blah blah blah...taxes....general ledger...blah...tort feasor...blah...wait, TORT FEASOR?!?!

I am currently studying to become an accountant. By the end of 2010 I will have a Master's in Science in Accountancy. I start a job at an accounting firm in Charlotte in January where I hope to keep my post for at least a few years. Unfortunately, I hate accounting.

As you can imagine, such hatred makes accounting school slightly unexciting. Luckily, every so often a cool new term pops up in the curriculum that sends me into imaginative spirals of short-lived amusement. It's too bad that none of the words actually mean what they sound like. Below I have provided two such examples, their disappointing definitions, and, more importantly, what I think they should mean.

TORT FEASOR

Actually Means: Someone who commits a civil wrong (Thanks, Business Law).

What It Sounds Like It Should Mean: Someone who uses complicated geometric logistics to fit a very large fruit-filled pastry through a very small doorway.

When Google Image Searched:







Hmm...so, in case we needed more clarity on what a tort feasor really is, our friends at the Google image search have narrowed it down to: someone's grandparents at a war re-enactment site, a pregnancy test, or a doggy behind a fence. That really clears it up! Thanks, Google!


TIPPY PASSER:

Actually Means: A stupid mnemonic* device used by the Becker CPA Exam prep lecturers to help remember the general, fieldwork, and reporting standards for attestation services (the details of which would put anyone to sleep, except hopefully me during the CPA exam section I am taking two days from now).

What It Sounds Like It Should Mean: 1. A quarterback sitting Indian-style on one of those flying-saucer sleds; 2. One whom communicates from one party to the next really small and insignificant pieces of advice; 3. A teenager walking stealthily on their toes past their sleeping father in a recliner circa 2 a.m. on a school night.

When Google Image Searched:








WHAT?!?!?!

And here we all thought nothing about accounting was funny...



*Fun fact: I Googled "mnemonic device" because I couldn't REMEMBER how to spell it. A mnemonic device is designed to make memory of large lists or ordered items simpler, yet the word itself is both overly complex and impossible to recreate from memory. WHY!?!?

A Tale of Two Smoke Alarm Battery Replacement Procedures

My smoke alarm ran out of battery power today. This is the second time this minor, yet exceptionally annoying, event has occurred since I lived in my own apartment. The first time the ridiculously loud beep in annoyingly-spaced intervals (you know, just often enough not to be ignored and but with just enough time between killer beeps for you to think the problem cured itself) presented itself was around 11:30 PM one weekend night in April's and my apartment in Charlotte. While all smoke alarm battery replacement situations begin in the same way, with the same "What is that? The dying pterodactyl noise? Oh crap, the smoke detector! Make it stop!" or something like that, the events that transpired in an attempt to resolve the situation could not have been more different.

Smoke Detector Battery Replacement Adventure of May 2010:

I'm sitting in my apartment in Winston-Salem watching Grey's Anatomy with Guinness (well, I was watching, Guinn was licking his butt) when the annoyance started. I immediately got up, moved a chair under the beeping device, unscrewed it from the ceiling and removed the battery. I took note of the voltage and quickly jumped in my car and drove to my local Food Lion to get the necessary replacement. Upon returning, I placed the 9V into its place and went back to watching Grey's. The whole process took eleven minutes. The end.

And now for the tale of what happened the first time...

Smoke Detector Battery Replacement Adventure of February 2010:

It it the night of the epic Post Uptown Around the World Party thrown by myself and six of my friends incorporating four apartments, four countries, lots of shenanigans, and the losses of many guests' dignities. I am standing in my apartment, Mexico, with some stragglers who did not get their fill of Tecate and Tequila. I'm wearing a cocktail dress, a sombrero and aviators. Its nighttime. I'm indoors. I channeling Garth Brooks on the Piña Colada front and jigging to "Vamos a la Playa" because "a mi me gusta baila" when that all-too-familiar beep becomes audible over the techno-Mexicano music. I freak. IT IS SO ANNOYING! I immediately grab a wobbly stool stolen from my basement in Michigan and also the 1970's and enlist the nearest boy to help me get that thing down. I rip it from the ceiling, tear its battery heart out, and happily return to my personal fiesta.



