OT: Delivery Men and the Giants Suck

Two-hundred-and-seventy minutes have gone by since I have been waiting for the appliance delivery guy to get here. Two-hundred-and-seventy fucking minutes. (That's four-and-a-half hours for all of you folks who can't do math). In my (not so humble) opinion, delivery people hold one of the, if not THE, top spot for most dreaded appointment, possibly surpassing the likes of accountants (guilty) and even dentists. Scheduling a delivery? Kiss your day goodbye.

To rub salt in the wound, today is absolutely flipping gorgeous and my dog is at my mother's (in an attempt to save the delivery people -- something I wish I hadn't thought of, given the current state of events). The rays of sun and wisps of breeze pouring through my curtains are taunting me. I have flipped from channel to channel on tv trying to find something to appease myself and have been forced to settle on football -- that's when you know I am desperate (and, side note, wtf Giants?).

Two-hundred-and-eighty-three minutes.

Today, I am frustrated. I am frustrated that butt-face (see: ex-boyfriend) has absolutely no responsibility while I am left to care for our my condo, pay for our my bills, and take care of our dog. I am not quite sure whose dog it is now, actually (I would say 90% mine, 10% his). He does help out sometimes but let's be honest: how long can you possibly share joint custody rights of your pooch? If I had a normal 9-5 (see: not slave labor public accounting) this would be a no-brainer. I would keep the dog. I love the dog. He is my dogchild. But I don't. So--- this is how it's going to go until I am forced to make a decision. The end.

Oh, and I am also not usually so whiny about my responsibilities...but today is an exception. Don't judge me.

Two-hundred-and-ninety minutes.

Onto the next frustration: the CPA exam. I know this blog is called "Off Topic" and this is really quite on topic but I can't help it today so I'm breaking my own rules. I've never had trouble with anything related to education. I got a 4.0 in high school and almost college (damn you, religion teacher), and got a near-Ivy League worthy score (see: NYU) on my SAT's without even cracking open a book to study. I don't need to study. I don't study. I am me.

I am also a cocky little shit sometimes and, in this case, I am wrong. (That tasted like vinegar, by the way).

Three-hundred minutes, ladies and gentlemen.

The CPA exam is not so much a test or a piece of education as a three-headed, fire-breathing dragon. (Ok, so I'm being a little dramatic). The test is three to four-and-a-half hours, depending on which of the four parts you're taking, and no two attempts are ever (or even slightly) the same. There is an element of luck, which is a problem for me seeing as I've never been remotely lucky (logical, yes; lucky, no) and you can only take each part once per quarter. To make a very long story short, I have two parts passed and two parts failed not passed. Oh, and did I mention that each passing grade is only good for eighteen months? Yeah, my first part expires January 31st. Happy day.

I should be studying today and, in my defense, I did study a little this morning, but it has become really hard for me to keep being motivated about something that I have been attempting for twenty-seven months straight with a very low success rate. You do not want to know how many parts I have sat for. I'll give you a hint: I've only passed two.

I will deal with my feelings on this later to save you from being lulled into a comatose state anything related to public accounting.

Three-hundred-and-ten minutes.

Ok, so in all honesty I thought the delivery guy would surely be here by the time I finished writing this post. It seems I was wrong again and that I should probably stop making these predictions as my accuracy percentage is dropping below the level I normally like to keep it at. So I'll continue sitting on my couch and have moved on to the Green Bay/Cincy game which is sure to be better than witnessing the G-men lose thirty-eight to zero to the Panthers. (The Panthers?!)

Three-hundred-and-fifteen minutes. This better be a damn good washing machine.