You don’t bring me flowers, part deux

I got to thinking about some of the sentiments behind that entry from Jan. 31, as well as some of the discussion it sparked both inside the comment box and out in the real world.

I don’t want to convey that I insist on any man in my life giving me flowers. On the contrary, I don’t exactly love flowers. I’ve been to more funerals than China has rice, and flowers usually remind me of death. When my grandmother died, we had scads of roses, stargazers and baby’s breath. And while I love each of them, it hurts me to smell them. Besides, if a man would send me a huge bouquet of flowers — especially on a random day — I would think he was up to no good and was trying to divert me from the really sleazy thing he doesn’t want me to discover that he’s done. 😉

And what flowers I do love, in addition to the above, well, are not exactly available at your local Safeway or Shopper’s Club. I love heathers, lilacs and hydrangeas. Yes, I have to be exotic. lol. You have to put some thought into it when you want to impress me. 🙂

But that brings me to a point I wanted to clarify for my loving readers, something at which Tiff intimated. It’s not that I — or many women, for that matter — necessarily desire flowers or chocolates or whatever the hell it is that is “traditional” for Valentine’s Day or other holidays. We appreciate gestures that are as unique as the person making the gestures. As I cannot come up with any loving, romantic gifts that I’ve received in recent years, I will say one thing that knocks my frog socks off — greeting cards.

Yes, gentlemen, you don’t have to spend a shitload of money to make a girl swoon. Just prove to me that you walked into your friendly neighborhood Hallmark store, read a few cards with me in mind, and purchased one that you thought I would love. Yes, get that last part — if you put some thought into it, I will take note of that.

Flowers are a good stand-by because you can have them delivered to the office. Granted, I try to keep my personal life out of that godforsaken hellhole, but Valentine’s Day is the one day of the year when people are cruising up and down the halls with the bouquets they receive, seeing who else has someone who cares about them enough to send a little special something. My mom used to send me these adorable arrangements — like one year, the pot had M&M characters and had little bags of M&Ms (plain, my favorite) mixed among the roses and carnations. It was adorable. And she didn’t sign the card other than “Love, Your Secret Admirer.”

I knew and loved her trick — because people in the office are too goddamned nebby for words, and they die to see what you got and what the card says. And when people would ask questions — and you can bet your sweet ass they were lined up and waiting — I would say, of course I knew who sent it, and no, I would not divulge any details to them. Hee hee. Men don’t really get this concept, but this annual ritual has forced many of us to order our own damn flowers, just to save us the aggravation of seeing Slutty Sally and Bland Bertha getting arrangements on this special day, while we rot at our unadorned desks.

Granted, it’s a bitch to take your lovely arrangement home on the metro, bus or even in your car, and the flowers never look quite the same when you get home, but still — the eight hours of glory in which you bask as they stare at you from next to your computer is just an unparalleled thrill sometimes.

Besides, for those of us who casually talk to a few guys at a time (don’t worry, I’m good and not sleeping with anybody right now, but I do have a few prospects!), sending flowers — especially on this most romantic of days coming up — is a damn good way to ensure that I’m thinking fondly about the one who cared enough to think of me in advance of that day.

And remember, March 20 is “Steak & BJ Day.” Whoever does right by me on Valentine’s Day gets his own special holiday, celebrating him and only him, in one short month.

Now, who needs my work address? lol.

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