Weddings are always interesting because there's always such a mix of people, and you never know quite what to expect. I mean, yes, there's a bride and groom. There's family. Friends. Bridesmaids and groomsmen. There's food and there's usually alcohol. Music. Dancing. There are people you know, people to look at, and people to talk to.
And now that I am married, there's very little pressure, so I can sit back and people watch.
Today, the Mumples went to a wedding.
For the Howler, weddings mean dancing. So the Mumples gotta stay for the dancing. (The dancing in her estimation is more important than the food. I don't know where she gets that!)
Well, today's event proved to be quite an eyeful.
Apparently much thought was given to showing off that ink. It may have been a requirement for the bridal party--it certainly looked like it.
I don't know how many people were looking at the bride, though. ALL of the bridesmaids were bursting out of their short skirted low cut pink dresses.
Of the four, only one didn't have knockers that would make a Hooters waitress jealous (but more on her later.) And all of them had tatoos. They were large girls, mostly, so I guess delicate roses inked on their shoulders would have seemed inappropriate. Not having ever wanted someone to take a needle to my skin and jab me millions of times, though, I couldn't say for sure.
This artwork was large, and EVERY. WHERE. You couldn't swing the mother of the bride without hitting a large, colorful tat. Seriously. I considered trying it, just to see if it was true.
I think between them all, there was not a body part that wasn't colored in. Mr Mumple and I spend more than a few minutes imagining how they would all look in 20 years--and it wasn't pretty.
And there were tits everywhere. EVERY. WHERE. I felt rather over dressed, because I wore a bra. But then, they invited us, backtracked and invited the Howler and the Toad (who, at 19 was able to opt out--and I'm personally glad. Had he been there, he'd have had his hand down his pants for days.) But they never mentioned that women over the age of 18 were expected to show off ye olde ta-tas.
I've seen skin mags with fewer tit shots than this wedding. Holy moly! There was barely a bra in the place.
There was a guest who looked like the balloon display at the circus. A baby doll shift-dress should not be worn by a woman who is weighs in at 300+ pounds. She changed immediately after the wedding into low waisted jeans and a halter top that showed off not only her size 58 triple Ds but also her beer belly. I was in mortal fear that she would bend over and I'd see that cleavage too.
Now, it's time for the maid of honor. She weren't no maid and whatever *honor* she might have had was lost in the backseat of an '83 Chevy on prom night--back in '84. Honest to God!
She changed into jeans. Normal, if faded and slightly ratty (and fashionable) jeans. She paired that denim with a "The Beatles" tee. She apparently forgot her bra. Or lost it. Or whatever. There was a cool breeze everywhere she went--the cold weather indicators were out the entire time. I was worried, even with as small as they were that someone was gonna get an eye put out. Madonna based her show-cones on this woman's massive and erect nipples. There was absolutely NO WAY you could miss seeing these things. I'm dead serious when I say that if it weren't for her nipples, you couldn't tell she had tits.
Now, on to the best man (and brother of the groom.) His current Squeeze was just about right for this ho-down. His ex was there, because their children were in the wedding (adorable and sweet children. It's a shame they have such an ass for a father.) The Squeeze looked like she put on her sister's prom dress. The color made her look yellow. While her hair was washed and combed, that was all you could say about it. And since she had no tits either, if that dress hadn't had those spaghetti straps, there's no way in hell even super glue would've held it up. I was so busy waiting for the disappointment of the flash that had to be coming that I didn't notice any tats though. There was no flash, so my eyesight was safe. (Personally, I'm vain enough to not want to come up short if/when compared to my Sweetie's exes. And if he had an ex that looked like this guy's ex--she's pretty, and well put together--I'd sure as shit NOT going to be in a dress that didn't look good on me, with my hair looking like all I did was wash it and hope for the best.) The Squeeze looked like (and God help me, I sound like my mother) something the cat dragged in. And she was pretty much ignored by the bridal party, and the groom's family. I summed it up by saying, "You can take the girl outta the bar, but you can't always get the bar outta the girl."
Oh, the funderful sights you see!
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Friday, June 27, 2008
Concepts
Yesterday was absolutely one of the most interesting days I've ever had at work.
A guy comes in and asks, "Do you have asters?"
