According to Meg, we have a florist. In my previous entry, I mentioned that I didn’t know why we needed anymore flowers than those provided by Drexelbrook and Villanova. As the cliche goes, ignorance is bliss.

Apparently, it’s customary to provide flowers to… well, to just about everybody. Parents, siblings, grandparents, red-headed bastard step children, the priest, my Computer Networks professor, and anyone who has posted more than two comments on this site (be sure to leave your address on the third comment; if you’re not invited I’ll mail you your complimentary bouquet). My apologies to anyone whom I haven forgotten, and as always to the red-headed bastard step children out there (I suppose I really ought to check into whether or not any distant-yet-still-invited-to-the-wedding family members resemble my crimson haired whuppin’ boy du jour).

I’ve actually entertained offering streaming video on this site. Never more appropriate of a feature would this be then during the conversation that transpired between Meg and me regarding the flower choice. Within seconds, she rattled off a barrage of what were either flower names or members of the Periodic Table of Elements that I have never before encountered. She began to grow frustrated with my safety-net answer of “Ok” at every question until she finally looked into the endless abyss that was the blank stare on my face, at which point she could fully appreciate the depth of my cluelessness towards flowers.

For instance, while Meg was on her last business trip, I bought flowers for her and left them on the kitchen table for her when she got home (I knew I’d be at the gym at the time). After pulling a last minute head-first dive into the Florist that would make Indiana Jones proud, I realized the only thing I knew was that I wanted something vaguely resembling flowers.

“What kind?”
“Right. Let me show you the ‘I’m Sorry I’m an Idiot’ bouquet.”
“Oh no, I’m not in trouble.”
“I see. Then let me show you something from our ‘I’m Too Stupid to Realize I’m in Trouble’ line.”
“No, seriously, I’m not here because I messed up.”
“Oh, my mistake. You must be here for an anniversary.”
“Hey, I recognize that from Drexelbrook, that’s just a stick with a shoelace around it…”

I do have a partial excuse for my ignorance. How many people reading this site can tell me about the radiation sickness associated with Plutonium? What about how much arsenic it would take to incapacitate the average adult? Right, both of those would kill you, so you don’t bother learning any details about them. In the same light (well, perhaps a bit less extreme, but if you believe that I could die from sniffing a flower I have a story for you about almost drowning while snorkeling), I’m allergic to… well, to bloody well everything. Notably, I’m allergic to grass and most flowers (I say most because of my immunity to the wonderfully plastic creations found at So even if I could manage to work up even the most remote interest in flowers, actually taking the time to appreciate any of them would be an exercise in stupidity.

As usual, I trust that Meg has made a great choice in both florist and actual flower selection. Although I’ve been told what we’re getting, what they actually look like will be as much of a surprise to me as will be seeing Meg’s dress for the first time.

But that’s another entry for another day…

I have this odd feeling of deja vu as I sit here writing this entry. I’m pretty sure I’ve narrowed down where it comes from. I’m sitting here writing this entry from the cold, unforgiving floor of an airport– Philadelphia this time– on my way out to a joint forces center military base out in VA. As fate would have it, the weather is far from ideal (we really need to invent planes that can fly through the monsoon I inevitably find myself waiting out), finding myself facing a number of delays and gates changes, ultimately driving me towards me incessant need to subject everyone else to the same misery to which I am currently enduring.

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t bother going into the back story of how I got to this position. However, this trip was somewhat unique. I was sitting in work this Monday morning, happily (well, maybe not happily) coding away when my manager comes up to me. Our software (my project in particular) is taking place in an exercise in the aforementioned VA base in the next two weeks. The exercise is extremely important to my small company, so it’s imperative that we make a good showing.

“Tom got back from VA. Things aren’t working.”
“We need this to work by Wednesday. Can you fix it?”
“Ya, but it’s in a secured facility, how am I going to get at the computer?”
“You have a 8:40pm flight tonight. Go home at lunch and pack.”

It’s now 8:50. Suffice it to say that, since I’m writing this, I’m not on the plane. Hell, I’m not even sitting across from the gate listed on my ticket. Moo.

How many times do you have to encounter problems in one particular aspect of your life before you can officially declare yourself cursed? I’m looking at two Gestalt business trips (flight trips, the one I drove to worked out fine), two shitty sets of weather conditions, roughly forty-two flight delays, and probably close to ten gate changes. Can I call myself cursed yet?

In other news… well, there hasn’t been all that much other news. We (read: Meg) are going to be looking for flowers soon. Though I’m not anticipating all that much news from that; Villanova provides flowers for the church, Drexelbrook provides flowers for the reception. Don’t ask me why we still have to look for flowers, because I’m not entirely sure what else we could possibly need flowers for.

One cool event was that last Friday (the 27th) marks five years that Meg and I have been dating. It’s really weird that it feels like it’s been forever, but at the same time feels no where near five years. But it’s reassuring to see that Meg can put up with me for five years; it gives me hope that I may not drive her too nuts when we’re finally married.