Random Thursday Thoughts

Because I missed Tuesday ...



N crawls now. Not well, but he's working on it. And yesterday, I awoke to him standing up in his crib for the very first time. Holding the top rail for support, of course. He is 9 months old now. And quite the little charmer.

N loves his exersaucer. He practically lives in it. For some reason, he hates the exersaucer at my parents' place, and he screams whenever he is put in it. But the exersaucer at our place is most helpful.

J's eating is improving now, thanks to some very militant techniques that H and I are employing. It's quite torturous for us, really. But at least he's taking in more food. I hope he'll soon just eat properly, without all the drama.

Yesterday, J wanted to sing "The Last Saskatchewan Pirate". He wanted me to sing with him. We were halfway through the verse about Mountie Bob being laid off and joining the pirate crew as "Salty Bob", when J stopped and announced: "This song sure has a lot of fancy words". (He's right; it does.) J has decided that next Halloween, he wants to be The Last Saskatchewan Pirate. He would also like us to dress N up as Salty Bob. This could be interesting.

Still reading my auditing course. Hard haul. Most of the readings are honestly quite dull and poorly worded. And then there's that whole repetitive nonsense. It's frequent. Very difficult to be motivated.

We are in a small house, and I have to study in the family room, where the TV is on every evening. You know that phenomenon when you're writing while someone is talking, and you end up writing down what you hear instead of what you were thinking? (What's that called again?) Well anyway, that same "writing" principle also applies to reading. I know, because last night, my auditing reading suddenly became half "Auditing, An International Approach" and half "Law & Order", and it read: "The general purpose of auditing is to commit assisted suicide". I concur.

Got the materials for my next course today. A friend taking it currently had told me that she figures there are about one-quarter of the readings as compared to other Level 4 classes. Should be good. The text is cute. It's so tiny after what I've gotten used to. I held it up, called it "dainty", and compared it to a wallet. J is convinced it is a baby textbook, meant especially for him. He figures he can pretend to study from his baby textbook while I use the real one, when it arrives. Hilarious!

J attends a very nice preschool. Today, all the kids were supposed to pick a subject and then tell a one-sentence "story". The teachers compiled the stories into a list on the wall, which looked kind of like this:

Child #1 - Mittens: You wear them when it's cold.
Child #2 - Cars: They drive down the street.
Child #3 - Dinosaurs: They eat eggs, and toast and jam, and carrots.
Child #4 - Shells: You find them at the beach.

Want to guess which child was J? Anyone?

Observation for the day

My textbook could probably be about one-third its current size, if its publishers employed better editors. Case in point:

"Expectations of dollar misstatement have the effect of increasing the sample size. The more dollar misstatement expected, the larger the sample size should be. Sample sizes should be larger when more dollar misstatement is expected. So, sample size varies directly with the amount of expected dollar misstatement."

That one passage just ate my brain. Seriously ... thirty seconds of my life that I will never get back. The last sentence is self-explanatory and well worded all by itself. Why is it necessary to reword this same thought four times?!

Updated: The above quote was taken directly from the 4th Edition of Smieliauskas & Bewley's "Auditing, An International Approach". Missed the citation earlier, but I should probably give credit where credit is due. Though I kind of doubt the authors of this text would actually want to take the blame credit for such a trainwreck of a passage.

Sporadic

I remain roughly five modules behind in school readings. My last assignment is due this Thursday by noon. Once that is in, I have three weeks until exam night. Lagging too far behind, I have to use all available time to prepare. It's gotten critical. (Doesn't help that I have had a migraine for the past four days ... I'm not even kidding ... and who can read anything when you're both doped up and in considerable pain?)

This is why posts here and comments everywhere have been very sporadic of late. Short on time; something's gotta give.

So for the next few weeks, I'll be posting and reading what I can, when I can. It's all I can do. Bear with me please. Presumably, we will return to our regularly scheduled programming shortly after my exam. Until then, I'll see you as often as I can.

Back soon!

Redneck Shower

Tanis of The Redneck Mommy got to bring home her newest addition last week. It's a boy!

