Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Roses in December
I can’t believe I have to rewrite this &*$%ing post. I had such a good rhythm going, too.
I am sick of hearing about, reading about, and seeing the crappy stuff that happens in this world. Coming from a woman who posts fairly often about how sad and broken-hearted she is, that’s a pretty hypocritical statement. But it happens to be true.
Some folks have expressed surprise when I declare my fondness for Friends and Joey. I don’t know why – it makes perfect sense to me. Why would I want to watch the news or - God forbid - reality TV - when I can indulge in mindless fluffy entertainment for a half-hour or so? And if said entertainment happens to include a good-looking lovable brainless goob, where’s the harm in that?
The radio station 93.3 out of Greenville occasionally airs a scary segment called War of the Roses. A disgruntled or suspicious spouse will call in and relate their marital woes to the morning show hosts. Then the DJs call the other spouse and offer them the opportunity to send a dozen red roses, free of charge, to the person of their choice – while the first caller is listening on the other line.
Today was Morgan’s turn. She had found a pair of women’s underwear in her husband’s laundry – and let’s face it, you know your own underwear, and you know when the shorts aren’t yours. When the DJs called Don, her husband, and asked where to send his free roses, he told them to send them to another girl named Abby – who happened to be his wife’s sister.
All hell broke loose at that point, as I’m sure you can imagine if you’ve ever watched Jerry Springer or Ricky Lake for more than five minutes. (I admit, I have.)
But then there was a segment last week where the husband called in. He had supported his wife in her successful weight loss efforts and even paid for a boob job, but she was spending a lot of time out with her friends. He was beginning to wonder if she was spending time out with someone else entirely. When she was given the choice, she said, with no hesitation at all, “Send them to my husband. And put on the card, ‘Thank you for the new me. I love you.’” When her husband came on the line and told her what was going on, she wasn’t even upset at his suspicions. She even apologized. She said she was just out enjoying her newfound self-confidence (not to mention the new pair of bouncing breasts) – and she owed it entirely to her husband. It was really sweet.
So I wonder, if the call came to me, to whom would I send a dozen roses? I don’t think I could make the choice – there are so many people in my life who support me that sending a full dozen to one would be just silly.
Send one, I would say, to my husband, for saving my life.
Send at least two each to Buffy and to Tammy, for keeping me alive even when I don’t want to be.
Send one to Heather, for the midnight phone call last night, and for her priceless wisdom and humor even in the darkest of situations.
Send one each to Sam and to Stewart, for offering their time and energy, and for listening.
Send one to Will, for letting me vent and be manic and for telling me what the hell’s wrong with my shower and how to fix it.
Send one each to my father and to my stepmother, whose fierce hugs and kisses show me that even though I’m a little weird and kind of screwed up, they love me anyway and always will.
Oh, and wait just a second before you place the order. These roses can’t be red. I know, it’s the color of passion, but there’s enough of that bloody color in the world today, and besides, I want them to know immediately who sent the flowers.
Make them magical. Pick roses with a deep purple in the center of the bloom. Sweeten the petals to peach and lavender, and dip the ends of the flowers in pink iridescence so they shine. And don’t you dare try to pick off the thorns – nothing that beautiful can be perfectly safe anyway.
The last rose? Oh, you’re right – I’ve only sent 11 so far.
I think I’ll keep the last one, and put it in a vase next to my Christmas tree, to remind me of where the others are.
Posted by andi at 12:39 PM