I ask, "Asters?"
Him: Yeah. They have little purple flowers.
M: I know. They're a fall flower.
Him: I know. Do you have them?
M: Sir, it's June.
Him: Yeah, I know. Do you have them?
M: It's summer. Asters are a fall flower.
Him: Yeah. I get that. But do you have them?
M: Sir, we have summer flowers now. We'll have fall flowers in the fall.
Him: So, you don't even just have them around not blooming?
M: No, sir. We'll have fall blooming asters in the fall.
Him: That's stupid.
And the single best thing so far this season:
Hairy dude comes in and says, "I see you've thrown a lot of dead plants in yer dumpster."
Me, wondering where this train wreck is going, response, "Yes."
Hairy: So, you wouldn't mind if I got in there and got 'em?
Me, flabbergasted: Uhm, no, you can't get 'em.
Hairy: It's not like you're selling 'em, right? You've thrown them away.
Me: Uhm, even so, you can't get in the dumpster.
Hairy: Okay. But what if I did anyway? No one would need to know, right? *wink*
Me, all *ewwwww*: Weeeeelllll, it IS a safety issue, and there are a lot of people around....if they saw you in there, they'd call the police.
Hairy practically ran away from me--something tells me the local police have fished him out of dumpsters before.
A guy comes in and asks, "Do you have asters?"
I ask, "Asters?"
Him: Yeah. They have little purple flowers.
M: I know. They're a fall flower.
Him: I know. Do you have them?
M: Sir, it's June.
Him: Yeah, I know. Do you have them?
M: It's summer. Asters are a fall flower.
Him: Yeah. I get that. But do you have them?
M: Sir, we have summer flowers now. We'll have fall flowers in the fall.
Him: So, you don't even just have them around not blooming?
M: No, sir. We'll have fall blooming asters in the fall.
Him: That's stupid.
And the single best thing so far this season:
Hairy dude comes in and says, "I see you've thrown a lot of dead plants in yer dumpster."
Me, wondering where this train wreck is going, response, "Yes."
Hairy: So, you wouldn't mind if I got in there and got 'em?
Me, flabbergasted: Uhm, no, you can't get 'em.
Hairy: It's not like you're selling 'em, right? You've thrown them away.
Me: Uhm, even so, you can't get in the dumpster.
Hairy: Okay. But what if I did anyway? No one would need to know, right? *wink*
Me, all *ewwwww*: Weeeeelllll, it IS a safety issue, and there are a lot of people around....if they saw you in there, they'd call the police.
Hairy practically ran away from me--something tells me the local police have fished him out of dumpsters before.
Friday, June 20, 2008
For the You Never Really Thought About It Before Record
As a person, I believe there are places on my body that other people's eyes should NOT be resting for long periods of time.
This includes the Creepy Lil' Man who used to come in and ask for Crazy K. He stopped asking when I finally looked at him in exasperation and told him she quit over 18 months ago--and NO, I do NOT know where she went. (She was called Crazy K for a reason, duh.)
Anyway, he now comes in, irregularly, and leans over and stares at ONE OF MY BOOBS.
Now I know it seems like I'm a little preoccupied with my boobs, but in all honesty, the most spectacular they EVER were was in the beginning of '02 when I was preggers with the Howler. Never before, and never since, have they been gaze-worthy. Trust me, I've seen mine, and I've seen gaze-worthy, and mine ain't it.
Anyway, he's leaning over, staring at my boob, claiming he wants to see my name tag.
It's creepy, it's uncalled for (all he--or anyone--has to do it ask, and I'll glady show them my name tag, write down my name, or even tell them.) It's not a concept--it's a fact.
I'm dreading the next time he comes in, because I'm going to have to tell him that what he's doing is creepy. And if he feels the need to complain to management, I'll recommend that he stare at their right boob, and see if they like it. (and Hell Yes, I'll say it.)
This includes the Creepy Lil' Man who used to come in and ask for Crazy K. He stopped asking when I finally looked at him in exasperation and told him she quit over 18 months ago--and NO, I do NOT know where she went. (She was called Crazy K for a reason, duh.)
Anyway, he now comes in, irregularly, and leans over and stares at ONE OF MY BOOBS.
