Why I'm the way I am

I'm going out on a limb here with the self-analyzing thing, but I have a bit of the rebel in me.

I realize fully what I am. To put it in words of one of my most favorite movies of all time, The Birdcage,

Albert: Whatever I am, he made me! I was adorable once, young and full of hope. And now look at me! I'm this short, fat, insecure, middle-aged THING!
Armand: I made you short?

I am so Albert. Not saying it is a not a good thing. Only it is what it is.

So why am I, well, the way I am? To start with, I know I make a production out of things. And this the trait in particular that I am analyzing. Mainly because that is the part that even gets on my nerves. Do you think I LIKE dancing around like a fool in circles, explaining, planning, explaining, analyzing, explaining? The answer here would be no.

See that poor little man in the cartoon? I feel for him. That would be me. Why? Because if the chairs aren't perfect, then the rest is downhill. Someone won't see...someone else won't hear...then the whole meeting has gone to hell in a handbasket before it ever started.

And how did I get to this point. Surprisingly, I know. My job has made me anal. (My job: I made you anal?) I work in a life and death situation every minute of everyday at work. Even the most common, benign surgeries can go bad in a heartbeat. Literally.

My job? It is to make sure that all my ducks are in a row prior to getting the patient into the surgical suite. Not that that eliminates the possibility of things going down the tubes, but it certainly decreases the craziness that ensues if it does. My job demands that I make a production out of each and every case I do. I have to analyze and plan for any possibilities that may occur.

Being the way I am...call it anal or organized...could very well be the deciding factor in the outcome of someone's surgery. Not to be taken lightly. And that is probably why I live with a knot in my shoulders that drive massage therapists crazy.

So, in conclusion, I am the way I am out of necessity. Unfortunately, this trait has spilled over into my life outside of work. Realizing this, I will attempt to work on being more spontaneous in my everyday life at home. No promises.

Dont' get me going...

Cartoon by Dave Walker. Find more cartoons you can freely re-use on your blog at We Blog Cartoons.

I have a soapbox that I keep near in case of verbal emergencies. I drag it out frequently at work. (Did I ever tell you that I should, and deserve, to be Queen of the Hospital?)

Yesterday started out much like all the others. Grumbling and social unrest amongst the worker bees. Then, someone said something that got me going. (Go ahead Bumble...do it...pwfffttt!)

I got on said soapbox in the middle of the locker room. (That is the marvelous thing about a soapbox. It is extremely portable.) It started out with just a word or two about management, and before I knew it, I was babbling away with a small following. (I don't speak well at large engagements.)

The topic took many turns but eventually centered on incentive. If I only had a Power Point Presentation, I'm sure I would have been elected Queen on the spot. Here are the highlights of my soapbox presentation.

• All we hear from management is ROOM TURNOVER. Must be on time. Hurry.
  
• Why is this? Because the surgeons are breathing down their necks. And who brings patients to the hospital? The surgeons.
  
• What do patients translate to? Cash. The bottom dollar.
• The surgeons want to get their surgeries in and out on time. Understandable.
  
• Who actually gets the cases going? The worker bees. That would be me. Buzzing my butt off all day long. hurry. Hurry. HURRY!!
• What happens when I get the surgeon out on time? The surgeon is happy! The hospital is happy because the surgeon is happy. But, me? Not so happy. Why? All the work is done because I ran my ass off all day long, so the hospital sends me home early. No pay.
• Something is really wrong with this whole setup. The surgeon is happy. The hospital is happy. The worker is not happy.
  
• Which brings me back to incentive. Where is mine? And don't start spewing about a job well done. A job well done does not pay my bills.

So, exactly where, in this scheme of things, is my incentive to run like a wild woman all day long? There is none. A big fat zero. Nada. Nothing.

Answer: when we work like crazy women and get the surgeons in an out on time, don't send us home without pay. Send us home...yes, but with our regular hourly wages to finish out the day.

Benefits of this proposal?

1. Happy surgeons
   
2. Happy hospital adminstrators because of more money due to more patients from surgeons
3. Happy workers
   

How does this happen?

1. Happy workers will work even harder to get all work done to enjoy the paid time off at home.
2. Resulting in even happier surgeons and happier Ivory Tower People.
   

Win. Win. Win. You really can't get any better than that. I got a standing ovation for that little lockeroom soapbox speech with a few Amen, Sister 's thrown in for good measure.

This is a little something for Bumble. Nothing to do with this post, but I stumbled across it while looking for an image. It reminded me of him.
It will become blatantly obvious when you take a peek.

Bumble can never look at any of those optical illusions that you have to look beyond the picture to see something else in the picture. His little eyes see what they sees and that is all that they sees. (Quote modified from Popeye.)