22 posts tagged “church of the valet”
That's the sound of me sitting alone in my office, laughing hysterically.
I just got an e-mail from E., my spy at Church of the Valet, about my replacement. As I mentioned before, as of June 7, they had hired the 5th New Me. I had been gone less than a year at that point. Today. Glorious, glorious today, E. reports that Me #5 was let go today. So, there we are. Less than three months on the job, and she had to go. I have now been gone a little less than 14 months and they're getting ready to hire my SIXTH replacement.
So, let's do a tally for today thus far:
Had to go to work-bad
Water bottle leaked all over writing notebook-VERY BAD
No chocolate-VERY VERY BAD
Went downstairs to buy chocolate and found a quarter and two dimes-good
Ate chocolate-pretty good
Netflix tells me I have The Host waiting for me to watch tonight-GOOD
It rained-very good
Not on me-VERY GOOD
My former hypocritical, loathsome employers are still struggling to replace my slacking, atheist self-EXCELLENT!
I guess I'll stop being cranky now.
Once upon a time, I worked at the Church of the Valet. I used to blog quite frequently about the Conspiracy of Incompetence that existed at Church of the Valet, but the Conspiracy exists everywhere that middle management types conspire to foist off more work on the little people. You know how it works: they make more money than you do, but somehow their salary is inversely proportional to the quantity of work they do and the level of responsibility they have. The Youth Minister who makes $40,000 a year, but doesn't know how to type. The Adult Education Minister who makes $45,000 a year, but never can figure out how to print a letter on letterhead. The Administrator who makes $60,000 a year, but delegates the actual decisions he's being paid to make to a secretary who makes $25,000 a year.
This just in from my spy at the Church of the Valet. E. says Bambi the Mouth Breather (the new Administrator who replaced Dick the dry drunk) has officially decreed that she can't use the membership database. From now on, E. will be required to export all data to a spreadsheet and print it (all 200 pages of it) each week, for BMB to read. The reason for her inability to use a simple computer database?
"My brain doesn't work that way."
That's right--the new catch-all excuse for the Conspiracy of Incompetence: MY BRAIN DOESN'T WORK THAT WAY.
O RLY?
Your brain perhaps lacks neurons? Your synapses aren't firing properly? A smallish hamster runs intermittently on a rusted wheel? Would that be an accurate description of how your brain works, Bambi?
When we left Florida, I left behind my thankless work at the Church of the Valet. While there, I did a little of everything, from Sunday bulletins to newsletters to posters to devotional books to marketing letters to making coffee. I'm a good little employee. It's true, I enjoy my slack, but I always get the work done before the slack. The joy of slack actually makes me a very efficient worker, and makes me hard to replace at a job. It's difficult to find someone who will cheerfully plunge into a task and do 20 hours of work in 5 hours for no more reward than the other 15 hours sitting undisturbed at a computer.
Apparently I'm not just hard to replace, but nigh impossible to replace, according to my undercover contact, E. I gave the church more than two months notice, so that by the time I left they had my replacement picked out. New Me #1 was a parishioner, and nice enough, but she didn't have a lot of experience on InDesign or Publisher or Dreamweaver or Excel--the 4 software programs I used most in the job. That could be fixed with some classes, I thought. What couldn't be fixed was her inability to do 60 hours of work in 20 hours. (My cohort, Gymbag, who got the job after John was promoted, with whom I supposedly shared the duties of my job, actually never did any work. According to E, he still doesn't. In fact, he doesn't even know how to do most of the work.) New Me #1 lasted less than a month.
New Me #2 was a military wife, who quickly got tired of Gymbag's laziness and quit.
New Me #3 quit after the Senior Pastor Rev. Doc. made an inappropriate comment about her weight. This is not a first for the Rev. Doc. When we hired the new children's ministry director, known as The Notorious CMD, he couldn't help but make remarks about her rather considerable girth. He once took a piece of cake away from her and ate it. Once when The Notorious CMD called the office for E, the receptionist used the intercom to say, "E, please pick up CMD on line one." Overhearing this, the Rev. Doc. said, "Wow, E, sounds like you have your work cut out for you. [guffaw]." Rev Doc is a dick. In fact, that would be his nickname, except that there was already a Dick at the church.
New Me #4 was recently fired for incompetence. Like Gymbag, she never did learn how to correctly layout, edit, and print the newsletters and bulletins. Unlike Gymbag, she wasn't a lifelong church member, so they felt okay about firing her. Throughout all of this, Gymbag has earned a higher salary than I did, than any of the New Me's, than the long-suffering E, who has had to pick up the slack at every turn.
