All Write, Already!

I'll be celebrating St. Paddy's day at work, where I earn the green.
Since I'm an eighth Irish, I feel that's enough.
It's also where I spread the most blarney.
This morning I dreamt I'd been offered an off-track promotion, the whole desk had gone wireless and moved into a one-story breakroom, and I'd been told by a paraplegic director that I smelled good as she grabbed my neck and held it as long as she was allowed. I told another woman that I finally felt we were doing great, that we'd be OK, and she said we always had been. This is after fighting a leprechaun-ish Bob Barker at a trolley stop in Boston and having a hot camping date with a woman I can't picture now. Still, the work part of the dream was the most pleasant and reassuring of the mess.

Bob Barker's pot of gold wasn't anywhere in sight, by the way.