Now I know it seems like I'm a little preoccupied with my boobs, but in all honesty, the most spectacular they EVER were was in the beginning of '02 when I was preggers with the Howler. Never before, and never since, have they been gaze-worthy. Trust me, I've seen mine, and I've seen gaze-worthy, and mine ain't it.
Anyway, he's leaning over, staring at my boob, claiming he wants to see my name tag.
It's creepy, it's uncalled for (all he--or anyone--has to do it ask, and I'll glady show them my name tag, write down my name, or even tell them.) It's not a concept--it's a fact.
I'm dreading the next time he comes in, because I'm going to have to tell him that what he's doing is creepy. And if he feels the need to complain to management, I'll recommend that he stare at their right boob, and see if they like it. (and Hell Yes, I'll say it.)
Wheeeeeeeeeee-HAW!
I have triumphed against Fate and the e-machine*.
Due to the old POS computer giving up the ghost, I no longer have access to my newsletters, photos, templates, saved documents, and/or secretarial stuff-n-nonsense.
We purchased the above mentioned e-machine for slightly less than $500. Then had to purchase a $127 Microsoft Office suite (it was the cheapest, home & student use set) in order to rebuild my templates and use the word program.
Do I think it's a rip off? Yes. I think, cheap thing that I am, if I paid for programs pre-loaded, then I should have full access (and authentication ability) for said programs, and I shouldn't be swearing like a truck driver on my way to Staples at 5:30 on a Sunday afternoon to purchase the programs that are listed as pre-loaded on the machine I just paid for. Perhaps I'm naive.
I've also hear horror stories about Windows Vista, and if it does turn out to be the nightmare I've heard, I'll be getting rid of it--or I'll be choking the life out of the IT dude who convinced me it would be fine. (I'm still wondering at the reliability of said IT Dude when he didn't know that Vista would not like my previous programs and I would be trying to figure out how to retrieve, at a minimum, my photos. Photos of the Howler and various hobbified Bees necessary for my sanity and creativity.)
But I digress.
I have triumphed over the e machine's determination to stop me in my tracks. To make me cry. To make me clench my teeth until they crumble into dust. To make me swear like a truck driver in the privacy of my own home.
HAH! I may still be Pictureless-Man, but I have a template for a newsletter, and may begin preparing for the next issue.
I win! I win! I win!
*my personal judgement on the e machine remains to be decided. I hate it and I like it...the final verdict remains to be seen.
Due to the old POS computer giving up the ghost, I no longer have access to my newsletters, photos, templates, saved documents, and/or secretarial stuff-n-nonsense.
We purchased the above mentioned e-machine for slightly less than $500. Then had to purchase a $127 Microsoft Office suite (it was the cheapest, home & student use set) in order to rebuild my templates and use the word program.
Do I think it's a rip off? Yes. I think, cheap thing that I am, if I paid for programs pre-loaded, then I should have full access (and authentication ability) for said programs, and I shouldn't be swearing like a truck driver on my way to Staples at 5:30 on a Sunday afternoon to purchase the programs that are listed as pre-loaded on the machine I just paid for. Perhaps I'm naive.
I've also hear horror stories about Windows Vista, and if it does turn out to be the nightmare I've heard, I'll be getting rid of it--or I'll be choking the life out of the IT dude who convinced me it would be fine. (I'm still wondering at the reliability of said IT Dude when he didn't know that Vista would not like my previous programs and I would be trying to figure out how to retrieve, at a minimum, my photos. Photos of the Howler and various hobbified Bees necessary for my sanity and creativity.)
But I digress.
I have triumphed over the e machine's determination to stop me in my tracks. To make me cry. To make me clench my teeth until they crumble into dust. To make me swear like a truck driver in the privacy of my own home.
HAH! I may still be Pictureless-Man, but I have a template for a newsletter, and may begin preparing for the next issue.
I win! I win! I win!
*my personal judgement on the e machine remains to be decided. I hate it and I like it...the final verdict remains to be seen.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Oh Dear God!
You'd think that we had been gone for a month! Since we got home at 5:30pm, the phone has rung almost constantly...and, of course, not a blessed one of the callers can be TO THE POINT.
