An Un-Valentine's Day Post

I was watching the movie Valentine's Day last weekend, which left me with more questions than answers:

1. Why do people keep hiring Ashton Kutcher to make movies?
2. Natalie Portman co-stars in Ashton Kutcher's latest film. What? Why? Are we sure she went to Harvard? I went to a state school and am not an actress, but if somebody offered me a role alongside Ashton Kutcher, I'd say "No thanks."
3. Jessica Biel and Jessica Alba in the same movie?! Was Jessica Simpson not available? I'm saying they're all terrible.

Anyway, if you haven't seen Valentine's Day--don't. Also, if you haven't seen Valentine's Day, you don't know that Ashton Kutcher plays a florist (I know, I know). It reminded me of a time that I worked in a flower shop and helped a clumsy man's attempt at romance. I don't want to spoil the ending, but it was a big, fat FAIL.

So, a jittery, nervous, dazed man wanders into the flower shop as if he's accidentally stumbled into Narnia. He wants flowers delivered to his wife at work as soon as possible, and chooses an arrangement from the cooler.

As I'm collecting delivery information and ask what he wants the card to say, he asks if he can handwrite the message. I offer him a blank card, and after several minutes of serious deliberation, he scrawls a message onto the card, folds it so the message is facing out, and hands it to me. It reads:

I can't believe you when you say you don't love me anymore.

Before you file for divorce, can we see a therapist

and try to work through our problems?

I flinched, and my eye twitched, the way it does when information is thrust upon me that is absolutely none of my business. I feel really uncomfortable. I look up, and locking eyes with the fidgety man, I ask, "Would you like to seal this in an envelope?"

"No," he says with a sudden surge of certainty and assertiveness. "I want her to see the message immediately."

"Oh, hell," I think to myself. No good can come from this. It's a good thing he has me. "Oh," I say, trying to carefully choose my words. "Don't you think she would prefer such a private message be...less visible to others?"  Hint, hint jackass! 

"No, no," he replies, becoming slightly squirmy. "It's important that she see this right away."

"I see. Umm, isn't this being delivered to a place of business?"

"Yes."

"And are there other people at this place of business, or is she the only person there?"

"No, it's a big office."

"Ok, so these flowers are going to be intercepted by a receptionist or a secretary, right?"

"Uh, yeah, probably."

"Alright, well here's what's going to happen. When flowers are delivered to an office, the women converge on the flowers like ants at a picnic. They love it. And in doing so, they're all going to read your deeply personal message to your wife. Then all the ladies in the office are going to know your wife's personal business. She's going to be mortified, and your grand gesture is going to backfire in a big way. I need you to trust me on this." Also, I think you need bigger flowers. I keep that thought to myself.

I slide an envelope across the table. He still refuses to sign it. Now I want to divorce him, too.

As soon as he leaves, I write his wife's name on the front of an envelope, and seal the card inside. He may be a complete moron whose marriage is about to implode, but I'm not going to help him embarrass his wife at work.

Us bitches gotta stick together.