Saturday, March 14, 2009

(Please) Don't Send Me Flowers Anymore

OK, I’m weird. I'm not particularly fond of chocolate, diamonds ... or flowers.
Especially flowers. least, those that arrive via courier, all stiff and arranged “just so.” In a word, they remind me of Death. Too many funerals, too many flowers, ya-da, ya-da, ya-da. (Were he alive today, Freud would probably have a field-day with my psyche.’)

And I'm probably stepping on some toes here, but have to admit (I think) FTD-gifting is the lazy-man's way out. Unless you're hundreds of miles away, how much effort or imagination does that take?

'Have to agree with my mom's philosophy.... that a single rose ~ or wild flowers picked on the spur of the moment ~ mean more than any expensive arrangement.

A few years back, I was honestly relieved that no-one remembered my birthday. "Whew!" By the time you get to be my age, public hurrah's are sort of embarrassing.
Then, someone casually wished me 'HB' in passing. (shhhh!)

Too late. Coming back from lunch, here's this enormous, gosh-awful bouquet and a chocolate cake from my co-workers. "Oh, you shouldn't have!" (Really.)

What's any gracious lady to do? I promptly burst into tears and walked out. Not cool, I know.

Months later, when DH and I announced our intent to be married, Planning became a family affair. Both his daughter and DIL found it incomprehensible that I didn’t intend to carry a bouquet.

“But what WILL you carry?,” N. queried?

“Oh, how about your baby?
… or my puppy?”

Back-and-forth’ forth-and-back.
For the sake of harmony, I capitulated.
Unearthing our parents’ wedding portraits, I pointed, “those aren’t too awful.” (Lilies.)
The ladies were off and running.

Somewhere along their errands, however, the lilies became “root-beer” roses.

I’m sure there was much thought and hard work, transforming them into bouquets, boutonnières, into granddaughters’ tiaras. Still, after a couple “adult beverages” at the reception, I quietly buried the offending flora in the nearest trash receptacle.

Where's all this going, you may wonder? An exception.

I'm mad about carnations. Green carnations.

See, my father always made sure I had them every St. Paddy’s Day -- both when I was too young to care … then, grown and gone, hundreds of miles from home. It's been nearly 30 years since I received a green carnation on my birthday. Curious, no-one noticed.

But then, I never spoke it out-loud.
Well, 30 years is definitely too long for regrets. This year I’m breaking my defined aversion to FTD and sending myself some green carnations... on his behalf. To heck with what Thomas Wolfe wrote can go home again.

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