Monday – Flower Pit
May. 12th, 2008 03:34 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ninanevermore.
.
.
Today on my drive into work, I was thinking that total honesty is the worst thing in the world for a relationship, and anyone who thinks different is single and destined to stay that way. The best things for a relationship are diplomacy and tact, which are expressed not as complete honestly, but as white lies. The problem I have with telling white lies, though, is that I'm a really bad liar unless I'm well rested and prepared (even then, I'm only a mediocre liar). This made the moment Jeff handed me the bouquets of cut flowers that he had painstakingly picked out for me for Mother's Day kind of awkward yesterday. It was early, and I had only drunk half a diet Coke with my breakfast. In order for me to fake getting excited about a gift I hate, I need a lot more caffeine in my system.
"Happy Mother's Day!" he told me, presenting me with a bouquet of roses and a bouquet of miscellaneous blossoms. He always looks like a schoolboy when he hands me flowers: sweet faced and proud of himself for doing something right.
He got up early Sunday morning to go out and buy these for me, which is why it was awful of me, in my sleep-addled state, to take the bouquets and say with a wan smile, "Oh, how pretty. You really do like buying me cut flowers, don't you?"
The devil on my left shoulder was saying, That's it! Tell him! After 20 years together, it's about damn time he learns how much you hate cut flowers!
Jeff's face was crestfallen.
The angel on my right shoulder reached behind my neck, grabbed the devil's pitchfork, and stabbed me in the ear with it.
You bitch! the angel said.
You really are one, the devil agreed, I like that about you.
"You don't like flowers?" my husband asked, once again looking like a schoolboy, but this time one who has been told to sit in the corner.
Tell the truth, the devil said.
Be kind, the angel said.
"They're beautiful," I said.
Wimp! the angel and devil cried in unison. The angel stabbed me in the ear again.
"But..." my husband said, "Why don't you like flowers? I thought all women liked flowers."
My face told the whole story; there was no going back now. "Well, they'll be dead in a week, for one thing," I said.
Point out that he left the price tag on them, the devil suggested, and list off the things he could have bought with that money that won't be dead in a week. Things you want and can use.
"Oh," my husband said.
"But they're lovely. Really. Thank you, Sweetie." I reached up to kiss him.
"I'm sorry. I should have gotten you something else."
"No, no..."
Yes! Yes! He really should have! the devil said. Hey, gimme my pitchfork back. She was apparently talking to the angel.
You want it? Then come and get it, the angel said. The devil muttered a string of epithets and began using my hair to pull herself over my head and get to the angel. The angel began doing the same thing on my right side.
"What would you like next time?" my husband asked.
"I don't know. A live plant is always nice; at least they last longer than these things. There's always jewelry, too." There is no way my husband will buy me jewelry. He did a few times when I was much younger, and noticed I never wore his offerings. He tends to buy cutesy things – like little dolphin-shaped earrings – that I would really have loved when I was 12 years old, but that don't suit my tastes now.
Just tell him not to bother, the devil said, because he sucks at buying presents. Hand over my pitchfork, you albino canary, or I'll take it away from you and shove it where the sun don't shine!
Like I'm afraid of a little red shrimp like you, the angel retorted, Don't think I can't kick your ass. They began to tussle on top of my head.
"Let's put these in water," I said.
"Aren't we supposed to cut the bottoms of the stems off?"
"What's it matter? They're going to die either way."
Ain't that the truth? the devil said, Let go of it! It's mine, you mealy-mouthed piece of sh..." I ran my hand through my hair and knocked the two of them to the floor, where they landed with a couple of Oooophs!
"Thanks a lot," Jeff said.
"They're beautiful. Right now, they really are. Thank you so much for going out and getting them for me."
"Next time, I'll do better. Next flower holiday...which is Valentine's Day, I think..."
"That's fine. Don't worry about it. I love you." I hugged him.
"I love you, too. No more flowers. I'll do better next time," he said, and hugged me back.
He'll forget, the devil said from the floor behind me, just wait. Still hugging my husband, I kicked the little devil across the kitchen floor, and glanced over my shoulder to watch her slide under the door to the pantry.
* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~
.
.
Today on my drive into work, I was thinking that total honesty is the worst thing in the world for a relationship, and anyone who thinks different is single and destined to stay that way. The best things for a relationship are diplomacy and tact, which are expressed not as complete honestly, but as white lies. The problem I have with telling white lies, though, is that I'm a really bad liar unless I'm well rested and prepared (even then, I'm only a mediocre liar). This made the moment Jeff handed me the bouquets of cut flowers that he had painstakingly picked out for me for Mother's Day kind of awkward yesterday. It was early, and I had only drunk half a diet Coke with my breakfast. In order for me to fake getting excited about a gift I hate, I need a lot more caffeine in my system.
"Happy Mother's Day!" he told me, presenting me with a bouquet of roses and a bouquet of miscellaneous blossoms. He always looks like a schoolboy when he hands me flowers: sweet faced and proud of himself for doing something right.
He got up early Sunday morning to go out and buy these for me, which is why it was awful of me, in my sleep-addled state, to take the bouquets and say with a wan smile, "Oh, how pretty. You really do like buying me cut flowers, don't you?"
The devil on my left shoulder was saying, That's it! Tell him! After 20 years together, it's about damn time he learns how much you hate cut flowers!
Jeff's face was crestfallen.
The angel on my right shoulder reached behind my neck, grabbed the devil's pitchfork, and stabbed me in the ear with it.
You bitch! the angel said.
You really are one, the devil agreed, I like that about you.
"You don't like flowers?" my husband asked, once again looking like a schoolboy, but this time one who has been told to sit in the corner.
Tell the truth, the devil said.
Be kind, the angel said.
"They're beautiful," I said.
Wimp! the angel and devil cried in unison. The angel stabbed me in the ear again.
"But..." my husband said, "Why don't you like flowers? I thought all women liked flowers."
My face told the whole story; there was no going back now. "Well, they'll be dead in a week, for one thing," I said.
Point out that he left the price tag on them, the devil suggested, and list off the things he could have bought with that money that won't be dead in a week. Things you want and can use.
"Oh," my husband said.
"But they're lovely. Really. Thank you, Sweetie." I reached up to kiss him.
"I'm sorry. I should have gotten you something else."
"No, no..."
Yes! Yes! He really should have! the devil said. Hey, gimme my pitchfork back. She was apparently talking to the angel.
You want it? Then come and get it, the angel said. The devil muttered a string of epithets and began using my hair to pull herself over my head and get to the angel. The angel began doing the same thing on my right side.
"What would you like next time?" my husband asked.
"I don't know. A live plant is always nice; at least they last longer than these things. There's always jewelry, too." There is no way my husband will buy me jewelry. He did a few times when I was much younger, and noticed I never wore his offerings. He tends to buy cutesy things – like little dolphin-shaped earrings – that I would really have loved when I was 12 years old, but that don't suit my tastes now.
Just tell him not to bother, the devil said, because he sucks at buying presents. Hand over my pitchfork, you albino canary, or I'll take it away from you and shove it where the sun don't shine!
Like I'm afraid of a little red shrimp like you, the angel retorted, Don't think I can't kick your ass. They began to tussle on top of my head.
"Let's put these in water," I said.
"Aren't we supposed to cut the bottoms of the stems off?"
"What's it matter? They're going to die either way."
Ain't that the truth? the devil said, Let go of it! It's mine, you mealy-mouthed piece of sh..." I ran my hand through my hair and knocked the two of them to the floor, where they landed with a couple of Oooophs!
"Thanks a lot," Jeff said.
"They're beautiful. Right now, they really are. Thank you so much for going out and getting them for me."
"Next time, I'll do better. Next flower holiday...which is Valentine's Day, I think..."
"That's fine. Don't worry about it. I love you." I hugged him.
"I love you, too. No more flowers. I'll do better next time," he said, and hugged me back.
He'll forget, the devil said from the floor behind me, just wait. Still hugging my husband, I kicked the little devil across the kitchen floor, and glanced over my shoulder to watch her slide under the door to the pantry.
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Date: 2008-05-13 05:04 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-05-13 05:10 pm (UTC)