New Me #5 started to work yesterday, and according to E it was a catastrophic failure less than 45 minutes into it. She gave New Me #5 a tour of the church and then took her to her office, where she suggested that #5 familiarize herself with the computer system and files she'd be working on. #5 sat down and pushed the monitor power button. Nothing happened. She pushed it again. Nothing happened. She pushed it again. Nothing happened. Then #5 said, "I don't think this computer is working."
E said, "That just turns the monitor on. You need to turn the CPU on."
#5 said, "The what?"
Maybe it's not so much that I'm hard to replace as it is that the administration of the church doesn't actually understand how to hire a competent employee. That they got E and me was just a fluke. Monkeys in a room full of resumes, flinging poo to choose an employee, have as good a chance.
Relocation update:
At long last, the moving process is winding down. We've almost completely moved into our house in Lawrence, and after spending every evening and weekend in September either getting ready to move or moving, I am back to the old blog.
Oh, and I'm actually posting at work, so that helps. I figure, I haven't started posting nasty remarks about my new coworkers yet, so I can still blog from work. For those of you who were tuning in for the madness of the Church of the Valet, don't worry. I'll have a guest correspondent who still works there to keep us up on the latest stupidity being done in Jesus' name.
And now, without further ado...on to the real blog post.
From the good racist folks of the Methodist Church of the Blessed Valet that I used to work at, I bring you the joke of the week. It came to me from a 55-year old Christian woman, with the subject heading Hurricane What? This is hilarious. (She even sent it to me from her church e-mail account. Nice.)
Well, it appears our African American friends have found something else to be upset about. A black congresswoman reputedly complained that the names of hurricanes are all Caucasian sounding names. She would prefer some names that reflect African-American culture such as Chamiqua, Tanisha, Woeisha, Shaqueal, and Jamal. She would also like the weather reports to be broadcast in language that street people can understand.
I can hear it now: A weatherman in Houston says...
"Waddup Muthas! Hehr-i-cane Chamiqua be headin' fo' yo ass like Leroy on a crotch rocket! Bitch be a category fo'! So grab yo' chirren, leave yo crib, and head fo' de nearest guvment office fo yo FREE shit.
It's hard to really pick and choose what's most sickening about this. Perhaps it's the implication that black people are more eager than most to get "free shit" from the government. More eager than the petroleum industries? I doubt it. Or, perhaps the best part is the phrase something else to be upset about. Oh, you mean, something other than hundreds of years of oppression and living as second or third class citizens? Or something other than the fact that shitty white people all over America still think of them as lazy, good-for-nothing, ignorant pickaninnies?
Oh, wait, I know what the best part about this e-mail is...I no longer work with the smug, comfortable, Bible-licker who sent this to me. I now work at a foreign language department at the lovely University of Kansas. On my first day, my new employer gave me a bunch of little brochures which laid out the college's policies on sexual harrassment and racism. Turns out neither one is allowed, and I'm encouraged to report any instances that I witness. Maybe I ought to start by reporting this e-mail to my former co-worker's boss. Wasted effort; she probably cc'd him on the original e-mail. After all, it was hilarious.
At long last, Redzilla bid adieu to the church where she has worked for more than two years. After 2 years of "going to church" on Sunday morings, today was my last morning to work in the coffee shop during services. As we have closed circuit television, I get to watch the worship services every Sunday. I spend many Sundays biting my tongue while listening to ridiculous things, and today was no different. The Rev Doc's sermon was on the need to be good stewards of God's planet. That's right, the Rev Doc decided to take a turn for the environmental. True to form, however, he managed to be "deeply concerned" about the health of the planet, but never confrontational to his privileged flock. As it's fricking pew to pew hypocrisy around there, I don't expect the home crowd to keep score. I'll just give you a quick run-down of today's hypocrisy:
Sermon hightlight: We need to reduce agricultural run-off, which is polluting the gulf and the oceans.
Hypocrisy: The church's landscaping is fertilized and coated with pesticide twice a month, and watered twice a week. Where does the fertilizer and pesticide go? To the bay, which is two blocks away.
Sermon highlight: We need to reduce our energy consumption.
Hypocrisy: At any given moment this summer, whether we need it or not, the church is air conditioning more than 40,000 square feet to 72 degrees. Even when the buildings are empty.
Sermon highlight:We need to become personally responsible for our individual impact on the environment.
