FORMAL WEAR

 First let me say, if you know how to spell the word boutonniere without spell check, you are light-years ahead of me.

My daughter is attending a formal event this evening.  Weeks ago we stopped by the florist to order the boutonniere for her handsome date.

The Spanish Inquisition (I mean florist) started her investigation by directing the question to Aubrey. "What color is your dress?"  That was easy.  "Pink, but we just want a white rose."  "What school is this for?" We answer (though it is not really relevant) and she writes this information on the paper as though it is an important clue. Doubts began to surface as the florist's litany of questions progressed with more queries having nothing whatsoever to do with assembling a floral decoration for my daughter's date's lapel. I redirected to the task at hand and asked for a Saturday morning pick-up.  You would have thought we had asked for spit-shining and overnight delivery of the Crown Jewels.  "I can't possibly do it that early...."  (Silly me, I thought I was the paying customer and got to decide when I needed something.)  Another impatient thought flew through my racing mind (something along the lines of- this is ONE SIMPLE BOUTONNIERE, not a rolling float for the Rose Parade.) I usually manage some degree of propriety and said neither of these things out loud. Despite the uprising in my head, my outward affect remained calm.

Succumbing to pressure (I've always been an easy target for a bully) I agreed to the time Madame Florist decreed. But it made me nervous. It was only 2 hours before Aubrey would need it and already anxiety began knotting my stomach. Despite the useless witty comebacks coursing through my head, I'm a complete pushover. The florist scribbled copious notes willy-nilly on a plain sheet of paper and "filed" it by shoving it into a stack of papers (assorted sizes and shapes.) 

I began fretting the moment we walked away and could not calm the uneasy storm until I returned a week later to change the pickup time.  She saw me coming, stuck out her right leg and effectively completed the menacing posture by placing her hand firmly on the hip.  She watched me approach and I lost resolve with every step. "I need to change the time of the pickup for something I ordered."  HEAVY SIGH.  Out came the worn manila folder stuffed with papers and with little patience for my appeal, she asked for the date.  She located the paper with only a little difficulty and I had to admit I was somewhat relieved that she actually had SOME kind of system.  "I need to pick up the boutonniere a few hours earlier."  She began shaking her head in disapproval.  (Does this woman NOT want to sell flowers?  Am I on Candid Camera?)  "Why?” she asked.  Okay, now I was getting really annoyed.  Who knew what time Aubrey was going to need to leave the house and I did not want to be scrambling around at the last minute.  Additionally, I had little faith that the boutonniere would be waiting for me (and acceptable.)  I did not want to provoke unrest by voicing my distrust so I chickened out and framed my lily-livered answer. "I have to BE somewhere." She looked at me like I’d been caught in the school hallway without a pass. My stomach churned and from the Inquisition’s mouth came words which nearly brought my nonviolent generally congenial disposition to outright fisticuffs....  "Where do you have to BE?"  OH MY WORD!  I should have remembered I had feet and stomped off to another florist but while forgetting my lower limbs, at least I found my voice.  "I am NOT picking up this boutonniere on Saturday."  The florist measured me with her eyes and threw me a bone.  "I can make it on FRIDAY."  Okay, this sounded like compromise and besides, if my blood pressure went any higher I’d start lifting off the floor. I started to cave (again) and asked a question of my own. "Will it still be okay for Saturday night?" Now SHE was offended.  "Of course! (unspoken reference- DUMMY!) Just stick it in the refrigerator."

Fine. I requested the change and watched this haphazard recorder of details scratch out Saturday and pen FRIDAY on her scribbled paper. 

I like a good insurance policy and felt a little better since this gave me a window of time during which Aubrey and I could plead our case to a different more benevolent florist or heaven-forbid make our OWN homemade version of a boutonniere if things fell through.  But I still harbored a naive belief that this would not be necessary.

I guess you know where this is going. 

