Okay.  I admit.  I get in weird moods sometimes.  Blame the moon, an overdose of caffeine, or way too much free time.  But what better way to deal with thoughts that make no sense by writing poetry that doesn’t even rhyme very well!

Normally, no one wants to read about how you like pie in your eye that makes you cry.  because no one likes bad poetry.  Fortunately, I have a blog that let’s me publish the very stuff that no one likes.

So world, here is some bad poetry to make you want to go run through a field of sunflowers and wish that unicorns made rainbows.

I’m not the monster in your closet

By Emily Philpot

I’m not the monster in your closet,

You keep laying awake at night,

Trembling, making yourself all upset.

Your eyes fixed on your stupid nightlight.

You wait for me to jump out and say boo,

Your ears strain for the bump in the night.

You give me eight eyes, and the worst hairdo,

But I’m not there, I’m not in sight.

I’m the wind, I’m the freaking breeze,

My song rustles all through your dead trees,

But stop making me that scary creature,

I’m not the star of your crazy motion picture.

If you are so scared of me, find me,

Stop saying you are so brave

In the sun, when it scatters light on all you see,

It’s in my dark that your words won’t save.

I don’t care what you put on,

You bedcovers won’t hide you,

From your own thoughts

on which you lie upon.

Cuz I’m no monster, and you are the one who ate yourself.

Today, I really wished I had a camera.

I volunteered at a horse therapy center for disabled children and words won’t do my experience justice.  There is a beauty of a huge draft horse with broad, thick shoulders and muscular hindquarters that can pull stage coaches and plow rocky fields cradling a small, underdeveloped child who can’t walk on their own,  and giving them the power to walk with not just two legs, but four very powerful legs.

Today I saw a kid with a heart pump who probably isn’t allowed to run or jump on his own, stand on the back of a horse, spread his arms out like wings, tilt his head back, close his eyes and tell me, “see this is so easy.”

I wanted to tell him that it wasn’t easy.  I would be scared.  I hate heights and the thought of balancing on the back of a living animal who could easily crush me is terrifying.  But you can’t tell that to a little boy who is transformed into superman once he is given the strength of an animal with a thousand muscles.   I wish I could have taken a picture,  but all the film in the world wouldn’t be able to capture how his bravery affected me.  Instead, I just stood there, held my breath, and hoped he wouldn’t fall.  But he didn’t and he got up and stood on that horse a couple times before the lesson was over.

Today I got to met superman.  And his horse.  Why didn’t I have a camera??

In my opinion, interviews are the greatest paradox created by man.  Think about it.

You put two people in a room, make one of them dress up ten times fancier than any normal life situation, have one person stare down the other from across a maple, polished desk and stare.  You then have a complete stranger fire random, useless questions at a nervous, sweating, uncomfortably dressed fellow and then expect a logical employment decision to come out of that discussion. Um…..really?

My worst interview.  I showed up 1. wearing jeans (I was called during class and had no time to change) 2. had no relevant experience and 3. spontaneously hugged the poor girl who interviewed me at the end.  In front of a client.

Yep.  I hugged my interviewer.  The person who was supposed to professionally hire me.

So don’t worry.  No matter how bad you do on an interview.  I’ve probably done worst. The best interview I had (that lead to my dream job)  I left in tears because I thought I didn’t get it.  Basically, I don’t really have that natural intuition for these things.

However, don’t get me wrong.  I have improved.  I like interviews now.  Especially after getting a degree, experience and sticking to my no hug rule.

So whatever you do, don’t hug and you’ll be fine.

When I close my eyes, I can see perfectly.  Sometimes, I just want to shut my eyes and never have to open them to the blurred world that presents itself to me every morning.  In my mind’s eyes, colors are crisp, distant things are considered a view not a blur, and I can recognize a friendly face from more than two feet away.  But when I wake up, I see the real hazy, dimmed version of the world around me.  Objects are doubled in one eye, and faded in the other.  I have a very rare disease in my left eye, that threatens the remaining vision.

