some refer to as laziness

3. They tell the best toot jokes.

Cons?

Hmm... negatives of being childlike and carefree... think, think, think.

Looking back, I have always been easily entertained. As kids, Doree and I invented a brilliant game in which we would roll a foosball ball on the carpet towards a goal. When we made

a goal, we could eat a chip.

Another time we layed in my hallway upstairs gargling melodies for about an hour. We even used to memorize all the answers from the first edition of Nintendo Jeopardy. The only competition was who could buzz in the fastest. (FYI: if the question includes the word "snake", the answer's an asp.)

And I'll never forget when Doree pushed me all the way from her house to my house in a bright blue wheelbarrow, a feat rivaling Everest.

Simple entertainment has existed forever. Look at marbles, jacks, paddleball, and calculus for example. Easily entertained people, may as well be dubbed the creative geniuses of our time.

Needless to say, creative genius flourishes in Rexburg, Idaho.

My Post is Longer and Perhaps More Intelligent Than Your Post

My name is Anna Liggett and I am an over achiever. What's so wrong with that? I showed up to class for a book presentation yesterday with a giant tiger's head I had mounted on cardboard, an elaborate display complete with carefully picked book quotes, and even animal crackers to complete the theme. Okay, and I sort of coordinated my outfit to match the display. It was, well, cute.

I may have also spent an hour and a half writing a resume as a fictitious character or looked up the spelling of 'fictitious' just to make sure it was spelled right. You can roll your eyes all you want, but nobody hates over achievers as much as over achievers hate over achievers.

If you want to see a whole package of over achievers wrapped with a tight, gold ribbon, just check out the English majors. As everyone knows, no one better than English majors themselves, English majors are intellectual elitists. In a classroom of these bright builders of America, a common discussion goes as follows:

Teacher: "Good Literature," must write dramatically on board. ...e-r-a-t-u-r-e circle, circle, underline, a couple dots for good measure, "What is good literature?"

Students: Intellectual elitism look on their face.

Over Achiever 1: "Good literature should cause change in the world."

Over Achiever 2: "I am gonna play devil's advocate here," because I am so open minded and intellectually advanced enough to see both sides of any issue and not feel emotionally attached to either side so I can make anyone look like he is wrong, "But, what about all the good books that don't cause change in the world?"

Over Achiever 3: Oh, he set me up so well. I just need to name an author and a title and everyone will think I actually read in my free time. "Yeah, like... uh... like. Oh, it just left me. Harpo Lee To Kill a Mockingbird. Boo Radley."

Over Achiever 4: Deno, no... connotation? No it's 'D' for definition. "I guess we all need to agree on the denotation of 'good' when referring to literature"

English Major Who Fell Through the Over Achiever Cracks: "One word. Twilight!!!!!"

Over Achiever 5: "I think we need to be the change we want to see in the world."

English majors, including myself, often think they are smarter than they really are, which means they think they are smarter than everyone ever. They pretend to idolize prominent figures, when in fact, these figures become little more than their nemeses. As such, they seek to subtly backhand these figures where possible.

"Ahem. I admire the literary merit of Edgar Allan Poe. Although his maniacal plot lines leave us questioning his sanity, his legacy lives on." Or else, "Mark Twain was a master of satire, but he hated Mormons. Boo." Or, "Wordsworth uses simple words to express his simple appreciation of the complex serenity we call 'nature'."

Man, this post just reaffirms my proper place as an English major. My voicemail even says, "So you've come to the master for guidance. Is that what you're saying, grasshoppa?" Dang, that is so Eng. Maj.

Halloweenie

Halloween! It's almost here! I can't wait to celebrate the birth of, oh wait, the freedom of... no, that's not it. Our Irish... hmm... what are we celebrating again?

Oh yes! Murder, evil, trickery, and fear!!!!! My neighbors have already decorated for the season with bloody butcher knives and a headstone that says, "You're next!" stuck to their front window. I think I am gonna head over there first.

Actually, it turns out that it's "illegal" for "college students" to go "trick-or-treating" in "Rexburg". So, I am skipping class to think up a new strategy for tomorrow night. Here's what I've got so far:

Objectives:

1. Get candy

2. For free

3. Avoid arrest

Plan A: Obtain switchblade from neighborhood Wal-Mart store. Follow children around. Cut hole in children's trick-or treat bags. Collect trail of candy.

Plan B: Dress as Obama. Ensure parents that their candy will be split equally among all trick-or-treaters. Take candy home for self and friends. Accept Nobel Peace Prize.

Plan C: Inform parents giving out candy that their house is on fire. Agree to risk life to continue "giving out" bowl of candy. After, light house on fire to destroy evidence.