I stopped on my way home yesterday afternoon to pick up the stupid flower.  The florist-tyrant was mercifully missing, leaving two sweet young apprentices in her wake.  The first was a boy named Brock who claimed that the only floral task with which he felt comfortable was filling helium balloons. I told him I was there to pick up a plain white rose boutonniere for my daughter’s date.

It was Brock who dashed heroically back to the cooler to locate the order. He returned holding a clear plastic box and wearing a very concerned facial expression. “Um….. do you remember what the thing was supposed to look like?”  Clearly he could not imagine that anyone in their RIGHT MIND would have ordered the monstrosity he held in his young hands. The box was missing its usual order slip so he wasn't sure to whom it actually belonged.  I’m telling you right now, there’s NOBODY going to claim that floral nightmare once they get a look at it.  In the center were three of the tiniest white rosebuds in the history of the world. They were standing in a line and fastened with unforgiving green adhesive.  Surrounding this trio was a bonanza of ribbon. A veritable plethora of dark pink loops and swirls.  The ribbons were curling well beyond the borders of the rosebuds.  Inside the dreadful layer of dark pink ribbons was another interior section of sparkly pink ribbons, a shade unbelievably uglier than the outer rim of festivity.  It’s like someone was going all out in a contest to create the tackiest decoration EVER. It was a ribbon mum of horror. The tiny rosebuds were dwarfed by the looping mount. I don’t know what this thing was meant to be, but it was failing on all kinds of levels.

This time I was not at a loss for words.  “OH MY WORD, that can’t possibly be it!  WHY would she put all that pink ribbon on an item for a guy’s lapel?”  Elton John? Liberace?  Brock had NO IDEA and looked relieved we were not expecting some poor guy to actually wear it.  He seemed really sorry to be the cat that had dragged in the dead mouse.  With downcast eyes, he informed me that there were no other orders waiting in the cooler. Desperate for help he suggested that perhaps his coworker might have an idea. 

Enter Mandee.  Despite being roused from her break time, she was immediately sweet and accommodating. Before she even knew there was a problem she was apologizing on behalf of everyone with whom she’d ever worked. (I got the feeling she’s had to do this before…)  I explained my dilemma and she began opening and closing drawers.  I suspect she was hoping a boutonniere instruction manual and supplies would suddenly become obvious.  Neither employee knew where the Queen of Flowers kept her file of orders. Mandee made a call to another florist and spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone.  Returning, she used both hands and every reassuring gesture her face could render. “I am going to HELP you” (spoken slowly and deliberately as one would speak to a wounded dog or a person in the throes of insanity) Mandee had assembled her sweet young courage and she was going to embark on the first boutonniere-making endeavor of her life.  With hesitancy but practicality she added, “I think it will take me an hour.” I thanked her for her willingness to venture into the unknown on my behalf and told her I’d return later that evening. 

It was more like 2 hours until Aubrey’s nail appointment was finished and when Brock walked toward me THIS time bearing in both hands the new clear plastic box. He was beaming from ear to ear.  Mandee had DONE GOOD.  It was lovely.  And I was ever so grateful.

In about six hours my daughter will be attempting to pin the boutonniere to her date’s lapel.  Here are my three remaining fears. 

Number one: Based on the frustrating florist’s lack of tact, her first question to Aubrey, and the scary overabundance of pink ribbon- that ghastly floral piece actually WAS the boutonniere she intended to make for us.

Number two: The florist ignored the change of date and is (as I type) making the boutonniere we requested.  This will inevitably start a tirade of nasty calls to the house when she thinks we did not come to pick up the order. (I will beg Jim to return the call if this happens – he loves a good debate.) 

And the worst case scenario which will actually cause me to burst out laughing because it would be SO GREAT in a really sick way- Number three:  When Aubrey’s date presents the flowers to adorn her wrist, it will actually BE the “ribbons gone wild” horror I saw at the shop.  (This final fear is the reason I am waiting to post this story until AFTER the formal begins.) 

“AFTER THE ROSE” ADDENDUM:  The wrist bouquet was absolutely gorgeous and Mandee’s debut boutonniere looked great on Aaron’s lapel.