It’s so weird that the most microscopic bit of scar tissue and blood vessels threatens to change the way I see my life going.

To be fair, I demand one thing.  I don’t want sympathy.  I don’t like it when people grimace and tell me how sorry they are for me.  It’s not that I don’t have my frustrations or down moments, because, hey,  I do.  I’m human.

But, honestly, I’m not sorry.  It’s just another lesson, another life adventure.  I’m not noble to think that, or brave, or extraordinary, or special.  I’m just Emily who happens to have poor vision and random eye diseases.

I quit the best job I ever had (at least in my short work life that is) in order to take care of my eyes for a bit.  In 2012, I will be having multiple eye surgeries and procedures done.  The worst part isn’t the actual surgeries (I don’t have to do any of the work hahaha); it’s actually the waiting.  I hate waiting.

Waiting.  It’s like pacing in a room for six months to find out whether my life will be one that will include driving, getting my Master’s degree, becoming a CPA, and getting to do “my list” or finding out that my life will be one of fading colors and blurred shapes that has all sorts of restrictions .  I can accept either side, but the waiting….is torture.  I can find hope in either of those situations, but I want to know which one I will be living.

The plan.  I will be flying out to OH to visit a specialist who is the only doctor in the US who is published on my condition and try to get some more answers.  After that, my wonderful doctors here in LA will try to salvage my damaged cornea.  A couple surgeries, a few laser procedures, a couple month’s healing in between will all decide my future.  Well, sort of.

I know God has a plan for me, and it’s my job to bring Him glory regardless of which of the above situations happen.  And I will.  I know I will.  Even as a kid, I knew something drastic would happen in my life where I would always point back and say, ‘that’s the moment.”  What I mean is I knew I am meant to make a difference, as a lot of people are.  Some people are given more opportunities to make differences than others, with all sorts of circumstances and game changers.  Some people can sing their hearts out, go on American Idol and wow a nation.  Others are given lots of money to buy wings of hospitals and libraries for low income school districts.

I was given an eye disease.  But I was always given a God whose grace continues to surround me, friends who support me, a family who will never leave me.

Regardless of what happens six months from now, when my wait in the waiting room ends and I find out the ending of this chapter, I know I have hope.  My hope is that no matter how well my vision is for the rest of my life, I will have a sort of eyesight.  Because of what God is teaching me, I can see how to help people, I can see how to minister to someone who has it much worst than I, and I can see how I can show that in my weakness, God is strong.

There are no clichés or poems to make blurred vision sound good, but when you can’t see very well, sometimes it helps bring other things into focus better.

For now I see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face.  Don’t let your good vision blur what you should really be seeing this coming year.

Accountants.  Basically, the only people who actually  like us are other accountants.  Admit it , if you aren’t one of us you just hate us.

We are the ones who screwed up your bill that one time and forced you to spend three wasted hours of your life on the phone arguing about fees and rates.  We caused your taxes to be  that high  and almost forced your children not to eat for a month.  We are the reason little Jimmy didn’t get Christmas that one year.

You are on to us.  You make it your mission to make sure we know our place.  The billing department is the first place where you can call to unleash your anger pent up from an unhappy marriage and an unsatisfying paycheck.  If you find a mistake of ours, you will act like it’s discovering the constitution was a conspiracy.  We know.  It’s okay.  We can take it.  After all, we never had a good self esteem to begin with.  Why start now.

Accounting.  We are the first to be blamed for anything that goes wrong and we are the last person to be let off the hook.   Sometimes we must act like a negotiator in a hostage situation.   Seriously, try to be the poor accounts payable person on the other end of the phone of “I want my money, I want my MONEY, I WANT MY MONEYYYYYY!!!!”