Hypocrisy: Like most of his parishioners, the Rev Doc drives to the church, although he lives less than a mile away. During the week, he drives this 8 or 9 blocks 4 times a day, because he goes home for lunch. He drives to hospital visitations, even when he's going to a hospital that is 5 blocks from his office.
Sermon highlight: We need to be less wasteful.
Hypocrisy: Although the church has an industrial dishwasher and enough china and silverware to serve dinner to more than 300 people, the Wednesday night fellowship meals are served on a couple hundred styrofoam plates and eaten with plastic silverware. Every week. Right in the trash.
It is as though the words come out of his mouth without ever going through his head. Or that he finds it more convenient not to practice his theological theories. Or--and let's face it, this is the most likely scenario--he's afraid of offending his wealthy parishioners by pointing out the motes in their eyes. As my boss Dick confessed to me in my exit interview: "The Rev Doc is a money man." This little tid-bit came up, because one of my exit interview questions was about how I felt the church had affected my spiritual growth. I decided to play the "Be the change you would like to see" card. I said that I had grown spiritually by observing the ways in which the church was stunted in its growth. I mentioned my donations to Oxfam as an example. When the church decided to raise $5.5 million to build a building on one of the most expensive pieces of real estate in town, I was shocked that the money would go to such an unspiritual goal. It made me realize I needed to be more generous with my own money.
This was not a particularly popular answer at my exit interview. Neither was my answer to the question about my observations on the "culture" of the church office. Because I was leaving, I decided to say the things that the people who are staying can't afford to say. So I mentioned the conspiracy of incompetence that pervades the place. I mentioned the caste system that places the program staff members in a position to belittle the administrative staff while simultaneously foisting most of the workload and responsibilty onto them.
All in all, it was a satisfying little interview, because I behaved in a very noble and professional manner (I put on a pretty good act when necessary), but I scored some uncomfortable points on behalf of the little people.
Of course, the people really low down on the ladder, I don't suppose I scored any meaningful points for them. The homeless people in Tampa...still homeless. Plus the church cancelled its utility assistance program for the summer. No reason why, but I suspect it has to do with our general budget income being down, which I suspect is related the incredible push for donations to the new building project.
So while the church gathers its $5.5 million to build a youth center that will serve at most 200 privileged kids, the Tampa Tribune ran an article about the difficulties of being a homeless family in the summer. The part of the story that really jumped out at me was this: The agency recently asked county commissioners for $4 million to create an emergency shelter for the county's 11,023 homeless people, including 1,758 children counted in the 2005 homeless census - the most recent figures available. Yeah, with our $5.5 million, we could have built a homeless shelter and still had $1.5 million to put into assistance programs to help homeless families get back on their feet.
(Oh, and the Cathy Capo-Stone mentioned in the article, she was my boss when I worked for The Spring of Tampa Bay. Fuck you, you fucking cunt.)
So, as I depart for Kansas, I leave those erstwhile Christians much in the same situation as I found them: paying lip service to the ideals of their Jesus Christ, but without the will or energy to engage in the sacrifices that Jesus would have expected them to make. Not that many of these people aren't nice, aren't the kind of folks you'd make friends with other under circumstances, but that they're delusional if they think they're on a spiritual journey. I take the same level of spiritual journey when I go to the health food store and try to choose a new bottle of shampoo. People need shampoo, but taking a deep introspective look at which shampoo is best for your hair type--that's not religion, folks.
The Church of the Brunch is already taken, but I christen them The Church of the Valet. It's a country club church, and that was my last gift to them. I suggested that they needed to start a valet ministry. The Director of Connecting Ministries, he nodded with interest after hearing my suggestion. I hope they use it.
I can imagine some point in the future when erstwhile (or ersatz) Christians won't have to walk three blocks to get to church. They could just pull up and hand the car over to a caring Christian valet. (Or really any valet who is willing to work on Sunday, and maybe wear a little gold cross on a chain.) Then, with a few minutes to spare before the worship service, the church members could hurry from their air conditioned SUV to the air conditioned coffee shop for a low fat soy latte, made by another maybe/maybe not Christian. Only it won't be me.
Because I know you're wondering, I'll give a last John Update. He's doing pretty well in his new position. He hasn't screwed up, but it helps that he doesn't have a lot of work to do. Mostly, he wanders around the office, chatting with people, keeping them from getting any work done. This week, he came around and mentioned the fact that he was having to wear more black these days, because--and this is a direct quote: "My brown watch band broke."
"What," I asked, "does that have to do with anything?"
