Thursday, June 11, 2009

MIDWEEKER: Penance and the Dead Weeds

I suck. As a loving, caring husband, I suck. But most of you knew that anyway after The Mother's Day Incident. Your Honor, at this time State will offer State's Exhibit No. 1.

So Her Majesty requested a low key, neither-cake-nor-party kind of birthday this year.

I thought, we'll, y'know, the flower bit will go a long way towards making nothing out of something... or something outta nothing. Whichever. Thus, I prance my idiot self down to my go-to florist in the bottom of One Shell downtown.

There's not a ton of selection this time of year, but I walk with a bunch of white daisies, getting odd looks from about every person that's not overly self absorbed. The womenlooks say, "Aww... that's sweet! Hey waitaminute, that's not many flowers, buddy. You're NOT sorry enough." The menlooks say, "I haven't bought flowers for my wife of 27 years in 28 years. I despise you, you young, good-marriage-having punk."

And holding flowers is always a problem for me. Do you hold them in the Beauty Queen Cradle? Do you hold them like a pastrami sandwich? Like you don't know they're flowers? I digress.

I drag my 3 flowers back to the cinnabar mine (pastrami sandwich-style), and finish the rest of the afternoon phone-phighting with every single inhabitant of Chicago, Illinois. I pack it up, wipe the toxic red dust off of my slacks, and zip down Allen Parkway (45s jammed). I get home to the Captain and H.M. and suddenly am gobsmacked: I forgot the flowers. I confess this. I announce that I'm going back for them. The crew talks me out of that.

Next morning, these poor, doomed flowers look like the wax museum's A/C went out. They stare at me all day. "Why did you let us melt, you moron? Murderer!"

Second try on evack-ing these suckers to Home Port 2.0 goes flawlessly until I have to pull off the walk of shame down to the parking garage. Maybe no one will see me. Nope. 4 of the 5 other dudes packed into the elevator look at me, their eyes saying, "Don't do it! Don't give her those! It's suicide!" The 5th guy cracks a tiny, tiny, pitying smile. My glance back says, "Listen pal, it's a long, long story, and if you don't want to be the first person in human history killed with a bouquet of daisies, you better unsmile. Now. Because I will find a storage closet down on P2 to stuff your body into, payaso."

Next, in a stroke of sheer genius, I park my nondescript black car in the sun on Westheimer for about 45 minutes (meet 'n greet). The melted flowers now don't look melted at all. They look like they were poorly freeze dried. At home, Majesty is not impressed. Her look says, "Thanks for the dead weeds, jerk! MEN!"

My self-imposed penance is to listen to this. I AM SO, SO SORRY, BABE. JUST MAKE THE VOLKSMUSIK STOP!

Note: After 2 days in flower ICU, the daisies look great. Very cheery. Too bad H.M. and the skipper have left town for a week. Can you eBay resurrected flowers?

Note 2: There are actually BUSINESSES that deliver dead flowers to people! Check this out! That's what makes America great, right there.

Note 3:
Y'know, now that I think about it, The Deadweeds would make a wicked cool band name, yo. I'll float that by the rest of the crew.

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