She Gave me Malibu Barbie

While in Michigan last week I had a dreadful meeting with my florist. In fact it was a dreadful meeting with my NON-florist because my florist was having surgery. The problem is that I felt like my florist really got what I was trying to do and I felt that the new florist was just giving me her version of what a 18 year old bobble-head Malibu Barbie would want. The flowers were ok but not anything like what I wanted. There was NOTHING that was right.
1. They were baby doll pink and peaches – I had requested bold cranberries and raspberries with a splash of cream
2. They were small and tightly bound into a perfect little ball – I had requested big bold and messy
3. They were dainty and sweet – I had requested loud and over the top

This new florist got an earful, in a hopefully modulated non-bridezilla shrill pitch, at least that is what I was going for. But from her look of horror at my tirade I knew that she hated me in this moment. Ally McBeal style I started a visual mind wander that she would go to the back of the store after I exited and let loose a string of profanities that would compare me to the devil or Satan. In which I would then pop my head into the back of the store and scream as fire burned behind me demonically “Satan?” seriously couldn’t you come up with something better than that “I prefer to be called ruler of all that is evil.”

Unfortunately this was my ONLY opportunity to see the flowers in person before the big day because this was my last visit home until right before the wedding in which she informed me that was not going to work for another meeting because the flowers would already be ordered. Shaking off my annoyance we pushed forward and agreed to do ANOTHER sample and she would just have to email the photos of what she was thinking. I took a deep breath and remembered the skin on top of pudding that sometimes you need to go through the ugly to get to the good.