Chickens, it’s another dark-as-night morning around here, which is really not the best way to dive into a week. I’m leaving on the edge lately, showering in the middle of thunderstorms and not even being quick about it.
I’m a daredevil, you see.
This weekend was a business-like operation, consisting of yard-beautifying (for JW, my brother, and my Dad), and getting-things-done-appointments (for Ky, my Mom, and myself).
There was also some pool lounging and rib eating and bonfire having, too. I wouldn’t want to misrepresent the weekend.
But it was mostly about getting things done.
Saturday, I met with a florist bright and early, explained my vision (please remember: I have no vision), and she said a bunch of things that I loved. I was hooked. Anyone who can take descriptive words like “I don’t like roses” and “A medium size bouquet would be good?” and make them into a proposal is a real professional.
Next up, I tasted cakes. I basically wished that I could choose them all, but ended up with both a chocolate and white cake pick, depending on tier, and was able to stay away from the horrors of fondant.
I know it’s cool looking. I just think it’s weird to actually eat.
At this point, we took care of a few loose ends, like hair and makeup, and then decided that to be fair, even though I was pretty sure the florist I met in the morning might be my actual new best friend, and go to the afternoon florist appointment.
When we got inside, we sat down, and looked through a book of wedding flowers. There seemed to be a lot of activity going on, which made sense, since it was Saturday afternoon, but it took awhile for the consultant to get to us.
The consultant, as an aside, was about 85 years old.
She asked me some weird questions, like how tall was I (with and without shoes, please). Once I answered all of her questions sufficiently, we got to the floral part of the discussion, where despite my ONE vision (no roses, please), she said,
“So mini roses for the little boys, then?”
A couple of other points of contention arose when I confessed that I wasn’t wearing a veil (an unthinkable offense, apparently), and the pinnacle of the conversation came when my mother let her know she was uninterested in a corsage.
The woman looked aghast.
My mother went so far as to explain that her dress was classic, and she didn’t think she needed one, but the woman was unswayed.
“You know, you should really think about carrying a single flower,” she said, raising her eyebrows with disapproval.
My mother looked horrified. I tried to look down at the book full of roses so I wouldn’t laugh.
“It would give you something to do with your hands” she said, as if that explained everything.
I sat through the rest of the appointment, but alas, when the subject of roses came up again, it was obvious she had lost us.
In good news though, I think we made our florist decision.
And I’m feeling much more like I have things under control.
Next up, despite a bit of residual cold-ness leftover from last week, I’m hitting up the gym tonight, and making dinner, in an attempt to get my life back to a place of normalcy. Wish me luck, chickadees, and have a good Monday!