Plan D: Dress as Phantom of the Opera. Turn off power at houses giving out candy. Threaten there are more tricks where that came from over loudspeaker. Instruct parents that their children are at risk if they don't keep their hand at the level of their eye. Collect candy.

My Promise: As a law-abiding citizen, I agree to uphold the statutes of the Rexburg Constitution by following the "No college student trick-or-treaters" law. Fortunately, the loopholes above will provide optimum opportunity for celebration while allowing me to demonstrate my integrity as a citizen of this great town.

Happy Halloween, Rexburg! I can't wait to see all the floozy witch, floozy fairy, floozy bumblebee, floozy vampire, and floozy Michael Jackson costumes you all come up with!

Toot Uncommon

My mother and I often talk about mummies and their exploitation. Believe it or not, it is a huge problem faced by the Mummies of America today. Why? Because there shouldn't BE Mummies of America. We pull them out of their Egyptian pyramid fortresses and put them on display in museums. All those warnings about eternal curses are just poppycock. Right? Wrong. The curse of the mummy's tomb has poisoned America. Just take a look around out our broken society. Those mummies are probably rolling in their glass cases.

The first curse? Tooth Decay. First of all, it ruins the happiest thing we have in our dismal existences - candy. Rainbow lollipops, chocolate bars, and licorice, soda pop, and even little fruit chews with smiley faces have ulterior motives. Second of all, we are dependent on the dentist, who may as well have the head of a jackal.

The second curse? Lines. The grocery store, bank, even Disneyworld, the happiest place on earth, all have lines in common. I wish I could get embalmed now so I wouldn't have to rot away in lines. Heck, if I wanted to rot away, I would just watch tv, eat candy, or write in my blog.

The third curse? Country Music. Worse than pulling your brain out your nose.

The fourth curse? Double Knotted Shoelaces. They make you look like a nerd, but their necessity trumps their lack of style. Not only do we have to tie our shoes, we have to do it twice. It just reminds us that our best is never good enough.

The fifth curse? Facebook. Connecting you to all the people you never wanted to see again. The Ex-boyfriend, the weird kid who breathed on your arm in class, the adult version of the little kid you used to call "Fat Head". Facebook is an early Day of Reckoning.

If only I was there to interpret the hieroglyphics. I could have prevented all of this. People should come to me to prevent things more often.

Cowboys and Pioneers?

Nothing screams Utah like alien hair, Mormons, and Pioneer Day!* Although, I think the alien hair has transported to Idaho. Well, and the Mormons. But Pioneer Day remains Utah's cherished holiday.

As we attended the festivities this year, I realized that some people don't quite understand the meaning behind holidays they celebrate. You'd have thought I would have figured that out when my friend asked my British neighbor how they celebrate The 4th of July where he's from. But no. It hit me when Ian pointed out the Indians pulling handcarts in the parade. I dunno. Maybe they were just portraying the assimilated Indians who journeyed with the pioneers.

Ignorance provides the ultimate conditions for deceit, so I got to scheming. I am an optimistic person. I look at every situation and ask myself, "How can this benefit me?" Then, I do whatever I can to achieve my goals, no matter the costs. It's like they always say. "It's important to be nice, but it's nicer to be important."

That's why I propose a new holiday called, "Economic Stimulus Day" on September 1st of each year. This holiday will boost the economy and raise the spirits of Americans all over the world. On September 1st, each American will send 20% of their year's earnings to a specified location that will surely distribute the cash to various clothing stores, car dealerships, and chick fil a's across the country. For now, we'll just call the specified location A.L.I.G. Get More, Inc. We're here to serve you.

I know, I know. Sometimes I even surprise myself. See you September 1st for a happy Economic Stimulus Day!

*Note: Utahns do not deserve to be stereotyped. Oh my heck are they good people.

Peeve is a Nasty Word but an Even Nastier Problem

I was conversing with a fellow man about pet peeves the other day. He remarked that he hates it when people spell things rong. A stimulating discussion followed as this is my pet peeve as well. I expecially hate it when peeple spell things rong in advertisements or anything of a professional nature.

More importantly, however, the anger and consequent tension in the air after addressing this pet peeve revealed to me a more important discovery. My real pet peeve is people who actually have pet peeves. I mean, the only ones I have relate to spelling and cleverness in professional settings which, in my mind, are pretty reputable pet peeves. People who have time and a desire to think through what their pet peeves are should probably contribute that time to more worthy occupations such as inventing things, curing diseases, or bringing pogs back.