Approximately thirty seconds later, the impossible happens. It beeps. It FREAKING BEEPS. It has no battery and is no longer attached to the ceiling, so how on EARTH is it still alive? Freak out part two ensues. Without thinking, I grab it from the counter and throw it out on to the balcony. Problem solved; back to the party. Later, April comes in and informs me that the device is no longer beeping and can re-enter our apartment. I am skeptical but agree to let it come inside so long as it is buried somewhere where any future noises will not be heard.

Fast forward to the the next day. April and I are watching episode six for the day of the O.C. when I glance at the ceiling. OH YEA!! I had forgotten about the smoke alarm adventure of the night before. Maybe because it just hadn't seemed that important at the time, or maybe because the events of Mexico were followed by even more ridiculousness in Russia, Ireland, and good ol' America, but neither April nor I had any idea where we had eventually decided to bury it. We needed help. Needless to say, the text messages and phone calls made in an attempt to obtain any information regarding the hole in our ceiling and our missing smoke detector were extremely humorous at the least. Most of the text recipients were already in Russia, some saw the original rip from ceiling and exile to balcony tirade (a few of which felt that informing me that it was no longer attached to my ceiling and that gaping hole with cords hanging down did actually exist was somehow new information to me), and one remembered my acceptance of the beeping spawn of Satan back into my life, but no one actually responded with helpful insight. It was to remain a mystery.

In the end, April found the smoke detector a few days later in her stack of jeans. It sat on our counter for three weeks untouched as we basked in our laziness and inability to walk next door to the CVS to get a replacement battery. Finally, almost a month after the fateful beeping began, we were once again living under the protective shield of a fully-juiced smoke detector. The end.




No one can say I've never learned from my experiences or matured in any way ever again...

Disturbing Realizations

I like to think of myself as a fairly well-rounded person. I have great friends, a good family, a solid social life, and a legitimate set of interests, goals, and priorities. Why, then, was I so frightened a month or so ago, when one of my friends identified a surprising truth about my life: I had at least crossed into phase three of the ten-step process of becoming a cat lady. Yes, a cat lady.

Though everyone has heard of such a person, it is a gray area as to what actually constitutes a cat lady. Is there a minimum number of cats one might need to own? Is there a lower bound of social interaction? Must the male sex had to have given up on the woman in question entirely for the title to set in? Ok, so I wasn't anywhere close to having to ask these questions yet, but upon closer examination of my life, I came to the conclusion that this wise, albeit insulting, friend did have a point.

As a child, I grew up with many pets - Horses, dogs, hamsters, goldfish, gerbils, and of course, many cats - and have always loved them. My family still has two cats at home, Bentley(who might be more accurately classified as a dog given his overall size and behavior patterns) and the invincible Prince(survivor of being impaled by a combine earlier this year, but that is not important here), but my regard towards them has never put me anywhere near the cat lady line....And then Guinness entered my life.

Since then, as my friend pointed out, certain events have transpired and behaviors have been undertaken on my part that would prompt almost anyone on the outside looking in to question my cat lady-ness. So now it is up to you, blog readers to decide: how bad is it?

The sad truths are as follows.: (Please feel free to laugh at my expense)

- Guinness has his own bedroom. Yes, I pay rent for a two-bedroom apartment each and every month all by myself for very few legitimate reasons. In his room, he has a futon, a mattress, a jungle gym, 3 scratching posts, 4 cat beds, a tunnel, a stool, 3 food bowls, a Guinness-proof watering system(you would understand if you ever saw him paying in a sink or any sort of puddle-like accumulation of liquid), and a liter box secluded in his own walk-in closet. Guests at my apartment even often refer to the second bathroom situated closest to his room as "Guinness's bathroom". It's bad.

- The contents of my coat closet include the following: a Northface, a Patagonia, a red pea coat, a charcoal pea coat, a black formal long coat, a white trench coat, a windbreaker, and a pet-sized biker jacket with metallic studs. Oh yes. Unfortunately, due to the lack of quality of pleather used, though Guinness almost fills out the awesome little coat, he can't really move in it. the last time he donned it for April's and my amusement, he slowly tipped over off of his perch of badassness and had to be rescued from where he laid, face-down on my futon in his rockstar threads. While impractical, its tough to mess with the concept of a kitten in a leather jacket. It especially looks chic over his jersey that he wears during Detroit games. It kind of clashes with his holiday t-shirt, but that's not important.

- Guinness has Facebook. He doesn't have opposable thumbs, but he has a full profile, and frequently writes on his friends' walls. He was even in a relationship there for a while...with a human. If it's Facebook official, you know it's serious.