"Well," he said, "I have to match my watch band to my belt and shoes, so now that I only have my black watch to wear, I have to wear a black belt and shoes to go with it. So then I have to wear more black shirts with my khakis."
Such are the spiritual tribulations of today's Christians.
So, had to take a few days off to fiddle with selling the house. We're getting that much closer to moving back to that cradle of science education...Kansas. Don't worry, since I was gone for so long, I figured I'd better have some real treasures to post. I'd like to start with an update on the Capital Campaign at the church.
I received these wonderful words this week and my heart was lifted: “We don't have a lot of money, we live in an old house, and my husband has Parkinson's disease. We love Blank United Methodist, but I sometimes feel that there's nothing I can contribute that would make any real difference. Our pledge is small, but significant because we have never pledged any amount before. When I prayed about it and basically told God that we really couldn't afford anything I felt His question ‘Can't you give one dollar a day?’ and so that's what we are doing.” It’s because every gift counts when it is given out of a sacrificial spirit that I can share with you that as of today, we have received 194 commitments for a total of $3,970,110.52 toward the goal of $5.5 million. Praise God!
Praise God, indeed. Our congregational care pastor spends more than $1 a day on coffee, our adult education director spends more than $1 a day on hair styling products, and the Rev Doc...he makes nearly $100,000 a year, lives in a free house in a posh neighborhood and drives a free car provided by a wealthy parishioner who owns a car dealership. And he's rejoicing because some old couple is giving the church money they can't afford for a building we don't really need. Praise God.
Let's add another layer to this. Let's leave behind my richie-rich little church and travel to my future home in Kansas. While reading up on property values and the housing market in my future home town, I came across an article about two Methodist pastors who just purchased a new $300,000 home in Lawrence. It's not as though housing values are through the roof in Lawrence...this is a nice house. A really nice house. It's not that I have anything against people living in nice houses, but this just bolsters my distaste for people masquerading not merely as Christians, but as spiritual leaders, who have simply decided not to follow Jesus' various recommendations for living.
Jesus was a radical, a destroyer of complacency, but these people are living the Fresh Baked Artisan Bread in 8 Minutes life of complacency. Let's visit one of my favorite biblical quotes. (Yes, even atheists are allowed to have favorite quotes.)
I know your works; you are neither cold nor hot. I wish that you were either cold or hot. So, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I am about to spit you out of my mouth. For you say, "I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing." You do not realize that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked. Revelation 3:15-17
By most accounts, Jesus was a hard-core guy, so how did so many of his followers get to be lukewarm? Interested in how we got the version of what Jesus said that we have? Check out this very interesting book by Bart Ehrman: Misquoting Jesus.
PS: totally free humor value in the capital campaign: Next Sunday is our First Fruits Celebration when people give the first of the money they've pledged for the new building. First Fruits. Guess what color the donation envelopes for First Fruits Sunday are...a fabulous mauve/lavender. Her name was Lola, she was a show girl, with bananas in her hair and a dress cut down to there. She would merengue and do the cha-cha...
At staff meeting this week someone suggested that we pray for the “Persecuted Church.” I almost snorted into my hymnal. It’s not that I find people being persecuted for their religious beliefs funny. It’s not that I find the idea of Christians in other countries being persecuted funny. Torture, imprisonment, discrimination—these are all not-funny things. What is funny is the relish with which American Christians contemplate the persecutions of their fellow Jesus-ites, and the absolute morbid joy with which they contemplate what they consider their persecution in America.
Christians love persecution—nay, they long for it. There’s even have a whole website dedicated to it. Called, no surprise here: Christian Persecution. While there is some serious stuff on this site, there is also lame-ass pathetic persecution fetish-fantasy on the site. People who are trying to suss out the delicious taint of persecution in their daily lives. People who are hunting through every news story about Christians in trouble with the law or their local school board/city council, lusting after a hint of persecution.
It’s like Bill O'Reilly and his falafel-fucking War on Christmas. Yeah, Bill? Who’s prosecuting the War on Christmas? You know who? Christians. Just your every day, run of the mill, milquetost, road to hell is paved with good intentions and I meant to tithe 10%, but then I needed two new tires for my Ford Explorer and the kids wanted to got to summer camp Christians. They’re the saps who are turning Christmas into some Disneyland, funnel-cake state fair, shop ‘til you drop MOCKERY of the birth of their savior. They’ve so completely given over their own holy day to commercialism that the corporations own Christmas more than Christians do. There’s your War on Christmas. We atheists? We don’t give a shit about your Christmas. Why would I wage war on your holiday, when I have a much more kick ass holiday to celebrate on December 25: Cinemas.