In honour of her newest arrival, some fabulous folk are hosting a shower. Yup. It's an online baby shower for Tanis. They want to know: How are you a redneck mommy (or daddy)?



This is a toughy for me. 'Cause while I do live in the middle of the redneck prairies, in what I suspect is actually the redneck capital of the world, I don't quite fit in here. I don't have a double-wide. My firepit hasn't been used in about three years. No one in my family makes moonshine. I don't own a set of hair curlers. I'm involved in the arts, an advocate of gay's and women's rights, and I've never voted Conservative. There is nothing plaid in my wardrobe. I have two very tame tattoos, no piercings (other than the ears), and I don't shop at any store that uses the word "Hemp". Don't smoke. Barely ever drink, and when I do I tend to grab Blue Monday martinis. My musical tastes are eclectic, including various jazz standards, The Offspring, and Captain Tractor, but I loathe all things country. I work in finance, have diplomas in music and law, and am currently studying for an H.B.Com. and accounting designation. My family is religious, educated, and very very calm. No skeletons in our closets. I don't know what to tell you.

So ... yeah ... I guess you know you're a redneck mommy when you're not me?

Pathetic, I know. I hang my head in shame. Alright, I'm off to buy a head jacket now. I think I stand out a little too much, so I've totally gotta try and fit in better.

Love ya, Tanis. Congratulations again on the new boy!

UPDATED: Why children are the best!

Tonight found me wearing the same clothes for the third day in a row. (N and I have been sick ... don't judge me!) The clothes in question are an old pair of grey maternity sweatpants (no, I'm not pregnant; they're just comfy) and an oversized black Elton John concert shirt. N had thrown up oatmeal and applesauce down the front of the shirt this morning, and I was too tired to change it, so I'd just kind of sponged it off and carried on.

Tonight, I decided to work out even though I wasn't feeling well. Workouts give me energy. We recently acquired a Wii Fit, and I love using it. I've lost a little bit of weight, but I'm still classed as obese. It takes time. Must be consistent. So I did about half an hour of expert level rhythm boxing tonight. Worked up a good sweat. Tired. Sore arms. Sweating profusely. I collapsed on the couch in a heap and tried to catch my breath.

J was watching from his perch on the other couch. And as soon as I had flopped my ill-clad, obese, sweaty self down, he sweetly said: "You're so pretty, Mommy".

Good boy. I think I'll keep him.

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On an unrelated note, someone landed on my blog today by googling the words: "youtube how do I get out of this chicken".

Dear Googler,

I hope you have now somehow found the assistance that you required. But I'm unclear as to how you could have watched a self-help video on Youtube while trapped inside a chicken. Must have been a very large chicken. Please enlighten me. Please also advise as to where I may purchase just such a chicken. It could be useful for large family dinners.

Sincerely,

Momma T

PS - "How do I get out of this chicken" was actually in quotes. What is truly alarming is that the unfortunate googler landed on this post. I don't know why.

Johnny Appleseed IS Father Christmas

J decided that we should all say grace at breakfast this morning. And so, he "taught" us to sing the special grace he learned at preschool. Feel free to sing along!

Oh, the Lord is good to me
And so I thank the Lord
For giving me the things I need
The sun, and the rain, and the appleseed
The Lord is good to me
Jolly Old St. Nicholas
Um ... erm ...

Thank you ...
Ummm ...

Ah-men.

J's theological training continues to progress nicely. For while he confuses Johnny Appleseed with Santa Claus, at least he no longer ends his prayers by shouting "What the heck!" Progress, peoples!

Bad. Good. Awesome!!

BadN isn't feeling well today, has barely eaten, and doesn't want to sleep. J used quiet time to repaint every surface of his room with a tub of Zincofax. HR isn't returning my calls. Daycare is being quite uncooperative about placement for the boys; the childcare system is pure evil. My fourth assignment is due next Thursday; I've barely begun the work, and I'm still about five modules behind in readings. We've got yet another flat tire. And I just found out that the police labeled Tyler's death a suicide (though his family remains certain that he was actually murdered ... which would mean his killer is walking free and clear, and I'm not really sure which of those options would be worse).