- Guinness is the background on my Blackberry. I show it to strangers at bars. OH MY GOD. The cat lady realization is really sinking in now.

- The other night I decided to give Guinness a bath. Because he needs to be beautiful, I chose to suds him up with Victoria's Secret Strawberries and Champagne body wash. After rinsing and toweling him off in his own bath towel, I blow dried him. That's right, folks: I blow dried my cat. So pretty smelling, so puffy.

- I make entirely too many jokes to people about my "bossy roommate" who never wants to hang out, and gets so pissed when I bring over friends at night. I mean, how many times can I fake "check" with Guinness to see if it is ok to have a party? It was never funny. It still isn't. I'm sorry to all those who have witnessed it.

- Guinness has a kitty harness. I take him for walks. Correction: I take him outside in his kitty harness and he sits down.

- I cannot count on one hand how many times I have tried to trick him into drinking his namesake. His refusing to do so has been my greatest regret. I get more joy out of thinking of ways for Guinness to drink Guinness without noticing than I have gotten from half of the parties I have attended in my life.

...I could continue, but I think I have embarrassed myself enough. So there it is, guys. I may not be a social outcast yet, but one thing is certain: I need help or we all know where I will be come my 20 year reunion.

P.S. Guinness, if you are online updating your Facebook profile or watching "Kittens inspired by Kittens" again and you stumble upon this post, this is not your fault. I love you.

An Ode to the Audit Intern

So...this winter I got my first taste of the joys of public accounting. Instead of discussing this in an extended tale of number crunching and frolics through the audit room, I will instead share with the internet community the works of lyrical art that I composed during my professional internship with an accounting firm in Charlotte that will remain unnamed. Before reading, please note that I mean no disrespect to my wonderful firm, the profession, or my lovely coworkers: this is simply a sarcastic display of a new art genre known as Accounting Poetry and a reflection of the lack of exciting jobs available to interns during busy season. Enjoy.


A POEM FOR THE AUDIT INTERN: For April Richmond and Nikki Palazzo


Auditing is so much fun.

I want to sing and dance.

I’d tie-out 10’Ks all day long

If I only had the chance.


I love my red pen.

And my various post-it flags.

I love how blood-shot my eyes get.

And how the skin below them sags.


This job is super wonderful.

I never leave my chair.

My excel workbooks are just so pretty,

I cannot help but stare.


You know what does it for me?

What really makes me smile?

When I look at two numbers for an hour or two

And they just won’t reconcile.


I heart my calculator.

Love access and excel.

I really just love auditing,

If you couldn’t already tell.


This really is the glamorous life.

I think I really made it.

Being an intern is phenomenal!

Except I really hate it.


Sometimes I work 12 hours.

Sometimes I think I’ll cry.

Sometimes I do nothing for days on end

Sometimes I want to die.


It could be worse I guess

At least I’m getting paid

When I do all this for no extra comp

Ill wish my intern status had stayed.


AN AUDIT POEM - PART 2


This one time I sat at my desk.

I sat there all day long.

I did the same thing 11 times.

And each time, I did it wrong.


So then I had to re-do it.

And still it wasn’t right.

So I added to my sample

And worked late into the night.


When I turned it into my senior

She changed a bunch of stuff

So I added 4 more tickmarks

But that wasn’t good enough.


When the manager looked it over

At first he seemed impressed

But he asked I do it ten more times

Was this some evil test?


So now I am surrounded

By leasehold improvement recons

All I want is to hit up the bake sale

And buy those brownies with the pecans.


It really is quite cruel

I can see the baked goods from my chair

But I have way too much work to do

It really isn’t fair.


If given the choice of Recons or death

Right now I would be dead

I really should just work on it now

But I choose poetry instead.



The end. I will be here all week.

Mini Blowpops

Standing in line at Lowe’s Foods the other day, I succumbed to two of the greatest forces present in a modern-day capitalist society: Pretty pictures and stuff for less than a dollar. The predator behind these forces was a display for Mini Blowpops; and I was an easy prey. I didn’t have a chance: Blowpops already are awesome. But these were miniature. BABY BLOWPOPS, and only eighty-eight cents. Done and done.

