Since I have returned to my hometown, I work at my old job (a florist).  They were kind enough (desperate) to take me back, and it is nice to come home and be able to start working right away.  I have made it clear to them that I am only working there until I find something else (better) that offers medical benefits and doesn’t involve slave-style duties.

Anyway, other than the usual crap that takes place at that hellhole, I also got to witness one of the biggest shit-shows know to floral shops everywhere: Valentine’s Day.  Since most men do not understand the concept of planning ahead, we were very slow the week before the dreaded day… and the atmosphere was similar to the feel on a beach before a horrific storm, quiet lapping waves of the sea gently tapping the shore before a tsunami.  We prepared the balloons, decorated some azalea plants, memorized the holiday prices, and ordered about a million roses. 

Then came February 13th, the phonecalls began… and they did not stop.  Men calling, leaving it up to me (who could care less) to decide what they should send their girlfriends/ wives for the holiday.  Trying to make small talk as I read off prices of roses and other dumb arrangements that are just going to die in a week anyway.  I convince them to add a balloon, or a stuffed animal, or even an overpriced box of chocolates.  Most men just want a dozen red roses- how very original!  The florists (the one’s who actually make the arrangements- I just take the orders) are abuzz- and by abuzz I mean violent and bitchy.  Snapping everytime I place another invoice on their workstation- yelling that they need a second choice in case they run out of the first, demanding I slit my wrists and flail on the floor to redeem myself.  Well, not really- but they were really mean.

Then the 14th.  I wake up and suddenly know what a death row inmate feels like on his or her big day.  Dreading it, but somewhat releived that all of it is almost over.  I dragged myself to work, trying to meditate and create a calm atmosphere while driving through the type of traffic that only a certain type of neighborhood (shitty) can generate- people walking down the middle of the street, no turn signals, old rust-buckets broken down and taking up a whole lane, and a crater-sized pothole ever 4 meters. 

I pull into work and am immediately yelled at, for no reason at all, and have to start answering the phones before I even get my coat off.  There is a line of loser guys outside the door already, the florists are on suicide watch, and everyone is generally pissed off. 

It was awful, but like many trauma victims, the details of my abuse are fuzzy- I think I’ve blocked it out.  But it sucked, I have worked retail for 11 years now and through all the Christmases, spring blowout sales, and Mother’s Days I have never seen anything like it.  We all survived, but a little piece of me died that day- and my husband will never have to get me a Valentine’s Day present ever again.  And a note to all you men out there- don’t walk into a florist and think you’re cute and sweet for remembering, and expect us to give a shit about you, your girlfriend, whether or not she likes roses, or comment about the prices… we just see you as a hurdle, and want to get over you and move on the the next one as quickly as possible.  Pick your flowers, pay, and get out before you get hurt.

I need a new job in a bad way.