GoodAt least the Coke I put in the freezer to chill and then forgot about for several hours didn't explode.

Awesome!!And also, my birth mom's oncologist advises that all of her cancerous tumors shrunk a bit even after the chemo was stopped. So that's wonderful news!

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I'm tired. Tense. Easily distracted and overly busy. Must complete assignment now. Will post when I can.

I've got no time for words today

How to annoy me

I'm on maternity leave right now. In school. Two children. Ordinarily, I also work outside of the home at a job that I very much enjoy. I'll be returning to it in May. This dual income household concept is foreign to many. Why would both parents in a household choose to work outside of the home? Why wouldn't one of you stay at home with your children? What's wrong with you?!

Of course, there is nothing wrong with us. We're just fine. So why do both of us work outside of the home? And why might other couples make that same decision?

Well, there may be some fairly obvious financial considerations. And of course there are some developmental and social skills that a child can garner from early childhood development centres, which centres are reasonably unaffordable if you don't happen to have a dual income household. But perhaps the main reason to have two working parents is just plain sanity. 'Cause a full day at the office is vastly more relaxing than a morning at home with both my children. Quite frankly, it feels like a break. If you have children, you probably understand this. If not ... well, read on and you will very soon.

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My child knows just exactly how to annoy me. Now, other people can get in there and really piss me off, too. But the 3-year old J has become quite the old hand at it. Bravo, J!

For those of you who aren't quite as adept, here is a quick reference guide on how to annoy me. And I venture to say that this list would transfer to pretty much anyone, so feel free to use it at your discretion. You can do all of these things in a short space of time. Just ask J, whose time management skills are so fabulous that he has done everything on this list today! (It's not even noon.)

Thanks, and have a lovely day.

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After walking your father to the door to see him go off to work and promising not to cry, pitch a screaming fit with more tears than I've ever seen before.

Pace up and down the stairs, turning lights on and off and crying inconsollably.

Demand I call your father on his cell phone and tell him to return home at once so that he can pour you a glass of milk.

Insist that Daddy, and only Daddy, can give you milk; Mommy is not good enough.

When I theorize that you just miss your father and would like to talk to him, and so I phone him (at your insistence) so that you can talk, spend all your time on the phone shrieking at the top of your lungs that you need him to race home and pour you a glass of milk immediately.

Scream and cry for an hour about the fact that Daddy will not return home to pour you a glass of milk.

Unlock the front door, presumably to go searching for Daddy or to let Daddy back in so that he can pour you a glass of milk.

Do not tell me that you have unlocked the front door.

Insist on having both white and chocolate milk for breakfast, and demand to drink your chocolate milk with a spoon.

When I (very reluctantly) give you a spoon for your chocolate milk, insist that you want a different spoon.

Throw yourself on the kitchen floor, kick your feet, and scream incessantly about the fact that the spoon I gave you is inadequate, because it is not shiny and grey from top to bottom, did not originate from the cutlery drawer, and is not "breakable".

Continue to scream your demands for a spoon for the next 20 minutes.

When I hold up the spoon that I provided and ask you what it is, insist that it is a fork.

After the whole "milk" extravaganza ends, wait about ten minutes, and then rhythmically chant "I need a glass of water. I need a glass of water. I need a glass of water. ..." at me. Do not say "please".

Fill small containers with loose bits of paper and other items that are essentially just garbage.

Pitch a fit when I tell you that garbage goes in the garbage can. Respond by clutching the garbage to your chest as though it were your most treasured possession.

Grab a plastic egg you got for Easter two years ago. Stuff small blocks in it.

When I tell you that small stuff goes on the craft table, and not in an egg, ask "Whhhhhyyyyy?" in your most plaintive whiny voice.

While we're on that subject, ask "Whhhhhyyyyy?" in response to everything that is said, no matter how ridiculous the question may be at that juncture.

Try to trap your little brother under a baby gym by placing its legs on his throat.