How could this concept be anything less than magical? I will tell you. The defining characteristic of Blowpops, besides their ability to teach children of hierarchies of both desired flavors and the individuals who choose them (watermelon, strawberry,…grape last; popular, jock,…dweeb last), is its happy surprise center of bubble gum reached after successfully licking through layer upon layer of tangy fruit goodness. It’s what separates the blowpop from its inferior counterparts like the tootsie-pop and the dum-dum, and also adds some support for the otherwise innuendo-teasing name “blowpop.” So, as these are Mini Blowpops that we are discussing here, it would make sense that although they ditched the traditional lollypop form for a bite-sized style, these pygmy versions would also share the essential bubble gum filling. They did not disappoint.

That is to say they did not disappoint anyone counting on chewing the 1/10 scale amount of gum contained within these sugary spheres. They did however, confuse and perturb anyone expecting to be able to get this little speck of goo out of their back molars or into any sort of chewing rhythm. Upon realizing the molecule of gum was a lost cause, I shifted my goal from chewing the nucleus of the mini blowpop to simply getting it out of my teeth. After a ninety-second battle, I succeeded - if you consider swallowing a few milligrams of gum a victory, anyway.

Maybe because of my hangover from the awesomeness of the miniature blowpop concept, or perhaps just because I am stubborn in nature, I was not yet finished with attempting to enjoy these little snacks. There had to be a way to rescue any remaining potential. My first thought was to eat four instead of one – that would equal four times the gum! Fail. Four times a grain of sand is still not much sand: Same concept here. Swallowed again. I was getting angry. The only solution was to consume the rest of the bag. After sifting through a mouthful of grape, sour apple, cherry, watermelon, and strawberry shards and their respective tid-bits of gum I was left with my prize: a small chewable wad about a third of the size of the product of a stick of Juicy Fruit. How disappointing. Not only was I exhausted, both in jaw and mind, but also I was reminded of how non-appetizing blowpop gum really was. It is pure sugar and hardens within seconds. Disappointment flooded over me. In the end I was left with nothing but the following cognitions:

I am 23. I cannot successfully consume or enjoy a Mini Blowpop. How is a member of the target audience, say a ten-year-old who does not have a college degree in economics, supposed to deal with this choking hazard?

How is this even a pop? The stick is gone.

What do Blowpops even do besides entertain your oral fixation for ten to twelve minutes and turn your mouth indigo?

Why even put the gum in the blowpop if it is going to taste like sticky tack mixed with Aspartame? It’s the equivalent of following a rainbow to find a pot of ChexMix with the crunchy biscuits and dark Chex already eaten out of it.

In conclusion: Do not be fooled by the mist of feigned awesomeness that surrounds the Mini Blowpop. It is all smoke and mirrors. Go back to the original, or even try a peach flavored dum-dum – its delicious! And whatever you do, don’t rush towards the center goal: with Blowpops, it’s all about enjoying the ride.

This post is dedicated to April Richmond, the second known victim to succumb to the disappointment that is Mini Blowpops.

Hello Forced Readers

If you are reading this, you already know me. I know this much as fact because as soon as I am done writing this, I am going to send this link to whoever I can think of and dangle our friendship over their head as motivation to read whatever it is I see fit to post on this blog.

I have wanted to write a blog for a long time now in order to share the ridiculousness of both my filterless mind, and my life in general, with the internet world. But since the life of an accounting graduate student/auditor-in-training keeps me so busy doing nothing, I just haven't been able to put my Twilight book down long enough to put finger to keyboard.

So what changed? Tim Gearty and Peter Olinto entered my life. Who are these exceptional persons, you ask? They are simultaneously the center of my universe and the bane of my existence. As the narrators of the Becker CPA exam preparation class lectures, these two gentlemen and the plethora of accounting terms and concepts they happily reintroduced into my aching brain every day have taken over my world. I think I hear most of my thoughts in their New England timbres these days than I do in my own voice. I am finally busy doing something meaningful: attempting to become a Certified Public Accountant. This is exactly why I am breaking ground my blog now, five days before taking the first part of the dreaded CPA exam: I have always lived for procrastination and the thrill of doing as little actual work as necessary until the very last minute, and the thought of writing a blog instead of making flashcards numbers 155-180 just did it for me.

So here it is: a compilation of stories, conversations, reflections, and randomness that really didn't need to be posted on the internet. I hope you all enjoy my life as much as I do.

On a related note: I recently facebook friended Tim Gearty, my Becker friend, and he accepted. Great success!


Over and out.



The rulers of my life. Compliments of Facebook and my budding friendship with Tim Gearty.