Am I Smiling with my Wrinkled Eyes

Today I made an age-related clothing choice which was a first for me. I've rifled through my closet to avoid looking too fat, too sloppy, or too mannish I engaged in a daily moment of self-deprecation because I'm not 100% behind my 'pretty' but I never once looked at the mirror and said, "I look old." Until today, Oct 20, 2009 5 months and 5 days away from my 39th birthday. Excuse me I need a shot of tequila.

I was on my way to a free panel for unpublished writers. Not knowing who I might

meet I wanted to look good which-when I put on make-up-I do. Maybe it's my new short hair, or maybe it's just the neckline of the sweater I had on first. It's a nice sweater, I got

it at the thrift shop for 5 bucks. Should I burn it? It's possible that the fold-over off the shoulder look should be reserved for supermodels and women who scoff at aging. Maybe it's the hat? No! I love this 3 dollar thrift store hat. My bad posture? I just wasn't feeling this look, I ripped it off and...

went with the blazer, Ann Taylor Loft, she's for young wom-

en right?

I felt younger and sexier. Check out that pose. Am I doing Tyra Banks proud by smiling with my wrinkled eyes.

I have no need to look like I'm twenty, but I refuse to age myself with clothing. I promise that I wont wear a leather mini-skirt or Hollister. Thirty-five forever, baby. Such a great age.

Employee of the Month

Yes, that's me. I am September's EOM for my workplace. While I do believe I deserve the honor in terms of my super-compassionate nursing care, I am not the most well-rounded employee. I lack any desire to participate in committees and I am often late to meetings. I've always considered myself a 'pit' person. Tripping over poop and blood in the trenches is where I belong.

But to be fair to myself, if the judgement comes solely about how I take care of my patients, I hit that ball over Fenway's Big Green Monster. After 16+ years in the health care biz, I can say with confidence that I am one awesome nurse. I have never said or will ever say any of the following:

"Oh you have to pee." Cock's head and pouts. "Let me get the aide for you."

"Both your arms are casted and you want me to feed you." Wags finger. "I can see thumb poking out of that."

"You're having pain...And you wonder why?" Clasps hands together in front of body. "You've just had you abdomen sliced open, that's why sweetie."

"Nurses don't give back-rubs anymore honey." Delivers toe pat/squeeze of false comfort." Do you see a gigantic hat on my head? This aint the dark ages."

The sad part is I am not just trying to be funny, I have heard these statements made by nurses. Many are overworked, yes, but many of them just don't care very much. I'll take my EOM and run, because despite my lack of administrative drive, since 1993 I've earned it.

The Power of Barry Manilow

My father raised me on one album, Barry Manilow Live.
Barry released the album in 1977, I was six. My father put it on the turntable every sunday and danced around the living room with me. The love I developed for Barry never released it's hold, often to the detriment of my mid-eighties teenaged social life. Now, I have over 5 hours of Barry Manilow in my Ipod, all the hits and all the new stuff. I am listening to him right now.

Ooh Baby, I love that Spandex.

This weekend I visited friends at their house in upstate New York. Their backyard opens up on 20 acres of woodland and swamp. On Sunday starting at noon we heard gunshots. Not just a pistol. Not like I know the specifics of gunfire, but I can tell the difference between a shotgun-sounds like a sonic boom- and an automatic-sounds like me after beans. Between noon and four I identified four unique weapon discharges. I was freaked out; I desired not to be felled by a stray bullet. My friends had complained to authorities about the violent intrusion on to their lazy 'wish our children and dogs could play in the backyard' weekends before. After four hours something had to be done.

My friends husband plays in a band, therefore he has amplifying equipment at his disposal. He thought about blaring Culture Club, or Skid Row into the woods.

"No," I said, "they might like that. I've got 5 hours of Barry Manilow at the ready."

We hooked it up to two speakers, wrapped my pod in plastic, pressed play and went inside. We play dirty, baby.

After thirty minutes of angst filled, melodic, 150 decibel Manilow, a woman appeared from the woods. She claimed they were having a skeet shooting party and were unaware of my friend's proximity. Success. Truce declared.

What can we learn from this incident? How can Barry Manilow music achieve world peace? Unfortunately, for the Fanilows out there, I think we know.