So I’m not imagining that Christians long for the excitement of persecution. Who can blame them? Most American Christians are so complacent, attending their Church of the Brunch, tithing their (maybe) 10%, and going on an occasional mission trip that accomplishes next to nothing. The last mission trip my church sponsored—they went to help build a school in some poor Latin American country. They spent 7 days, including 2 days for sight-seeing, 2 days for cultural activities. It boils down to 3 half days of actual work, for which they each paid $1,800. If the 20 fat-ass Jesus-ites had simply donated their lousy $1,800 a piece, the church could have donated $36,000 to the school, which could have turned around and hired local workers to build it. Their idea of a mission trip is better than any vacation I’ve gone on. Bitter? Me?
Christianity in America is meaningless. As I’ve mentioned before in these pages, the church where I work has just signed a contract to purchase a $5 million piece of land, on which they plan to build a new youth center and a parking lot. Do we need either? Depends on who’s talking. The senior pastor (who has an honorary doctorate, and so fancies himself a Reverend Doctor), feels like it’s imperative for the future of the congregation. In our last newsletter he described an e-mail he received from a new church member as proof that we absolutely needed more parking. The new member said, “We first attended the church several months ago, and almost didn’t come back. After driving around for nearly 20 minutes, we were close to giving up. We ended up having to park almost three blocks away. We then had to walk the three blocks back and were ten minutes late for the service.”
Here is my response to this new member: You were driving around in your air conditioned vehicle, with a full belly and clothes on your back, and three blocks was almost too far to walk to attend church? You were close to giving up? Jesus died for your sins and you can’t even bother to walk THREE blocks to attend his church? What is wrong with you, moron? If you really, really believe that Jesus gave up his life for you, that Jesus is the son of God, the one true God, who will ultimately reward you with an eternity of bliss or punish you with an eternity of burning agony, you can’t WALK THREE FUCKING BLOCKS TO GO TO CHURCH???? I don’t even believe in God, but extrapolating from what I would feel if I did, I conclude, sir, that you are human waste. You are a walking spiritual abortion. While people are dying, because the government caught them with a Bible, you’re too lazy to walk three blocks to go to church. I spit on you and upon the next four generations of your family—because isn’t that how God does it in the Old Testament?
Wow. I feel better. You?
If Jesus were really the savior and he came back for an update on his followers, I think they’d all be in trouble. This is the same guy who told his followers to renounce their worldly goods and hate their families. You think he's going to care that you needed a new car or a vacation to Aruba? He had people willing to die for him, hookers washing his feet with their tears, people walking for miles, standing for hours in the heat with nothing to eat, just to hear him speak. He isn't going to be impressed that you had to park your Lexus three blocks away and walk to church.
Okay, last blasphemous thought for this post: imagine Jesus in the movie Sideways. All pissy, he says: “Yeah, I’ll change some more water into wine, but I am NOT making any fucking Merlot.”
I feel dirty all over. I need a shower. My boss, Dick, the dry drunk, has been into my cubicle four times today and every time he invaded my personal space. Usually, I have certain obstacles on the floor of my cubicle to impede the incursions of personal space invaders. I keep a couple of boxes destined for UPS on the floor, plus a few boxes of stationery and envelopes, and sometimes even boxes of Vacation Bible School supplies. All of this keeps Dick, and anyone else inclined that way, from getting too close to me.
A terrible thing happened this morning. The UPS man came, a crowd of VBS volunteers took away their supplies, and another bunch of volunteers (pardon me, that's "equipped lay persons" in ye olde churche lingo) came to do a big mailing and devastated my stationery supplies. It was an open field between the cubicle door and my desk.
Dick descended. He's gotten very chummy around me, ever since someone mentioned to him that my late brother-in-law was an alcoholic, and that my whole family went to the trouble to get involved in his process. We went to counseling, we went to Al-Anon, we went to AA picnics, we went to visit him at treatment. Later, we went to his funeral. So, Dick thinks I'm his buddy. He comes in to ask me if I'm feeling better. He dares to put his hand on my shoulder. He tells me lame jokes. Inappropriate jokes. We hates him, we does.
But don't feel sorry for me...someone else at work got much worse news this morning. The new Children's Ministry Director (The Notorious CMD) has been sharing an office John for about two months now, and has finally told the Rev Doc that she can't stand one more minute of being in the same office with him and his incessant chatter. I'm sure she told this to him in confidence, but it's funny how things get around.
