Stop and Smell the Flowers . . .
Because to get "married" (in the traditional and not-fast-enough evolving for my laziness) sense of the word requires a wedding. The whole "in the eyes of G-d, family, and friends" thing. The four total seconds of uttering "I do" and "You betchyur sweet ass." gives way to long processionals and harp music (that is either part of a wedding or the line for heaven - I could be confusing the two) and all the folderal that comes with it.
I've dragged my feet. I've grumbled. I've been openly hostile. I've been lazy. I've been . . . disinterested. But that changed the other day. I got on board with Team Let's Have a F*cking Wedding!
BloomHaus! We scheduled an appointment and walked in to meet with Kathleen (a co-owner). I was, needless to say, the last one in the door. Then stuff just sorta changed. The kiddo got excited, Debash got excited, I got less bitchy. We climbed the stairs after walking through the fragrant, lovely lobby area. We spent an hour talking flowers and decor, styles, and substances. Ideas and wants and needs were lobbed about. Laughter was had. By the end of the appointment I was in love with a vase and the notion of having a big ol', flower-covered party with the woman I love, the daughter I adore, and every person the three of us, collectively, have ever met.
I'm still TOTALLY open to taking a long lunch break and sneaking off to the ol' court house (like Bobby and Diane did in the fifth season finale of NYPD Blue) but, if that option is truly off the table (keeping hope alive - like so many of you keep the promise of harps and heaven the same) I'll be more than happy to stand before the eyes of . . . whomever.