Sometimes I feel more like a 911 operator.  In one day I got three calls, a voicemail,  two faxes and an email to my boss and myself trying to collect on a $3.60 invoice.  I then had to take this call and say ““Ma’m stay calm and tell me what company you work for…..Okay, hold on, please breathe….yes we owe you $3.60.  I will cut a check next week.  Please remain calm.”

To those aspiring accounting students expect one of two reactions from strangers.

1. “Oh my gosh, you are an accountant?   You must be super good at numbers!  What would you recommend for my long term investment portfolio? ”  You instantly become the one that gets handed the restaurant bill to “figure out that crazy split” and you are expected to calculate tips and percentages instantly in your head.  Apparently being an accountant actually means being able a walking calculator.

Weirdly, people also  instantly expect me to know everything that is going on at Wall Street.  Sometimes I wonder if I have one of those red banner ticker things scrolling across my forehead announcing the latest swells of the financial markets.  Or they come running to me with questions about how to budget or refinance.

2. “Accounting, huh?  So you are really boring, right?  You don’t like having fun or making jokes because the numbers have gone to your head.”

Accountants.  We ruin Christmas and we starve children.  We got 300 correct billing statements out the door this month but we messed up yours and now we must pay.

But.  I warn you.  We know your secrets.  Accountants know things.   Don’t yell at us.  We can ruin next Christmas too.

They say – and I have no idea who “they” may be – that when life hands you lemons, make lemonade.  It’s a great saying and I am sure thousands of gallons of proverbial lemonade have been made by people who have been thrown plenty of curveballed lemons.

To be quite honest, I am horrible about turning my lemons into lemonade.  I usually just throw my lemons on the ground, stomp on them and all the while whine about my problems and de”lemons” (get it?  De”lemons” aka dilemmas:)  I might take my lemons and throw them at mailboxes or a nearby cat – but I never want to add any sugar or maturity to my problems.

I always boast that I am becoming more mature that I was the day before and that I am starting to get the whole “grownup” thing down more and more – but the slightest wind can knock all my little duckies out of their straight line and maybe even completely out of the water.

Right now, my eyes are being my two biggest life “lemons.”  As I type this, I can only see out of one eye and some might compare one of my eyes to Rudolph’s little red nose – except way less cute and singable.  I went to the doctor yesterday and they warned me that if I didn’t take care of my eyes, I could go blind.

I panicked.  Blindness is not a part of my 1o year plan.  My prayers became a string loop of words “please don’t let me go blind, please don’t let me go blind, please don’t let me go blind.”  My eyesight yesterday was so bad that I couldn’t see more than a glare of light and vague shapes and colors.

Today, I woke up and the eyesight improved ever so slightly.  With that minor improvement, I stopped panicking.  My duckies began swimming back into a line and I relaxed knowing my eyesight would eventually return to their normal state.

However, that whole panic attack left me wondering why I could be so easily shaken.  I could still see great out of one of my eyes and the rest of my health is very solid.  I can still do my job and I have great friends who care for me.  There are many people in the world who have it far worst, and they have pitchers of lemonade.  I had a tiny problem and I turned it into a squashed lemon on the dirty sidewalk of my reactions.

So.   No one likes life lemons.  But you know what lemons are good for? They are great at giving you a big sour punch to the reality of your true self.  I wish I could promise to zest the next life lemon that comes my way- but I know that I am too stupid to mature that quickly.  I need lemons to show me where I need to grow.

Sometimes I need a little lemon to find my paper cuts.

About a month ago, I moved in with an old lady.  I have learned one thing:  never have old women as roommates.   It can get complicated.

Unfortunately, as a young lady, I know that I am in danger of becoming an old woman – watching t.v. at high volumes, listening to talk radio about metapause, reading books about political corruption and talking about “when I was your age”, and treating my dog like a child.

To help further illustrate the horrors of old lady roommates, allow me to share the stories of my pain.

