With the fourth florist, we really thought we found our match. After we told him what we (Deborah) pictured for the wedding, he looked at us, leaned in, and said: "Girlfriends, you guys are having the gayest wedding ever."
"Thank you!" we shrieked.
"We don't have the exclusive rights to the rainbow, ya know," he sassed back.
Our florist had just given us a compliment that might have turned off another couple, or at least another groom. Then again, another florist wouldn't have come out of the closet to a new client. Clearly this was meant to be.
But then, just like the others, he stopped responding to our calls and emails. He never followed up with the names of the plants he was going to research for us, or with an estimate of how much it was going to overcharge us. Apparently he was content making cheesy corsages for junior proms in South Philly. So screw him.
Last weekend, we visited Florist No. 5. First, there was free coffee. EVERY SHOP SHOULD HAVE FREE COFFEE. Good work. Second, the florist told us how her husband's grandfather started the shop 50 years earlier. I'm a sucker for a good mom-and-pop-shop story. So far so good.
And the hits continued: She didn't find it weird when Deborah explained how she wanted the centerpieces big enough so strangers wouldn't have to talk to each other (talking to strangers interrupts the hors d'oeuvres eating process, apparently). She gently explained that the flower Deborah wanted to put on my lapel would make me look like a clown, and not in a good way. And yes, she would put beta fish in the water of the plants on all of the tables if that's what we wanted. But no, that's not a good idea at all.