Crappy Valentine's Day

So the CC decided that a few days after the annual massacre of roses that yields men their annual blowjobs, it was time to rescue the roses for a higher cause.

Yes, the goal was cooking, and the object was to find organic, unsprayed roses to cook with.

My Persian cookbook had long been languishing in the boudoir (*), and every once in a while she made seductive noises while shaking her silky spine. She had earned her roses.

The first few places were rather uneventful. They didn't carry organic flowers.

Finally, the CC arrived at a store that sold organic flowers. The conversation is reproduced for your infinite amusement.

"So why do you want unsprayed roses?"

"I plan to eat them."

(Pause in conversation.)

I rapidly realized that I should've said, "I plan to cook with them", and so hastily corrected the awkward slip.

(More pause.)

"Not the roses, just the petals."

(Pause while giving me the "cretinous wanker" look.)

Somebody was clearly not having a good day but it's not like I said that I was planning to gamahauche her dead grandmother!

"So what kinda food is it?

"Persian."

(This was clearly becoming a waste of time.)

"So are you Persian then?

Jesus wept.

This woman in New York City had all the cultural sensitivity and intellectual depth of a lobotomized amoeba.

The question, "Are you from Oklahoma then?" floated through my mind but then realizing that all major religions have prohibitions against mistreating the mentally-deficient (particularly lobotomized amoebas), I just smiled beatifically.

Plus, I needed those goddamn roses.

I have just one question for this woman, "Do you have to be Austrian to like Mozart? Irish to like Joyce? Do you? Do you?"

It turns out she didn't have those roses.

In retrospect, I should've realized that this was an "X factor." The chromosome strikes back! No male florist would've followed this line of conversation.

You ask why, gentle reader? Do you? Do you?

Firstly, a male florist would be gay. Secondly, given the afore-mentioned attribute, they would've had a larger universe of edibleness. After all, if you include edible underwear, mere flowers can hardly be surprising! Thirdly, they would flirt with you which would both be good for business, and who knows if you might get invited to the dinner of the roses, and who knows what other friends there might be at that dinner, and who knows if you might find yourself romping later that imagined night in Persian (or non-Persian) delight?

No, it was definitely the "X factor."

As I walked home, mildly miffed and definitely dejected, I would love to tell you, kind reader, that a gentle drizzle commenced as if to commiserate.

But, no!

It was a gorgeous New York night, mild weather, gently darkening skies. Precisely, the kind of night that makes girls from Oklahoma on their first church trip to New York fall in love with the city, and find a rental, and call mamma to say that they ain't coming back.

In short, the gods are not without a sense of irony!

As for my sweet rose of Persia, she has been banished to the bookshelf, and the quest for organic, unsprayed roses continues...

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(*) bouder (v. intr. Fr.), to sulk, to be sullen.