Try (and fail) to look innocent and naive when I tell you to stop trying to murder your little brother with a baby gym.

Insist that you must sit on my lap and scream into the phone while I try to talk to the incompetent postal employees who lost the university application that I sent out on Wednesday by Express Post with guaranteed next day delivery. (Incidentally, the postal employee has refused to track the lost package and has told me to call back on Monday to check on its delivery status, at which time they will agree to track the package. Fat lot of good that will do, though, since it has to be received by Monday in order for me to get in; but thanks!)

Pour a bowl of Cheerios over the freshly swept floor. Put Cheerios back in bowl. Repeat, ad infinitum.

Nurse the same bowl of Cheerios for three hours.

When I tell you it's 2 hours to lunch and that breakfast is now officially over, flip out and run upstairs with your half-eaten bowl of Cheerios.

Make me chase you up the stairs as my bad knee throbs.

Stomp on the baby's "My First Reader" set and nearly break it.

Hunt through the house and find a non-washable ink pad. Hide it somewhere on your craft table. The next time I'm in the kitchen, grab that ink pad and make a wall mural in the living room.

Pour a bunch of choking hazards over the floor where the baby plays.

When I tell you to put those small items back on your craft table, respond by dumping all of them in a box that's sitting on the floor, in direct defiance of my instructions.

Run to the bathroom and ask me to pause Bugs Bunny, the show that is currently on TV.

When I tell you that this cannot be done (it's on TV, not on video), cry about it.

Inquire from the bathroom as to whether Bugs Bunny has ended. And when I tell you that it has, continue to check with me, just for clarification. Like so:

J: Is it over?!
T: Yes.
J: No! Bugs Bunny!
T: Yes.
J: No! Is Bugs Bunny over?!
T: Yes, it's over.
J: No! I mean Bugs Bunny! Is Bugs Bunny over?!
T: Yes. Bugs Bunny is over.
J: No! Bugs Bunny!! Is Bugs Bunny over?! Is it over?!
T: YES!! YES!! BUGS BUNNY IS OVER!! BUGS BUNNY!!! BUGS BUNNY!!! YES! BUGS BUNNY IS OVER!!!!!

Ask to watch "The Tale of the Mighty Knights" repeatedly. When it's movie time, wait until I start "The Tale of the Mighty Knights". Then run over to the craft table and start playing with your play-doh.

Ask me to play play-doh with you. And no matter what I say, repeat. Like so:

J: Do you want to play play-doh with me?
T: I thought you wanted to watch The Tale of the Mighty Knights.
J: Do you want to play play-doh with me?
T: Don't you want to watch The Tale of the Mighty Knights?
J: Do you want to play play-doh with me?
T: It's movie time, though, isn't it?
J: Do you want to play play-doh with me?
T: J. You asked for The Tale of the Mighty Knights.
J: Do you want to play play-doh with me?
T: Don't you want to watch The Tale of the Mighty Knights anymore?
J: NO!!!
T: Awesome.

Rip the baby gym apart and insist that it is your "fire gun".

When I ask you to put the gym back together, refuse to do so and forcefully throw the pieces on the floor instead.

When I pick you up to place you in time out, hit me.

Spend the next several minutes screaming and throwing toys at your closed bedroom door as you continue to tantrum while in time out.

Intentionally pee on the carpet in your bedroom, just to vex me.

Wake the baby.

Me and my identity crisis

I don't understand how I reached this point. I'm a musician, for crying out loud. I have a piano, a synthesizer and amp, guitar, violin, two flutes, and a few random percussion instruments in various parts of my house. I'm a pianist, but I dabble a bit. I have grade 9 Royal Conservatory and a college music diploma with a focus on jazz styles. There's a Real Book in my closet, where I also keep my score paper. I've been playing for 35 years, and writing for 25. And you just wouldn't think this kind of thing would happen. Why would it?