When you think about it, people who have pet peeves are the kind of people that raise their hands in class to tell the teacher he forgot the periods when he wrote, "I am smarter than everyone That's why they hate me" on the board. Or else they are the kind of people that correct you when you say, "See you tomorrow," when you won't really see them 'til the next day. "Don't you mean Wednesday, he he." "Oh right, how could I be such an idiot. Thank you for clarifying that for me." They may even tell you to stop for pedestrians or chew before you swallow. Those people. Their satisfaction must come from discovering what annoys them most and then pointing it out to people or else letting the irritation build up inside until it explodes like an eighth grade papier maché volcano project.

It doesn't help that every getting to know you game asks, "what's your biggest pet peeve?" Wait... let me grab my notebook so I can remember not to breathe around you. Pet peeves, shmet peeves. Sometimes we are too sensitive about our own comfort. Here's a list of my pet peeves:

1. People with pet peeves

2. Misspelling in a professional setting

3. People chewing with their mouth open

4. People who correct other people when what they say is understood just stated incorrectly

5. Leaving 3 seconds or more on the empty microwave

6. Buttoning the top button of a polo shirt

7. People who dislike Donny Osmond

8. Teachers that give homework over holidays

9. Stop signs

10. Country music

11. There's a lot more where that came from

12. People who make lists that don't end at 10

Woo! I'm glad I got that off my chest!

DoO DoO DOo DOo DoO DoO DOo DoO

I had a real life Twilight Zone happen to me the other week.  

     It was a dark and stormy night.  I casually walked to Doree's front door to retrieve her for the impending adventures that evening and made note that she lived in apartment 101.  "Hmm...I daresay that is a palindrome," said I to myself.  Feeling an instant bond with the apartment (as my name is also spelled the same forwards and backwards), I smiled as Doree shut the door behind her.  "Evening," said she.  I tipped my hat to her and we were on our way.  

Then a terrible conflict arose.  "Dear me," I said.  "I am hungry."  My other associates in the back of the car seconded that emotion but nobody could think up a place to dine.  Then, as if some other power overtook us, we all agreed on Quiznos.  

As I was engaged in the cheery conversation that surrounded me, I glanced at the address on the door of Quiznos.  By golly in adhesive numbers it read 101 left to right.  And right to left.  "This cannot be happening," I muttered under my breath. 

After a jovial time at Quiznos, we exited unaware of the unusual happenings before us.  We entered the car and, as my snot was frozen inside my nose and tremors took hold of my frigid body, my eyes naturally wandered over to the temperature indicator.  No, it was not 101 degrees, BUT there were exactly 101 miles left before the car would need more gas.  

I recounted the story to my associates who patronized me for a small moment with their "oohs," and "ahhs,"  just as I expect of you.  It's crazy but true.  Stranger than fiction.  101% unbelievable but 101% real.  

DMV? More like suck away your youth and destroy your self-esteem.

I am currently on hold for the DMV to renew my license. Who would have thought that the wait music they play could make sweet little me so angry? I'm tellin' you. There isn't anything in the whole world that gets me as frustrated as smooth jazz. It's right up there with the word "b**ger" ewwww... and getting sweaters stuck on your head. Ooh, or stepping in a puddle on the kitchen floor wearing socks.

I am twenty-one years and two days old today. I really can't concentrate with this smooth jazz playing. It's been 27 minutes already. Now 29 minutes. I feel like I am lost in a Full House episode. Cut-it-out.

I finally talked to a lady. She made me feel like Danny feels when DJ tells him she doesn't want him to sing in front of her friends. I had forgotten how small and dumb I was. It was nice of her to bring that to my attention.

That reminds me. I had a little trouble paying attention in class today. Unfortunately, when I was switching hands to lean my face on, my teacher thought I was trying to answer the question. I had no idea what the question was and had to ask him to repeat it. The other kids laughed at me. Like that happens in college. Anyways, I still had no idea what he was talking about when he repeated it so I just muttered something like "education means money, like, you know, you've got a lot of it so you are realistic and um... cuz when you understand stuff you, uhhh...appreciate it. So, social class plays a role." Then the teacher gave me that, "that has nothing to do with what I asked but I am going to try to keep speaking to you and moving my hands as if you said something of value" face. I really need to learn that face before I become a teacher.

On my birthday I got a package that they stuffed so tightly in the mailbox I couldn't pull it out. After literally ten minutes of pulling at it, which ruined my hair by the way, I had to destroy it with my mail key and pull out the contents. Wouldn't you know it... the empty box was still stuck in there. Doree had to drive over and pull it out for me. Must have been a sword in the stone thing. What a champ.

I guess I can conclude that my 21 years has taught me that DMV workers are all-knowing, when in doubt use phrases like "social class" and "you know what I mean," Doree is taller, stronger, and smarter than I am, and smooth jazz still sucks.