My mother, in Baltimore MD, called TWICE to tell me the same thing. She apparently, at some point over the past 3 days left a message for the Toad, explaining that, "It's now 5:30 pm in Baltimore." For the record, Maryland and Pennsylvania are in the SAME TIME ZONE. Unless there's some sort of Twilight Time Zoning thing going on, if it's 5:30pm in Baltimore, there's a 100% chance it's 5:30pm here, too.
My brother can't seem to understand that anyone is on a schedule that is different from his. It's currently 8pm--Bathtime for the Howler--and I'm on the phone listening to him explain, in intimate detail, step-by-step, how he needs to remove his stove and refridgerator tomorrow. It took him three minutes to get around to asking if my Sweetie would be able to come over and help him.
I realize that I can be slow on the uptake, but asking if my husband may be available for heavy-lifting and moving duty isn't brain surgery. You dial the phone, you ask if my husband is here, when I say "no" leave a message--including what you want. It's not hard.
Oh, sorry. I forgot that this is the same guy who called me every day for 2 months at exactly 8:30am, M-F, as I'm trying to get the Howler out the door and to school. No matter how many times I said, "I'm heading out the door to get the Howler to school!" he called the next day at the same time. Finally, after weeks of this, he exclaimed, "Oh! I did not know that."
Because of this kind of stupidity, I am now going to have a fight with the Howler over whether or not she's getting upstairs for the shower.
My mother, in Baltimore MD, called TWICE to tell me the same thing. She apparently, at some point over the past 3 days left a message for the Toad, explaining that, "It's now 5:30 pm in Baltimore." For the record, Maryland and Pennsylvania are in the SAME TIME ZONE. Unless there's some sort of Twilight Time Zoning thing going on, if it's 5:30pm in Baltimore, there's a 100% chance it's 5:30pm here, too.
My brother can't seem to understand that anyone is on a schedule that is different from his. It's currently 8pm--Bathtime for the Howler--and I'm on the phone listening to him explain, in intimate detail, step-by-step, how he needs to remove his stove and refridgerator tomorrow. It took him three minutes to get around to asking if my Sweetie would be able to come over and help him.
I realize that I can be slow on the uptake, but asking if my husband may be available for heavy-lifting and moving duty isn't brain surgery. You dial the phone, you ask if my husband is here, when I say "no" leave a message--including what you want. It's not hard.
Oh, sorry. I forgot that this is the same guy who called me every day for 2 months at exactly 8:30am, M-F, as I'm trying to get the Howler out the door and to school. No matter how many times I said, "I'm heading out the door to get the Howler to school!" he called the next day at the same time. Finally, after weeks of this, he exclaimed, "Oh! I did not know that."
Because of this kind of stupidity, I am now going to have a fight with the Howler over whether or not she's getting upstairs for the shower.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Behind the 8 Ball
So, the Bee deserves his own blog. But what do I call it? Help me out here, and give me your thoughts.The End
So, this is the End.
The End of the IRS ranting.
The letter came, has been duly copied, filed, and fire-proof box secured.
Hallelujah! There was a light at the end of the tunnel--and it was not an on-coming train.
Everybody, sigh in relief with me.
The End of the IRS ranting.
The letter came, has been duly copied, filed, and fire-proof box secured.
Hallelujah! There was a light at the end of the tunnel--and it was not an on-coming train.
Everybody, sigh in relief with me.
Monday, June 09, 2008
Anonymous
Ahhh, I love Spring--all the newbies make it fun.
No, really. There's so much more fodder. It makes my head spin with delight to think about all the nutjobs and half-baked people who are not only shopping, but working here.
On the front line, we have "Attitude Girl," who also happens to be one of the "I know" sisters. I am a daughter, and I have a daughter. I know the attitude that daughters invariably give their mothers--and I don't have to put up with it from snotty newbies.
I want a T-shirt (or a company approved pin) that announces to all comers that I am not psychic. I don't know what you've been told about how far we're allowed to go away from our posts--I know our managers, and I know what I've been told, and I know what's been done over the past almost 8 years. (I also do know what this particular piece of work was told about where she could and could not go when she's in the garden center.) I also know that if someone truly does "know" what she's doing, she'll do it--not just tell me "I know" in a snippy tone when she's reminded of it.
