My mother’s 86th birthday was last Sunday. Daughter #1 got online to a local florist to order a very specific thing for her. #1 ordered a floral arrangement shaped like a cake, with candles on top and sign that said Happy Birthday.
This was a happy idea because Mom hasn’t been able to eat by mouth for about five years now. She take all her liquid and nutrition through a g-tube, which is working just nifty. So she can’t eat cake, so a floral cake is perfect!
#1 Daughter ordered the cake to be delivered on Saturday, since the florist doesn’t deliver on Sunday (Mom’s birthday). As Friday wore on, she began to doubt her internet skillz and called to make sure the order went through.
The florist said, “Oh, yes, that was just delivered.”
“No,” said #1 Daughter. “It was to be delivered tomorrow.” With a sinking feeling, she asked WHAT was just delivered.
Know what the florist said? “I don’t see what we can do about it now.”
#1 Daughter, ordinarily so non-confrontational she makes Gandhi look like Chuck Norris, explained why she wanted what she wanted and why she wanted it when.
The florist said, “We’ll deliver what you ordered when you wanted it delivered. But we’ll have to take the other arrangement back.” (Emphasis mine.)
Mom is usually pretty sharp, but sometimes she has bad days when she’s easily confused. It fell to me to explain to her on Saturday morning that the florist was going to come deliver what #1 had actually bought for her and was going to take her beautiful roses away. She understood, although she, like the rest of us, wondered what they were going to do with a second-hand bouquet. She asked me three times that morning to remind her why the florist was going to take the roses away.
I usually get her going in the morning and then go home, but Saturday I thought I’d better stay to deal with the florist. And lucky I did. The phone rang. I answered.
“I’m with the florist. I’ve got this cake to deliver to you, are you going to be home?” I told her “I” would be here. “I’m on my way.”
Understand, the fact that the arrangement was shaped like a cake was a surprise, which would have been squelched if Mom had answered the phone instead of me. Understand, too, that she can’t eat cake, so telling her you’re bringing her “a cake” might very well cause her to tell you not to bother.
Two hours later (the shop the florist was “on my way” from is a 15-minute drive), the florist arrived, delivered the “cake,” and took away the used roses.
I had had to leave, and Mom didn’t ask her what they planned to do with them.
Good think my mom is a nice lady. I wanted to spit in them or sneeze on them or something. But Mom said, “Don’t be ugly,” and laughed.
I wanted her to stretch out on the couch and cry when they took the roses away, but she wouldn’t.
She’s a saint.
Here, again, is what her granddaughters got her:
She loves it very much.
I’m posting today at Fatal Foodies about tuna melt.
A WRITING PROMPT FOR YOU: What would your main character do in the above situation? The flower one, not the tuna melt.