Old women cackle.  Really. It’s not just an stereotype, they really do.  I was sitting in my room, minding my own business, when I heard a sound that sounded like a chicken being harassed.  Turns out, my roommate was watching reruns of America’s Funniest Home Videos.  And laughing hysterically.  Continually.  At every clip.  Now, I totally get a kick out of watching kids hit their dad in the crotch, cats slide across a wood floor, and ice fall on a half naked man.  But I don’t cackle.  I chuckle.  Quietly.

Old women have weird hearing issues.  One minute, I am being told to “speak up, I can’t hear you!”  and another minute I am instructed to “take your phone conversation in your room, I can’t hear my tv!!”  Also, me walking into the kitchen at 7 am in my high heels wakes her up, and “can you please wear slippers instead, even though it’s only for the thirty seconds as you walk out the door to work.”

Old ladies with dogs…..that was a relationship designed to show God has a sense of humor.  My old lady roommate has a puppy.  That she treats like a child.  These are the sounds I hear as I sit my room.

“NOOOOO!!!! You WILL sit!  You WILL stay! NOOOOOOOO! Don’t you dare get up! Eat your dinner!  You are not being a good girl!  I told you to be a good girl!  Now you are going outside!  Think about what you did!”

Yep.

Oh.  And watching old women do a 70s televised exercise class?   It’s better than watching America’s Funniest Home Videos and it is the closest thing that will make me cackle.

Basically, my house rules have been given as follow: I can’t turn on the heater, I can’t make noise, and I can’t cook for fear I will make a pan dirty.

When I grow up, I hope I don’t become an old woman.

After going to the gym for the first time in quite a while, I concluded two things.  One: I am dreadfully out of shape.  Two: I should not be allowed near fancy sports equipment, simply because it’s a hazard to my health.

I began my hour workout by stepping on this rather large, pimped out, remix version of an elliptical.  I am sure that if I had been able to read the brochure on this thing, it would have promised buns of steel, rock abs, and arms that could break cinder blocks  (since that is such a big goal of mine….)  However, as I began to pedal, I quickly became very confused.

My legs were being moved up, down, to the side, and back and forth –all at once.  I am pretty sure that it was invented by aliens who were not familiar with the generally accepted belief that humans usually only move in one direction at one time.  The idea that a human could occupy two places at once was apparently a possibility to whoever invented that machine from hell.

I then got off that machine and moved on to one that obeyed the laws of physics.

After putting in a couple of miles on that one, I decide it was time for me to go do some strength training.  You know, so I can get buff.

So I went over to this little area that was deemed the strength training circuit arena.  Every station was a different machine, all designed to target different muscle groups. The instructions were to do up to 12 “reps” on each contraption, and push each muscle to the “exhaustion point.”   Now when I read the words, “reps” and “exhaustion point,”  I should have gotten a clue on what I was getting myself into.

I walked up to the first machine and sat down.   And waited.   There were bars, and pulleys, and straps and weights sticking out from every which way, and I had no clue what I was to pull, push or shove.  The seat itself was positioned in a sort of astronaut, heels up, butt up, head down way.  I got up and circled the machine.  The directions for the machine were printed on a tiny piece of paper that read that I was to actually push up with my legs, while laying on my stomach.  After ten minutes of looking like a drowning fish…..I just moved on.

After finishing my “reps,”  I moved on to what was one of the more difficult exercises of them all – opening my friends sports water bottle to refill.  I walked over to the water fountain, and in front of the entire gym, began to try to figure out this “new-fangled” piece of equipment.

While beefy men, wearing those thick, leather back supports, grunted up 100 lb. barbells, I groaned as I tried to twist this top off.   However, being a fancy bottle, whenever I twisted the top, the only result I got was a straw would pop up.

After all that effort, I strongly considered just pouring the water down the straw.

Of course I didn’t want to look silly.

Not that I could look any sillier than standing there for all to see, with a water bottle between my knees, arms straining against the top, my neck veins popping out, face red with intensity, teeth grit together in a sort of gorilla grimace.

