Motivation what?

I am currently playing a game I like to call, "What's my job?"  I'm now on my fourth week at work, but three of them have consisted of me in a conference room for 8 hours a day learning about things like cultural competency.  Hellooo?  I'm a social worker.  Really what it boiled down to was CYA techniques big companies like to employ for risk management.  If they prove you've received training on a topic like confidentiality, they can fire you faster vs. buying the "I didn't know" excuse.  Its a good thing to have, but not when you are on the receiving end.  This however, is not the purpose of my entry.

Yesterday I unpacked my office and figured out my email system.  That pretty much took up the day.  You see, I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to be doing.  I have two executive secretaries so apparently I have a lot of meetings, but until I learn about those I'm rather clueless.  The problem is, no one around me knows what I do because I'm supposed to be their leader and already know.  The blind leading the oblivious.

Today I actually had two transition meetings with supervisees.  One of my conversations went like this:

"So, you have four people directly reporting to you.  All of them have very important jobs, but they can get monotonous at times.  Tell me how you motivate your team."  A nice way to start, I thought.

"Well, I don't really talk with them unless they screw up and their manager before trained them well so..."  She looked at me sideways.

I tried to control my look of horror.  Perhaps she misunderstood me.

"Supervision is an art.  It involves feedback both positive and negative, but a really good supervisor keeps her team inspired.  Tell me how you do that."

"Inspired?"  Her brow furrowed.

Ok, my mental thesaurus began to spin while I was also calibrating her IQ level. 

"Well, your staff are highly tenured, you know they have been here a while.  Often times people will sit and stay for peace and pay.  Does this make sense?"  I paused and she nodded.  "The years can often become blurred without innovation and support.  Tell me how you positively reinforce their work and encourage them."

"Like I said, they don't really screw up..."  She looked baffled like I had just handed her a quantum physics problem.

"Valued.  Tell me how you convey to them how you value them as well as the quality of their work."  She looked more assured and I thought I had finally made my point.  She thought for a moment and then said:

"Well once I bought them lunch."  She looked pleased with her answer and smiled.

I must have looked a little stunned because then she added confidently, "...with my own money."

Yup.

I suggested we begin meeting weekly for "coaching" shall we say.

Cultural Competency

There are certain things that establishes culture.  I'm not talking about race, religion, or gender.  I'm talking about what differentiates each city and unites the people despite their other characteristics.  Although I've only been here a short time, I've picked up on a few here in Indy.

1)  Corn pesticide commercials are commonplace during the news.
2)  John Cougar Mellencamp's birthday is regarded as an informal State holiday.  BTW, it was last Saturday.  If you do not like his music, do not listen to any of the radio stations in Indy because inevitably no matter if they are hip hop/jazz/rock/whatever, it is normal for "Shake Your Money Maker" by Ludacris to be followed by "Jack and Diane."
3)  School speed zone signs are just there as decorations.  No one actually follows them except the Utah native who has been flipped off numerous times as people zoomed passed.
4)  Teeth are optional
5)  The Pacer's shooting outside of a strip club coincided with their release of the "Its up to us," campaign to improve their image last week.  This story in one form or another was the lead headline for DAYS just because there wasn't any other news.
6)  Most everyone has worked for a factory or grew up on a farm
7)  Peyton Manning endorses everything and is regarded as a local hero.  (My husband did not know who this guy was in rounds and was made fun of until he called and asked me.)
8)  If you are really cool, you have an official pace car from one of the past years Indy 500.  People will stop you just to look at the car in parking lots.
9)  Republicans rule here.  Alas, I've moved to another Red State. 

Desperate Housedogs

Yesterday marked the end of my first week at my new job.  To celebrate the fact that I lasted 5 whole days, they reserved 2:00 - 4:00 for a welcome reception in my honor.  I suspect it was really more so my employees could stop by and see who I was.  I've only been in my building twice in the past week as they have had me in meetings, driving/getting lost around the city, and hobnobing with other management the rest of the time.  I was looking forward to sitting in the staff lounge and see who showed up.

In between the party and meeting one of my program coordinators I decided to stop home for some lunch and to let Edgar out.  I spent the morning in senior staffing, touring group homes (not the most uplifiting experience), and hanging out at the methadone clinic (very enlightening and entertaining).  I got home and discovered houndini was back. 

I will take accountability for this as my reinforcement methods were weak that morning because a) I was late, and b) I wanted to see if he was getting the concept and gave him the benefit of the doubt.  Stupid me.  Edgar had managed to chew up an orange highlighter on the white carpet, eat my thank you notes, destroy my jewelry box (no jewelry inside), and gnaw on a prescription bottle.  As I was beginning my "bad dog" routine on Edgar, I mistook his closing eyes as him being sheepish.  He then began to careen a bit and I realized something was off.  He had a mushed yellow capsule stuck to his fur.

The pill bottle was his.  It was the sedative the vet gave me just in case the card ride didn't go so smoothly, but since he was a dream dog we hadn't even cracked the seal.  It seemed Edgar got a bit bored and pulled a Desperate Housewife move and o/d on the pills to help pass the time kind of like Lynette who started eating all of her children's Ritalin when she was coping (maladaptively, mind you) to being a stay at home mom when all she wanted to do was work in an office.  I began to panic.

