The day after Saint Patricks day.

As I went to work this morning at about 445 am (I have to be at my desk at 5) it occurred to me that this was March 18th. When I was younger and in my wild days, the day after St Patricks day was awful. I was usually hung over and really cranky. Those days are thankfully over. The beverage in the window? Maple syrup.
I didn't have a lot of time to take a picture but I fell in love with the sun going through the amber. There are something's that I love to photograph. For some reason yarn is a biggie with me. I love the texture, the colors, the way it hangs, everything about it ,well everything except what it is for, I can't knit and I can't crochet. That of course is not to say I haven't tried.
I think it's important to establish your deficits early. This whole conquering your inadequacies thing is BS. I say recognize them, embrace them, and move on.
If at first you don't succeed, give it one more shot. After that screw it. Take it as a sign from God and do
Something else.
Something's I am really good at. I can bake a Cherry pie billy boy billy boy. I can rock a pair of 4 inch pumps. I can sing rock to opera (maybe not as well) but I can. Sometimes I can answer a lot of jeopardy questions. if it is the teen edition and I can make a child cry.
Seriously it's an art.
As some of you know part of my job is to admit patients into our hospital. I am always the last one they give the kids to. (I of course get every old man in the city.) the kids? Not so much.
I think it's because I haven't mastered the high voice thing. I work with a woman who talks up. You know what that means? It's when a sentence is spoken and ends like a question. Like:
You look really nice today?
I would love some more coffee?
I bet that dress looked great 10 lbs ago?
These things are said at a pitch that makes a dog cock their head.
I always thought kids saw through this act and old men liked it. That is a lie kids love it and old men can see through anything.( especially clothing). I can (and have) make an old man propose marriage. I can't ask a child to spell his name without prompting tears.
I have been bitten, kicked and sworn at by children. On the other hand, old men have copped a feel, grabbed my ass and have asked for a hug many times.
Long hugs.

I am the old man whisperer.
And the child torturer.
Ah yes it is an art.

Kind of rambling but a perfect Tuesday blip.
Good night all.