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.
“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 www.petals.com). 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…