It’s always wet on Valentine’s Day, it seems.
The little kids, Lily and Alex, and I braved the gale and went to the Big Ass grocery store that always has customizable floral arrangements on Valentine’s Day and told the nice woman we wanted a customizable floral arrangement for Valentine’s Day: stargazer lilies from Lily; baby’s breath from Alex, who is, a, ah, baby; red roses from me, um, because.
Alex kept dashing for the fruit section (likely in pursuit of the melons he so fondly identifies with Mom), so while I chased the lad down Lily kept the flower lady company and persuaded the harried but cheerful woman to identify not only all of the flora in our bouquet but all in the general vicinity as well, twice.
The flower lady buffed the bouquet out with orchids, mums, other fragrant weird blooms I don’t know the names of, and various greens.
By the time we were finished the woman said it was the biggest, smelliest bouquet she had put together all day. We were mighty proud of our personalized statement of annualized, culturally-mandated love for the woman nearest our hearts, and our puffed chests told the world just that.
HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!