I finally sheepishly walked over to my friend and asked her to help me get it open.  She barely moved her arms, and the top came off effortlessly.  I went over to the fountain, filled up, and proceeded to pretend to stretch for the remainder of my time there.

No one should ever like gyms.  They make people feel stupid.

No one likes hospitals.

The past few weeks I have spent many hours in the hospital.  Not for myself, but for my mom.  Some of my readers may know that my mom’s health struggles have been chronic and rather debilitating.  She has been in and out of the hospital for years, and this time it was to get a defibrillator implant as  a protective measure against a heart attack.

As I was sitting in her hospital room, listening to the beeping of the heart monitors, the paging of doctors and the rasping cough of her roommate, I started to get depressed.  I felt so human.  I knew that only a few years, a lifestyle of just a couple poor choices or maybe even just a few bad genes separated me from the hospital bed next to me.

To be honest, I hate being around sick people.  I mean, I love the person, but I really can’t stand to see someone suffer.  When someone throws up near me, I gag.  If someone starts to cough violently, I have to leave the room.  I know to some this may seem very insensitive and rather rude, but I can’t seem to see past the germs and bodily fluids.

As I watched my dad take care of my mom, helping her crawl to the bathroom, wiping her nose, and stand by her side as she threw up, I realized something.

This was the “for better or worst” part.

Twenty five plus years ago, my parents stood at an altar and promised “for better or worst.”  While the organ music played and the candles flickered, they promised that no matter what, they would stand by each other’s side.

I am sure that very few glowing couples think about the possibility of that future hospital room, where the sound of a heart monitor is the only indication that the person you love the most is going to make it.  They especially don’t expect it to happen before they hit their fifties.  They might not think about the fact that you may someday be the only person doing the serving because the other person is too weak to even go to the bathroom by themselves or take a shower without assistance.

Fast forward to present day, where I am sitting in the corner trying to maintain my composure as I hear my mom heaving with violent gasps for air. I watch my dad lovingly stroke her head.  He doesn’t care about the spit or the germs or the sobbing.  He is just keeping his promise.

I’ve never heard my dad complain.  Ever.  And as much as I am sure he hates hospitals as much as I do, he deals with it.  Because he has a promise to keep.

For better or worst.

Man,  times have changed.  I don’t remember the word  ”fun” being defined as, “the cheapest, smallest way to cheat the hungry American public.”  When I was a kid, a fun size of candy  was  a huge bar of caloric goodness crammed into your mouth with the hopes that you wouldn’t choke.    

I guess they started naming the small candies the “fun size” when their marketing team found that “the chintzy size” didn’t sell as well. 

Never fear, I am here to spread the facts.  The facts about fun.

Fact. Me having  to eat twelve candies before I start to  taste any sort of candy-like molecule – that’s not so fun.  A serving size of candy should not be “ten pieces to unwrap individually and carefully place in the middle of your tongue so you can find it.”  Seriously.   No one has time for that.  This is America.  We are a busy culture.    We have cancer to cure.  Schools to build.  Facebook statuses to update.

Fact.  Candy that weighs less than the wrapping around its little chocolatey body – that’s not so fun.  The fact that the company spent more on packaging than on product….that’s just intestinally disturbing.  Yes.  You read that right.  I made up a word.  Intestinally.  It’s going to be huge.  Like colon huge.  (The colon is your largest intestine.  You are  learning just so much, aren’t you?)

Fact.  If you give “fun” candies away, you actually aren’t fun.  You are mean.  And cruel.  And possibly the most uncool person on earth. 

Fact.  If we allow “fun size” candies to actually define “fun,” then amusement park roller coasters better stop after two seconds, engagement rings should be made of twisty ties and jagged pieces of fiberglass, puppies should be drowned, and No Tears shampoo should be infused with acid and bleach. 

So.  Be fun.  Know the facts.  Don’t give out ”fun size” candies.