If a customer comes in and asks for a cart, and you don't have anyone currently at your register, you offer to get them one--period. This is a no-brainer, especially outside in the garden center where the carts are kept less than 20 feet from the registers. I mention it to attitude girl--no, I was not my usual bitchy-snippy-bossy self when doing it--and I got a full-on daughter to overbearing mother attitude filled snappy tell off.
I don't think she expected to be informed, in a matching mother to daughter snappy come back, that not only do I not know what she's specifically been told, but she can ditch the attitude, because it's uncalled for. I informed her that in the almost 8 years I've worked there, I've NEVER heard of anyone being told that to point to the carts and roll their eyes.
Today, Attitude Girl was wearing non-approved workout pants. Now, the dress code is pretty clear, and for all intents, it's fair. Sure, technically the guys can't wear capris, but hell, I'd like to see 'em do it--even if it was just to make a point. Anyway, sweatpants, lounge pants, and the like are definitely listed on the "What Not to Wear" list--personally, I don't think customers should be allowed to come in wearing them either, but try getting that put into a workable policy! Yet, there she was...and no one was, as far as I could tell, even making a mention of it to her.
The "Wanderer" is the other totally great co-worker on the front end. I enjoy having to look for her when she's supposed to be out there. I absolutely love having to page for the previously mentioned "code 3" and have management call and tell me that "the Wanderer is out there--why do you need a code 3?" And then, when I tell them that she's not there, they come out, look around, and ask me, "Where's the Wanderer?"
I also enjoy hearing her snap, "I know" when I remind her of policy or just mention in general how things are usually done. I want so badly to snap back, "Well, if you know, they why aren't you doing it right?" But I don't, because I'm not allowed. I have to behave--they can snap and snarl at me, though. (thanks, Asshat)
I honestly think that a big big big part of her problem is that she "knows" I don't have any real authority. So what? I have something better--I have the authority that comes with respect from my peers. You may not think it's much, but you're probably also wrongly counting on my continuing to cover for your pathetic ass. HAH! You continue to "know" and do things YOUR way, because one of us will be here in the long run, and you won't (I've survived this place and WORSE than you, toots)
And speaking of her ass, the 3/4 of her pasty white ass we all get to see when she bends over (and she does bend over often) is fan-freaking-tastic. Ugh. I've already commented that she needs to be told to "say no to crack" and that every time I have to see it, they're going to hear it. (and they know that what comes next is my asking if they want to see mine, too--and I'm am assured that NO they do NOT--HAH!)
Then they wonder why there are flames shooting out orafices.
*sigh*
I also hate that my current work arch-nemisis (previously known as Liar, Liar) is still up to her old tricks, but since I'm outside, I have little-to-no contact with her. And I like it that way. But, since I've been "spoken to" twice about "my attitude" towards her, I can't say anything, even when she does irritate the snot out of me.
I have discovered, however, the common denominator in all this--the Asshat manager. He has his pets (don't we all?), and unto them, no evil shall be attached. Even if they're being total idiots and assholes. Now, that is probably why he likes them so much--they're assholes just like him.
It's a club! Assholes Anonymous! Come, introduce yourself...we won't ask you to change, but we will support your achievements as assholes! I guess this qualifies as an epiphany, too.
No, really. There's so much more fodder. It makes my head spin with delight to think about all the nutjobs and half-baked people who are not only shopping, but working here.
On the front line, we have "Attitude Girl," who also happens to be one of the "I know" sisters. I am a daughter, and I have a daughter. I know the attitude that daughters invariably give their mothers--and I don't have to put up with it from snotty newbies.
I want a T-shirt (or a company approved pin) that announces to all comers that I am not psychic. I don't know what you've been told about how far we're allowed to go away from our posts--I know our managers, and I know what I've been told, and I know what's been done over the past almost 8 years. (I also do know what this particular piece of work was told about where she could and could not go when she's in the garden center.) I also know that if someone truly does "know" what she's doing, she'll do it--not just tell me "I know" in a snippy tone when she's reminded of it.