First I called work and explained to my boss, who happens to LOVE the addictions field, that Edgar and Lynette had some similarities and that I would not be in attendance of my own party as I was now rushing to the local pet ER.  I left this all in a rambling message that no doubt probably left him rethinking his decision to hire me as my bits of crazy were just beginning to show.  I then mapquested the one referral Ihad from our neighbor to vets and scooped Edgar off to the car. 

I began to think about my previous life as a vet tech and remembering that this particular med caused dogs' blood pressure to drop and thus caused liver damage.  I stepped on the gas a bit more firmly.  The pet ER looked like a renovated funeral home, but whatever.  The tech had hot pink hair, nose rings, and like most Indiana natives, reeked of cigarette smoke.

"I am a terrible mom," I announced handing the chewed up pill bottle to the tech while Edgar slept soundly in my arms like a limp rag doll, "We just moved and he pulled a houndini, ate a highlighter and these.  I used to be a vet tech so I know how stupid you think I am as a pet owner, but he needs help and I'm beginning to think the worst like liver damage."

The tech and other customers looked at the crazy woman standing there.  "These things happen."  And she showed me into an exam room.

Edgar began to rouse a bit and would go from falling asleep to waking up, realizing where he was, shake with fear uncontrollably, and then drift back off to sleep.  This happened about 10x before the vet came in.  She called him a handsome fellow, examined him, reassured me, double checked the dosage/weight and announced she needed to call the prescribing vet for the exact amount of original pills.  Great.  Now both states would know I'm a neglectful mother.  At least J wouldn't know.  He was on call and wouldn't be home until tomorrow morning.  I began to imagine the "I told you so's" regarding where the pill bottle was located and my terrible engineering skills for barricades.

Just as the vet came in my phone rang. 

"Where are you?  I came home for an hour nap and Edgars missing. Looks like he destroyed some stuff."

Great.  "We're in the Pet ER.  I'll have to call you back.  Edgar overdosed."

"Is he ok?  Are you ok?"

"Yeah. The vet's here.  Let me go talk with her."  I pretty much hung up on him.

The vet smiled and announced Edgar was within dosing range, but extremely high on that scale and we could be sent home with a steroid shot and promise of close observation until midnight.
 
I took Edgar, the sleeping puppy, home.  The doped up dog curled up to my sleep deprived husband.

"I'm so sorry I let this happen.  I promise I will be a very good mother of our future children."
 
He began to laugh.  "Yeah, this is what we hear all the time in our ER.  'I don't know what happened. I left the room for a quick second while he was playing with the pills and then they were gone!'"

"You won't have to call social services on me, I promise."  I said, " I really will be a good mom."

"Yeah, by that time you will probably be in charge of social services." He laughed.

Cross to Bear

When I was little I would do sleepovers at my grandparent's house.  There are certain things I remember about my visits.  Grandpa would always get up before dawn and make orange juice/banana shakes for breakfast. Grandma would do loads of laundry because my brother would inevitably slide down dirt hills and fall into ponds. Grandpa would make paper airplanes. And that their bed was always made with a cruifix above their heads. 

My Grandmother was devout Catholic and my Grandfather was a recovering Mormon.  As long as he didn't have to accompany the family to church every Sunday he was fine with them being raised with the Holy Trinity.  I really think he is more of the agnositc/atheist category.  And yes, this is the angry-last-sacrament-didn't-work-because-I'm-still-alive-the-next-morning-Grandmother, and "good luck" Grandfather. 

When my Grandmother died, Grandpa embraced his bachelorhood.  The cupboards are empty, fridge bare (save for a few deli fried chicken pieces, iceberg lettuce, oj, and hotdogs), and no stinkin' cleaning lady was coming in because he said, "I don't make dirt."  As time has passed, my Grandma's presence is making a comeback.  Before I left Salt Lake I noticed a photo of her reappearred in the living room.  I really missed that photo and was glad to see it back. 

My Grandpa has relocated the cruifix, however.  It now resides in the laundry room.  I suppose the fabric softener is truly blessed now.  Not really certain why it is there and I doubt he could tell me why other than, "It seemed like a good place," or something like that. 

I mention the cruifix only in light of my recent proclaimation of faith and marriage.  I am getting used to things like sharing the fridge with a vat of lagered beer waiting to be bottled, sharing a laundry basket which now doubles its size in half the time, and sharing a bed with yes, a cruifix on the wall above our heads.  This is not my cruifix nor my cross to bear.

It seems the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. 

The morning that I was leaving on my 3 day trek across flatland USA, my father was misty-eyed.  He looked like a lost puppy watching my mother and me load the car.  He wasn't particuarly sad about me leaving, but more so Edgar.  To me his parting words were, "Have a nice life."

"Dad!  Have a nice life?!  That's like saying, 'Good Luck!'"

Yup, apples and their kin.  No matter if I change my last name, my paternity shines through.

Wedding Photos

My wedding photos just showed up on my photographer's blog.  Of every expense for the wedding, finding Davina was worth every penny.

http://illtakeapictureofthat.blogspot.com/