The One With the Satan Flowers.

Warning: This post contains ranting and strong language. It was written in cranky mode.

So yesterday we were invited over to a friend’s house for a BBQ lunch. Ok, they’re a bit more than friends. We’ve known them for ages and they were the witnesses at our legal wedding ceremony, and the husband in the couple is directly responsible for getting FrenchBoy his current fancy new job, so I don’t mean the word "friends" lightly. I mean it in the French way, ya know how you make about 10 friends and then you keep them forever, so you don’t have to go through the trouble of getting anymore?

Anyway, as all of you other ex-pats know, when you’re invited to a meal in France you bring one of the following items:

1. A bouquet of flowers for the host.

2. A bottle of carefully chosen champagne, or wine ….And I say carefully chosen because you know damn well everyone will talk shit about you when you leave if you bring a bottle of cheap swill.

3. or last but not least, if the hosts have kids, you buy a cheap-ass, but not too cheap toy for each of their children to amuse themselves with while the adults get drunk.

I’d forgotten to buy a fancy brand of champagne for the occasion (Our “house champagne”, which we buy by the case once a year isn’t quite fancy enough for this particular occasion. And yes we buy champagne by the case. You read that correctly.) and everything was closed on Sundays, so I stopped at the florist to buy a bouquet.

We pull up to the florist in the car and FrenchBoy leaves the engine running. I turn and give him the screw face. “I’ll wait here while you run in.” he says. Now, folks, this is where things went terribly wrong. Ya see. I know jack-shit about flowers. I don’t know their names, I don’t know where they grow, and I certainly don’t know which ones smell like what.

So, I run into the flower shop, and grab a whole mess of flowers, and manage to get in and out of there in under 5 minutes inspite of the fact that I almost came to blows with the middle aged asshole who tried to cut in line in front of me.

Side note: If by chance you are the man who tried to cut in front of me at the flower shop yesterday and by some act of fate you are now reading this post, As soon as you are finished you should get down on your knees and thank whatever God you pray to. Dude—yu almost got homicided. Hint: If you see me barreling into a flower shop at 5 kilometers per hour with a wicked scowl on my face from being forced to enter said shop, not to mention the fact that my left foot is soaking wet from the puddle I tripped and stepped into on my way in, do not, I repeat, DO NOT get all jazzy with me. I am an ill-tempered American girl with a fiery Aries temper, and if you haven’t noticed, I got a little meat on my bones. I could pick you up by your Achilles tendon and snap your petite frog body in half over my knee without breaking my stride. Seriously dude, just back away slowly.

So, I get the fucking flowers and run back to the car.

Five minutes into our 40 minute drive, I realize my mistake. I have somehow managed to buy the funkiest smelling flowers in Metz, France or perhaps on earth. I mean they smell like compost! Just rancid. We were coughing and our nostrils were ablaze!

As soon as we get to the BBQ I warn the hosts about the stinkiness, and apologize profusely. (“Here’s some flowers. They smell like ass, but whatever… where’s the food?”)

One hour into lunch, their entire three-story house smells like putrid flower pee.

Am I a great guest or what?

Next time I’ll just bring a freakin’ bottle of Charles Lafitte and be done with it.

photo snagged from http://angrylittleflowers.com/. Hilarious.