Going through college, things were good. And then, they weren't. Thoracic outlet syndrome. Cervical ribs, one on each side, cutting off the circulation to both arms. The ribs had to be removed. Scar tissue. Couldn't play for awhile. Couldn't lift, so my waitressing sideline was over. Minor nerve issues in the left hand impeded my playing. I'm a pianist, but for quite some time I lacked the necessary speed and agility to play professionally. I lack the patience required of a teacher. And there's even less calling for a composer than there is for a performer. Retraining became inevitable.

I worked in a collection agency for awhile. Debtors would hide. My job was to find them, locate their assets, and find a way to get the debt paid. I was good at it. Attention to detail helps. Got promoted to the legal department, and decided to retrain in that field. So I went to night school for paralegal certification. Worked in law firms for awhile, and it was all good. Until the day a lawyer told me that I didn't command a higher salary than average because, while I was smarter than average, my brains weren't required for my job. (Note for the future: Belittling staff is totally not the way to go.) And I decided to retrain again, to get past the financial glass ceiling and to command a bit more respect. Some paralegals go on to law school, but not me. In my time at the law firms, I'd learned that I didn't want to be a lawyer. I generally didn't like them very much.

I evaluated, considered my options, and settled on accounting. Music and math are highly inter-related. And the linguistic and problem solving skills I'd acquired as a paralegal would be transferrable. The training options matched with my lifestyle, so I could work while I learned. And I figured I'd probably enjoy it.

And I do. But still ... from music, to law, to accounting? It's an odd road I travel. But I'm traveling it and doing my best. I'm just over halfway done my designation now. I've gotten one scholarship thus far. Halfway through Level 4, and I've submitted my application for the integrated degree. When I'm done, I'll have an H.B.Com and a prestigious accounting designation. Pretty impressive, really.

But I'm a musician.

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This current class is in auditing. Dry as dirt in a summer drought. But it's required, so I plug along. Ten modules, five assignments, 12 weeks. As has become the norm of late, I am behind in my readings and playing catch up. I'm more behind than usual, however, and struggling to get through the past readings that I've missed. Not working out so well just yet. I'm sure I'll get there eventually. I always do.

Assignment #3 is due today. It includes a computer question, in which we're supposed to select a random sample of invoices using systematic dollar-unit sampling. (Yes, I now know what that is, much to my chagrin.) For systematic dollar-unit sampling, you take the cumulative population dollar total (P), divide it by the desired sample size (N), and set the interval (X). Then you select a random number (R) that's between the minimum (generally zero or one) and the maximum (usually P). And then you add X to R to find the next sample (R1), add X to R1 to find the next sample (R2), and so on until you've got N samples selected. No dollar value can exceed P, however, so interval X gets added until P is reached, and then it cycles back to the minimum number (generally zero or one) and starts over.

It's basically just really convoluted counting. See? Dry. Really, really dry. Drier than dry, actually. I need a beverage just thinking about it.

The computer question for Assignment #3 is to be completed in Excel, and both results and formulas are to be submitted for marking. The instructions say that random number R should be between zero and interval X. Takes a bit of time to set up, but then it all falls into place rather quickly. And no dollar value ever exceeds P, so there is no cycling back required.

Discussions in the student forum have revolved around whether or not a loopback provision should be built into the formula, even though no dollar value ever exceeds P. I say no; the dollar value never gets above the maximum, so we never have to start back at zero. Another student got all lofty on me and said that we should still provide the "correct" formula, even though in this case we never end up looping back. (The "correct" formula? You pretentious little snot ...) And I found myself actually typing this:

"In an audit, it is an inefficient use of time to build if-then loopback provisions into an Excel formula to deal with a situation that will never arise due to a mathematical impossibility. As long as R is set between zero and X, and as long as X is determined by dividing P by N, no number will ever be above P, even if R ends up being the maximum value of X.

Think about it:

The interval is P/N=X
R is a number between zero and X
N samples will be selected
Therefore, the maximum number that can ever be arrived at will be X*N=P

If it is mathematically impossible for a number to exceed P, no provisions will be required to deal with that non-existent contingency."

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I don't get how I just typed that. And I'm not sure why it makes complete sense to me. Because ... I'm a musician!!!