This is St. ____ Parish, not an argument clinic:
Q: WHAT DO YOU WANT?
M: Well, I was told outside that...
Q: Don't give me that, you snotty-faced heap of parrot droppings!
M: What?
Q: Shut your festering gob, you [ ]! Your type really makes me [ ], you
vacuous, coffee-nosed, maloderous, pervert!!!
M: Look, I CAME HERE FOR AN ARGUMENT, I'm not going to just stand...!!
Q: OH, oh I'm sorry, but this is abuse.
M: Oh, I see, well, that explains it.
Q: Ah yes, you want room 12A, Just along the corridor.
M: Oh, Thank you very much. Sorry.
Q: Not at all.
M: Thank You.

I love my job. I like being able to help people. It is frustrating when I can’t give them the answers that they want. And sometimes, well sometimes all I can think about is the Monty Python Argument Clinic Routine.

Last night a caller called with a question that I couldn’t answer. Not really a big deal. It wasn’t life or death. It didn’t involve any sacramental needs. It was a business question. And I told her who could answer it and when. She was not satisfied. And let loose with a torrent of abuse that left me listening just out of pure fascination. Then I hung up. When she called back I told her I didn’t have to listen to abuse. So, of course, she is writing a detailed letter to Cardinal George to let him know that my parish employees me, Ellyn - yeah I gave her my name right at the beginning of the debacle. I talked to a co-worker later. There are about 8 other people from the pastor on down who are also being written up in detailed letters. Now I don’t feel so special.

And what am I - a dictionary? Between abusive phone calls, Frances calls to get a precise definition of ‘je ne sais quoi.’

I love my job.
Now off to the third to last day of the day job. Finishing fitting shepherd and angel costumes for the second grade pageant.