Lucky CMD--she's somebody important. She's getting Dick's office. John is getting the Facilities Manager's office, and the poor Facilities Manager? He and Dick are going to share John and the Notorious CMD's office. Sharing an office with Dick. I shared a cubicle with John for a year, until he was raised up to his lofty position as Adult Education Director, and yes, he talked a lot. All the time, in fact. I had to make a rule and post it on the cubicle wall: If you want to speak with Redzilla, you must say her name at the beginning of the sentence you wish her to listen to. Do not abuse this privilege, as it can be revoked. So, I've survived John, but Dick? No thanks.
In some ways, the punishment fits the crime--for John, that is. Now he'll be all alone, with no one to talk to. Dick's punishment? Sharing an office with a Vietnam Vet who blinks at the rate of about once per second. It should be interesting. I wonder who's going to snap first.
Today was one of those days that is only made bearable by knowing that in August, I will have moved to Kansas and will no longer be working for the particular incarnation of God's Love that I currently work for. It's the sort of thing that makes John fade into the background, makes us ask, "Who is John that we ever expended our energies being pissed off at him?" Let me catch you up:
On Wednesday, the Rev Doc came to my cubicle to discuss with me the scripture bookmarks for this sermon series. (They're handy-dandy little bookmarks that show you what scripture you're supposed to read each day--assuming that you intend to read any scripture.) Traditionally, the scripture bookmarks are inserted in Sunday's bulletin on the first Sunday of the new sermon series. Little ole me designs and reproduces a couple thousand of them, and it's no walk in the park. The Rev Doc was just checking in to be sure I'd have them done. Since I always have my fricking work done on time, one wonders why it's necessary for him to check in, but bless his heart, he does like to. Perhaps it's the view of the water fountain from my cubicle.
Jesus has put a lot on my plate these days--and not just communion wafers--so I explained to the Rev Doc how one of my kindly co-workers had agreed to pick up the work of making the bookmarks. Nice, huh? It's teamwork, innit? Rev Doc went away with a smile.
On Friday, my boss, whom we shall call Dick, because he is one, came into my cubicle to discuss the scripture bookmarks with me again. There were two other people in my cubicle at the time, so I have witnesses to confirm I did not imagine these events.
Dick said, "How's everything for the bulletin?"
"Dandy," I said. "Just the bookmarks to insert?"
"Oh, we're not inserting the bookmarks in the bulletin. We'll just have them in the ushers' books, for them to hand out," Dick said. Away he went, to do whatever he does on the weekends, now that he's given up drinking.
I thought nothing of it. Dick decides. He's the decider. I don't make decisions around there. Stuff the bookmarks, unstuff the bookmarks, make origami earthworms out of the bookmarks...it's all the same to me.
All of this would have been usual Friday doins, hardly worth mention on this lofty blog, except for the fall out of those Friday doins.
Today, Rev Doc came into the cubicle to tell me that he and Dick had been forced to copy, cut and stuff scripture bookmarks on Sunday morning. Then he said, "I wanted to find out why that hadn't been done, since we'd discussed that on Wednesday. Dick told me that you had decided on Friday not to do them as an insert, but I was sure that we'd discussed that." (This is as close as possible to a rebuke as the rather kindly Rev Doc ever gets.)
My response was first of all, a few moments of introspective rage. Then with all the indifference which only a short-timer can muster, I said, "I'm not sure why he told you that. He's the one who told me on Friday not to use the bookmarks as an insert. I don't make decisions around here. He does."
"Ah, I see," said the Rev Doc, and went away. From which I know two things:
- My credibility is substantially higher than Dick's these days, as the Rev Doc was willing to take my word over his.
- Dick may have given up the drink, but he is, like our benighted president, a dry drunk.
Sure, Dick, give up the liquor, but how about checking out Step 10 and start taking responsibilty for your own actions?
Oh, another funny story about Dick: when I started this job, he had a bumper sticker in the back window of his Lincoln Behemoth:
About six months ago, I parked next to his car and noticed the sticker was gone. I waited a few weeks to be sure that it really was his car and that the sticker really was gone. Then I asked him about it. "I never had a W bumper sticker on my car," he said. Yuh. Right. And you can give up drinking any time. Denial, anyone?
For those who regret their former allegiance to W, and aren't driven enough to remove the pesky stickers, now they can get bumper sticker frames which allow them to explain or apologize for the presence of the sticker. They are worth checking out.
