Something Stinks

I hesitated with the title of this blog. Based on my history and keen sense of humor, one would assume this post would be about doody. But it's not. It's about something much less funny and much more fragrant.

You guys? I HATE FLOWERS. I hate them. They are smelly and fragile and never the right color and there are just way too many kinds and they are dumb. Flowers? PSHT. Who needs flowers?

Oh, wait. I do. I need them because apparently weddings are just hoedowns in an abandoned sewer drain without them. I went to a florist today to pick out the uber-necessary blooms that will apparently make or break my nuptials. I know NOTHING about flowers. Zip. I know as much about flowers as Taylor Swift knows about being fun or interesting. (Hooray for a new celeb target! It feels a little cheap, I know, considering T.Sweezie is allegedly talented and not a convict, but Angelina has been in Transylvania or something and Kim Kardashian is busy baking a half-human, half-fame-whore in that pod she calls a belly, so I've gotta move on temporarily.)

Anyway, the only thing I knew about flowers is that I only liked one flower. One. And I liked it because it had black in it, which matches everything. I knew that one fact and that was all I was prepared for when I met with the florist. I announced confidently, "Me likey anenomes. I want all anenomes all the time and all I've ever looked at is anenomes, so this should be a very quick appointment."

Then the florist drops a reality bomb on me: Anenomes aren't a summer flower. Sorry. Would I like daisies?

NO, I WOULD NOT LIKE DAISIES.

Excuse me, but I just bought a cactus in IKEA recently. Something tells me those are not native to the Swedish meatball aisle in a Minneapolis store in December. Someone somewhere can grow me some anenomes. Should I check the Ektorp sofa aisle?

Yeah, so about 3 minutes into my appointment, everything I knew I liked about flowers was pooped on (Hey! Look at that! This post IS about doody!) and smashed in my face. Then I vaguely remember the woman repeating several words I've never heard before that are allegedly names of flowers. They meant nothing to me. All I heard was "These are not white flowers with black centers. These are not white flowers with black centers." Suddenly, I was expected to know what other colors I wanted in flowers, what size blooms, how many accent colors, and WTF a hydrangea should and should not be paired with. What is this, ALGEBRA?!

I know less about flowers than I did before I started pinning pictures of the exact same bouquet of flowers over and over and over. Actually, that's a lie. I know ONE thing I didn't know before: It's apparently a combination of rocket science and brain surgery to make flowers bloom out of season. Hmm, go figure. And here I thought flowers could just grow on trees. And on the ground. And everywhere else, including the  aisle next to cheap rugs and convertible wardrobes.

Yeah, the whole thing just stinks.