New Toys and Old Songs

Like all spoiled children the day after Christmas, I love playing with new toys. The idea of pumping out my home-spun wisdom (mostly snap judgements, but it's my blog, I can lie if I want to) out to the cyberverse makes my narcissistic toes tingle.

All in all, a typical day. I got to work early this morning to to turn out some much overdue paperwork--discussing the life, times, sexual proclivities, and the latest parental disappointments of the kiddos on my caseload--before being confronted by my new supervisor about my files being out of date. I smile sheepishly during supervision, yes, I know, getting my files in order is top priority, especially since I have only three weeks to complete them and to train my successor about the intricacies of being a professional hard-ass. (I received a sincere compliment of a group-home foster parent, known throughout the state for taking girls everyone else has given up on, that I was the biggest bitch she had the pleasure of working with.)

I catch up with my therapist friend about a heart-pouring meeting between a set of foster parents at their wits end, a director, and myself. We discuss, analyze, and gossip about office politics--human services aren't immune for the cruciality of successful employees being "in the know." My family-centered agency also has its dysfunctions bordering on incestuous and flat-out unprofessional. But hey, who's more neurotic than a room full of therapists and social workers? The desire to know thyself has to come from somewhere . . .

I talk with a veteran case manager about supervision with my new boss. We talk about her new position she accepted at a county agency as a caseworker. (Like many human service agencies--both county and government--turnover is rampant. It's a field expectation for 50 percent of new hires to quit after six months.) She talks about how she will miss all her families and her worries of starting over. I reassure her she will be fantabulous, and berate her for ruining my exit gusto by leaving a week before I do.

Lunch is over in a flash, I throw down more case notes before hitting the trail. I hit my group home and hold two staffings, when caseworkers contact the kids and are debriefed and debrief, plans are set and I race to my uninvited meeting with my wits-end foster family. Stuff is said, everyone cries, everyone hugs, and I stop back at work to complete some more notes. The optimist in me gets teary-eyed thinking about my latest meeting, and the cynic in me believes all the love and communion will be forgotten by the weekend. By the by, the whole situation is like an old Hank Williams song.

I return the Call of the Hun (my fiance) and whine about my day and he bolsters my spirit. He discusses the joys of class and the benefits of publication. He, in turn, whines about the final edits of his master's thesis. I tell him I look forward to getting a new job, where the possibilities are endless, and he tells me he looks forward to me arriving in New York. My toes curl and I yurn. Over the past couple of years, Hun is where my heart is, no matter how fancy Paris seems. The whole situation is like an old Patsy Cline song.

So, three weeks and counting until I end my job. Four weeks and counting until I start my new life with Hun.

All in all, a typical day.