If a customer comes in and asks for a cart, and you don't have anyone currently at your register, you offer to get them one--period. This is a no-brainer, especially outside in the garden center where the carts are kept less than 20 feet from the registers. I mention it to attitude girl--no, I was not my usual bitchy-snippy-bossy self when doing it--and I got a full-on daughter to overbearing mother attitude filled snappy tell off.
I don't think she expected to be informed, in a matching mother to daughter snappy come back, that not only do I not know what she's specifically been told, but she can ditch the attitude, because it's uncalled for. I informed her that in the almost 8 years I've worked there, I've NEVER heard of anyone being told that to point to the carts and roll their eyes.
Today, Attitude Girl was wearing non-approved workout pants. Now, the dress code is pretty clear, and for all intents, it's fair. Sure, technically the guys can't wear capris, but hell, I'd like to see 'em do it--even if it was just to make a point. Anyway, sweatpants, lounge pants, and the like are definitely listed on the "What Not to Wear" list--personally, I don't think customers should be allowed to come in wearing them either, but try getting that put into a workable policy! Yet, there she was...and no one was, as far as I could tell, even making a mention of it to her.
The "Wanderer" is the other totally great co-worker on the front end. I enjoy having to look for her when she's supposed to be out there. I absolutely love having to page for the previously mentioned "code 3" and have management call and tell me that "the Wanderer is out there--why do you need a code 3?" And then, when I tell them that she's not there, they come out, look around, and ask me, "Where's the Wanderer?"
I also enjoy hearing her snap, "I know" when I remind her of policy or just mention in general how things are usually done. I want so badly to snap back, "Well, if you know, they why aren't you doing it right?" But I don't, because I'm not allowed. I have to behave--they can snap and snarl at me, though. (thanks, Asshat)
I honestly think that a big big big part of her problem is that she "knows" I don't have any real authority. So what? I have something better--I have the authority that comes with respect from my peers. You may not think it's much, but you're probably also wrongly counting on my continuing to cover for your pathetic ass. HAH! You continue to "know" and do things YOUR way, because one of us will be here in the long run, and you won't (I've survived this place and WORSE than you, toots)
And speaking of her ass, the 3/4 of her pasty white ass we all get to see when she bends over (and she does bend over often) is fan-freaking-tastic. Ugh. I've already commented that she needs to be told to "say no to crack" and that every time I have to see it, they're going to hear it. (and they know that what comes next is my asking if they want to see mine, too--and I'm am assured that NO they do NOT--HAH!)
Then they wonder why there are flames shooting out orafices.
*sigh*
I also hate that my current work arch-nemisis (previously known as Liar, Liar) is still up to her old tricks, but since I'm outside, I have little-to-no contact with her. And I like it that way. But, since I've been "spoken to" twice about "my attitude" towards her, I can't say anything, even when she does irritate the snot out of me.
I have discovered, however, the common denominator in all this--the Asshat manager. He has his pets (don't we all?), and unto them, no evil shall be attached. Even if they're being total idiots and assholes. Now, that is probably why he likes them so much--they're assholes just like him.
It's a club! Assholes Anonymous! Come, introduce yourself...we won't ask you to change, but we will support your achievements as assholes! I guess this qualifies as an epiphany, too.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Another Rant
I know I spend waaaaay too much time thinking (okay, obsessing) on this, but another newsletter arrived today, and yet again, I am ASS. TOWN. DED. by the unadulterated assumption that I can't remember what's been said before...and that I can't put 1 good idea, and 1 bad decision together and come up with an answer.
This month's diatribe is not full of "every sneeze and dinner", thank God (prayer DO get answered!) but, it also mentions TWO amusement park trips AND the necessity to cut out all outreach because of a lack of funds.
Now, I realize I no longer belong to this parish. And I am fully aware that, since the former is true, there may be some nuance to the situation that I'm missing, but, it seems absolutely assinine to BRAG about one thing while lamenting the other. They're also a church who for YEARS (decades, really) could afford to send ALL the parish children who wanted to go to camp (with parents paying ONLY the registration fee--which is, this year, only $25), but this year, they can't afford to help anybody go.
That's like bragging you paid $500 for Penguin tickets, but crying the blues because your electric is shut off.
