Kids, I'm sorry. I truly am.
I'm tired. So tired. Work has turned into the Mariner's albatross, but I'm still wondering who I shot to deserve this stinking carcass around my neck. My early morning times have for the past two weeks been devoted to counting very small needles in very big boxes, catheters of mind-boggling and urethra-stretching dimensions, and Aquacel Ag, a silver-impregnated anti-bacterial dressing that is grotesquely expensive and seems to be proliferating in my supply closet at work.
Inventory. I finished this morning around 10 after being warned by my Supply Management contact at Corporate that my counts showed that I had almost $550 TOO MUCH. I calmly explained to her via email that the director of nursing for our facility doesn't bother to enforce the rules concerning returning supplies to me that have already been billed to the patients, preferring instead to let the RNs leave said unused supplies lying around wherever. My mind kept shouting "Medicare fraud!" and... no-one seemed too worried. *shrug* I called her directly, got her voicemail. Seems she didn't want to talk. I emailed the AVP. He didn't seem too worried because no-one else seemed worried. Said DON didn't bother to come in today, her excuse as tired as all the others she's always trotting out to cover...whatever. More time spent in her xian church masturbating in time to old-time gospel hymns, I guess.
Me? I cornered the Clinical Manager (the RN's supervisor) and chewed him a new one. I ranted. I raved. I frothed. I chewed my tongue and ran around in circles biting my tail. Still no one seemed to care. Inventory over. I wash my hands of it. If I have anything to say about it the next quarter's inventory will be done by someone else, because I'll be LONG GONE.
This quarter? Instead of worrying that I might fall below the maximum 5% loss indicator I'm shaking my head because I ended up 15% over, wondering when I'm going to hear from the Chief Legal Counsel concerning this massive windfall of Aquacel Ag ($27.50 each, I had at least ten extra. And 150 Telfa island dressings. And.)
My evenings have been filled with resumes and applications. SF-10 forms to be precise (state Civil Service application; seventeen pages of Pure Bureaucratic Hell) and desperate searches across both the state and the federal job boards, including but not limited to comparisons of my own abilities against those required for certain jobs and stretching my definition of "personal skill set" to fit those job requirements so I can send out Just One More Application. I could be a surgeon, right? I've a steady hand and can muster a Gawd Complex. My head is swimming with employment dates and my college semester hours and a precise, bureaucratic breakdown of just what I do every minute of every day. No wonder I'm so fakking tired.
What I can't figure is this--I've called a lot of state and federal government offices and talked to a whole lot of people whose skill set seems like it'd be pressed hard to let them function as ditch diggers (that's a OS-5 rating in Federal Civil Service) much less people in charge at places like the VA, the State Department of Taxation or the DMV. My sweet freaking gold-plated Jeebus' testes, how do these people manage to fill out the applications properly, much less pass the PET test? I don't GET IT. Or do those jobs just MAKE you stoopid?
I'm tired, kids. My creativity is at low ebb. I WANT to write. I want to talk to you guys. I want to tell you about my cousin coming in from Floria, the one with whom my brother and I grew up, siblings in all but blood type. I want to write about the rain, about my '66 Mustang convertible that my brother is going to start restoring for me. I want to write long winding sad stories of my childhood, and short, sharp shaggy dog stories that make you groan aloud when you get to the punchline, but when I do sit and type nothing comes out but bile and putresence and anger at a job that seems to have turned it's uncaring back on me. I need to assemble a whole list of fascinating and surreal questions to pepper Mr. Fab with this Sunday for the inauguration of the Lighting Round but I'm doing good right now to work up enough spit to dribble down my chin.
All I want to do is sleep, but I can't do that and expect to wake up with a fresh new job full of bright promise waiting for me, so here I am, slogging.
Anyone out there want a MAWG* with a very wide range of servicable job skills and a burning desire to make a difference? Work ethic beaten and bloody but unbowed, grey hair at no extra charge. Trains not required but a definite plus.
*Middle Aged White Guy--everyone should have two or three on the payroll.