So yesterday I was given a flower.

It wasn’t J that gave it to me.

It’s driving him nuts.

Before you tell me I’m evil for bringing it home, let me tell the story. When Lady J was on her last couple of weeks here, she was telling everyone that she would be leaving. If you know her, you know how expressive and flamboyant she can be about anything.

One of our regulars is a tour bus driver who refers to all the young ladies as “sunshine” or something else that might be considered demeaning or patronizing coming from someone who didn’t so obviously enjoy life. He’s always in good spirits and cracks jokes while he’s waiting for his money. So Lady J, who positively blooms under anyone’s attention, would flirt shamelessly with this old man and the last time before she left was no exception. She gushed about her acceptance to law school and we said how much we were going to miss each other when she’d left. He congratulated her and came back not twenty minutes later with a pair of gerbera daisies. Ostensibly one was for me because I was losing an employee and the other was for her for getting into law school. However Lady J took them both.

Now last week I’d been lamenting the fact that I had ever told J that I thought giving flowers was a bit of a mixed message. I mean yes, there is a language attached to flowers, but in the end they wither and die – so what does that say about the message? Or so I’d said. (I think I was still a tad bitter over The. Best. Valentines. Evar. or the only time I ever got flowers delivered – but those are other stories – and actually pre-J) I say lamenting the fact because even though I still think it’s somewhat true, I like flowers. I especially like wildflowers. I like the sentiment behind them, regardless of the idea I’d previously attached to the custom. (And now that the cats are at Mom’s there’s no one to eat the flowers for the time being either…)

So yesterday, this bus driver comes back. He asks after Lady J, so I give him the full report, about how she’s settling in and the courses aren’t that bad and that we miss her at work. I change his US and he leaves. Not ten minutes later he returns with – get this – a white rose and some chocolate. (really rich chocolate that I gave to Little Miss Redhead to finish because it made my teeth hurt.) When I brought it home I went right into the kitchen to put it in water. J was quiet for a few moments and then came in and said:

“So, who gave you the flower?” So I told him, but I’m not too sure he believes me.

listening to: traffic
eating: leftovers
reading: Fifth Business – Robertson Davies