Making Mountains Out Of Molehills

Yesterday I had a little training over at Yakov Smirnoff, the theatre that hired me to work in their box office. Key word: little.

It's an annoying story.

They just switched ticketing systems. So here we are, all eight bajillion of us (ok so it was really more like 8) crammed into their tiny-ass call center (basically just a room with three desks stuffed into it), crowded around one computer with the new system on it.

It gets better.

They had someone from the corporate office of the company who made the new ticketing system on the phone, to tell us the basics of how to use it. So the person who had the phone pressed the speaker button. Nothing. Except for hanging up on the nice woman on the phone.

So they then proceeded to spend the next 40 minutes (You think I'm kidding? I'm not.) trying to get ANY of the phones in the room to go on speaker.

So here I was, burying my face in my hands, unable to express my severe impatience and frustration at a situation that everyone was making much more difficult than it had to be, simply because I really wanted to make a good impression, and because I didn't know any of these people.

I kept my cool.

You all would have been proud of me.

Eventually someone did what we should have done 40 minutes before:

USED THE SPEAKER ON THEIR CELL PHONE.

Please Pray

Let me preface this entry by saying that
I believe in prayer.

I believe that God responds to our prayers,
even if it's in ways we don't expect.
I believe that praying for healing for someone
matters,
that God heals afflictions,
even now.

God's power is real.

Now,
a couple weeks ago I blogged about my grandfather,
my "papa" here.

For the past two years, he's been pretty okay.
I mean,
as "okay" as you can be with a cancer diagnosis.
But it's been pretty non-aggressive, hasn't been spreading.

Until now.

My dad just told me this morning
that Papa's CAT scans revealed that
it HAS been spreading.

And he starts chemotherapy next week.

I've been
praying
and praying
and praying
and praying

that God heals him,
because I know he can.

I want my Papa back.
I hated seeing him so tired and frail and fragile.

To clarify,
I'm not angry with God.

I know that sometimes these things just happen.
Bad stuff happens to good people,
and there's nothing we can do about it.

Maybe I was praying for the wrong thing.
But I can't figure out what else I
should
have been praying for.

But now my heart is breaking
all over again,
the way it did when I got back from Texas.

Now I'm just praying he makes it through chemo.

Ok, HERE'S the deal. . .

(Whenever I whip that phrase out, you should be scared.)

I'm SICK of Lady Gaga.

Sick and tired.

Her music is catchy, I'll give her that.

She was innovative. . .

up to a point.

And now--

It's just getting out of hand:

This is just creepy.
We like to see your face.
It lets us know you're a real person, and NOT
Hannibal Lecter.

You're incubating? No.
You're just trying to get out of talking to reporters.
News Flash: YOU'RE FAMOUS.
IT COMES WITH THE TERRITORY.

A dress made from MEAT?!
That's not innovative. . .
That's just plain GROSS.

Here's how it is, Lady Gaga:

I think we're all a little tired of what insane
outfit you're going to whip out next.

We're tired of you looking outrageous.

The thing is,
it's not shocking anymore.

It's annoying,
ridiculous,
insane,
and kind of stupid.

I heard a guy on Chelsea Lately say this the other night:

If you really want to shock us, Lady Gaga,
tone it down a notch.

(Ok, so I paraphrased, but you catch my drift.)

If you really want people to talk about you,
subdue the insanity a little bit.

Look like ANYTHING resembling a
normal person.
I think we'll all really appreciate it.

Valentine's Day Sucks.

This year, I promised myself that I would be happy on Valentine's Day, despite being alone. I promised myself that I was okay not having a valentine, that I wouldn't spend all day moping and having a pity party. (Something I'm exceptionally good at.) I took myself on a date; I spent all afternoon at Starbucks, reading, writing in my journal. And I was happy, pleasant, content.

And then a weird smell inside Starbucks drove me away. So I came home.

And now. . .

I'm at home. Sitting on my bed, in my exceedingly messy room, watching Bones on TV. The weird smell sticking in my nose, my stomach going between hunger pains and nausea, and and the black hole in my heart getting bigger by the minute.

Anyone who's ever been inclined to depression, pessimism, or chronic loneliness knows the feeling; The black hole that starts out microscopic, started by that tiny feeling that's merely vague discontent.

Then it sucks into it every good feeling or optimistic thought into it, growing in size, and breeding only more discontent, unhappiness, loneliness.

And there's nothing you or anyone else can do to make it go away. At best, you sleep for a while, and when you wake up, you feel like new.

And this is how I feel right now. Sad, lonely, aching inside.

Something to be excited about

In a contrast from last night's complaints,

Starbucks wants to hire me.

I know. Awesome, right?

I start training next week.

ANNND

there's another job I'm pretty optimistic about.

*fingers crossed*

I feel like complaining today.

So get over it. Seriously. Everyone needs to complain every once in a while. I'm a firm believer in that. If we just kept everything in all the time, we would explode. Besides, I'm REALLY good at complaining. My friends can attest to this. I'm actually surprised they still like me.

I HATE:

• When people stare at me like I have three heads. For no good reason at all. It seriously drives me insane.
• When people talk to me like I'm the stupidest person on earth. When it's combined with the above, it means someone will die. Soon.
• High gas prices.
  
• How I can never manage to keep my room clean. This has been a lifelong struggle. It's a good thing I don't have a boyfriend. Or any friends here.
• How I can never manage to remember to water my plant.
  
• LIARS. Enough said.
• I would say hypocrites here, but I'm pretty much a walking contradiction. For reals.
• Those girls that wear about ten pounds of makeup on their faces. NOT ATTRACTIVE.
• Cottage cheese. And I've never even tasted it. I can't get past the way it looks and its god-awful smell. NASTY.
• Cheap beer. If I'm going to drink alcohol, it sure as hell better taste good.

This is by no means a complete list. In fact, it is ever-growing. There are always things that bug the crap out of me. But I think this is enough for now.

Thanks for allowing me to complain and be critical. I think you'll probably be safe from my criticism for a while.

Maybe.

We'll see.

Seasonal Work Sucks

It's easier to write when stuff actually happens to you. I'm not one of those writers that has the magical ability to pull material to blog about from out of nowhere.

Everything here in Branson is seasonal. I haven't worked since New Years Eve.

I've been at home most of the time since then, with the exception of my trip to Texas to see my grandparents. And I'm started to go a little crazy.

I don't do well when I stay home for too long, being unproductive. The result? DEPRESSION.

Unproductive depression+seasonal affective whatever depression=EPICFAIL

It's not anything that remotely resembles awesome.

I need a job, stat.