I don't think it takes a Nobel Prize winning thought process to figure out that if, as a church, you can't afford even the smallest on-going outreach (especially a local program you started!) you don't go out and rent buses and pay admissions for even small groups to go on rides and eat nachos and hot dogs. I can't fathom being able to justify RENTAL of carnival games--for an event that while it may raise community awareness of your church, it does not bring in any money--but it can't afford it's diocesan assessments (and is actually putting it's excuses in writing.)
Ass. Town. Ding.
At some point, somebody has to remember that in the past (around the time I left, btw), when the situation arose that there wasn't enough money to pay for the basics, it was time to evaluate WHY.
WHY is the parish priest promoting (and being allowed to promote) events that suck the treasure dry? WHY is this man running at the mouth about how desperately they need money, even to pay his salary, but money can be found for bus trips? WHY aren't these people more concerned over WHY it's congregation is NOT giving (and trying to alternately embarrass or extort money from them)? I assume they want to increase the fold so that these newbies will give them something for Fr. Attention Whore to put into his billfold.
Why am I so obsessed? Because this is a church with wonderful people. This is the church that, in spite of the crap, I still love. It hurts me to see something as beautiful, as spiritual, as this turned into a begging, whinging, money-grubbing prostitute.
It hurts to know that with each passing month, the fond memories I still have are overshadowed by Fr. Attention Whore.
It also makes me angry because he gives every one of the fellow churches a bad name--guilt by association, I'd call it.
It turns my stomach--and because we're all such polite Christians, I have to be mature enough to allow them to embarrass themselves for Fr. Attention Whore's sake if they want to.
This month's diatribe is not full of "every sneeze and dinner", thank God (prayer DO get answered!) but, it also mentions TWO amusement park trips AND the necessity to cut out all outreach because of a lack of funds.
Now, I realize I no longer belong to this parish. And I am fully aware that, since the former is true, there may be some nuance to the situation that I'm missing, but, it seems absolutely assinine to BRAG about one thing while lamenting the other. They're also a church who for YEARS (decades, really) could afford to send ALL the parish children who wanted to go to camp (with parents paying ONLY the registration fee--which is, this year, only $25), but this year, they can't afford to help anybody go.
That's like bragging you paid $500 for Penguin tickets, but crying the blues because your electric is shut off.
I don't think it takes a Nobel Prize winning thought process to figure out that if, as a church, you can't afford even the smallest on-going outreach (especially a local program you started!) you don't go out and rent buses and pay admissions for even small groups to go on rides and eat nachos and hot dogs. I can't fathom being able to justify RENTAL of carnival games--for an event that while it may raise community awareness of your church, it does not bring in any money--but it can't afford it's diocesan assessments (and is actually putting it's excuses in writing.)
Ass. Town. Ding.
At some point, somebody has to remember that in the past (around the time I left, btw), when the situation arose that there wasn't enough money to pay for the basics, it was time to evaluate WHY.
WHY is the parish priest promoting (and being allowed to promote) events that suck the treasure dry? WHY is this man running at the mouth about how desperately they need money, even to pay his salary, but money can be found for bus trips? WHY aren't these people more concerned over WHY it's congregation is NOT giving (and trying to alternately embarrass or extort money from them)? I assume they want to increase the fold so that these newbies will give them something for Fr. Attention Whore to put into his billfold.
Why am I so obsessed? Because this is a church with wonderful people. This is the church that, in spite of the crap, I still love. It hurts me to see something as beautiful, as spiritual, as this turned into a begging, whinging, money-grubbing prostitute.
It hurts to know that with each passing month, the fond memories I still have are overshadowed by Fr. Attention Whore.
It also makes me angry because he gives every one of the fellow churches a bad name--guilt by association, I'd call it.
It turns my stomach--and because we're all such polite Christians, I have to be mature enough to allow them to embarrass themselves for Fr. Attention Whore's sake if they want to.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
It's the Little Things
So, finally, after not having oh-so-much by way of what I need to be able to do my job, I got phones. On each and every one of four registers.
It's only taken, what? 5 years to get 'em? Yeah. Something like that.
I spend my free time at work calling the other phones just to hear 'em ring.
I'm a dork that way.
It's only taken, what? 5 years to get 'em? Yeah. Something like that.
I spend my free time at work calling the other phones just to hear 'em ring.
I'm a dork that way.
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