Guys who send expensive flowers bring grief to the rest of us. I dread each time a vase of roses shows up at the receptionist's desk at the newspaper.

Regina works here, too, and I know what she's going to say: "Tom never sends me flowers." That is about as truthful as those shameful attack ads that politicians are running on television.

Two dozen (that's 24 if you are counting) roses showed up recently for a female employee.

I fudged the truth and told Regina there were 18.

"I've never received 18 roses," she said, which, as far as I know, is the truth.

I shared that story with our youngest daughter Mary Grace whose reaction was an empathetic, "O-o-h, you should be ashamed, Dad."

"I bring her flowers," I replied.

"She wants more than flowers from the grocery store," she replied.

"She said she likes them," I replied.

A few days later, 24 roses of assorted colors arrived for Regina. They were from Mary Grace in appreciation for her mother babysitting for a week while she recuperated from surgery.

Regina took them home, and they are displayed in the living room where she can easily see them as she passes through the house.

"They are s-o-o pretty," she says, as she gently touches the petals.

She'd already called Mary Grace to thank her but our youngest daughter sought to continue making her point with me.

"How are Mom's flowers doing?" she called later to ask.

"They are holding up fairly well considering that she's about to pet them to death," I said.

"O-o-h, poor thing," she said, implying that Regina is overreacting because she is flower-deprived.

"If they were dandelions, they would still be in danger because your mother is a habitual flower petter," I said.

And I know that's the truth because she's petted them from Dublin to Victoria and from Moscow to Havana.

I'm simply being practical. If she's going to pet them to death, why not let them be cheap flowers?

Email This Page