One of the many tidbits gleaned from reading Motley’s Crue’s autobiography "The Dirt" is that drummer Tommy Lee loves getting flowers.  Several times he states his fondness for receiving flowers, even vociferously defending it, saying something to the effect of, "Any man who tells you he doesn’t love receiving flowers is a liar."  Then he goes on to talk a lot about drinking and fucking.  Good read.

I personally have never received flowers, so I am not in a position to either confirm or disconfirm Tommy Lee’s statement (I do not write this to elicit pity; I would much rather receive sweets or, say, beer than I would flowers).  I have, however, sent flowers on numerous occasions.  And what always surprises me about when a man sends a woman flowers is the dichotomy between how much women enjoy getting flowers and how easy it is for men to send flowers. 

Women, from what I’ve read about them in books and seen of them on tv, love receiving flowers.  I’ve spent many a sleepless night wondering why, and in between bouts of masturbation and bomb-making, I think I have discovered the answer.  On first thought, flowers appear to be a rather shitty gift: you can not eat them or wear them, they do not provide shelter, they do not get you fucked up, and they cost quite a bit of money and die in a matter of days.  So you can not really "use" them in any discernable way.

(Actually, I’m not a botanist, but maybe you could eat them and get fucked up.  But please, don’t try this at home.  Or, give me a call if you’re going to try it, and we’ll make a movie about it.)

The most redeeming quality about flowers is that they look and smell pretty.  As someone who is "funny" (in a sad, "Oh, I’ll fuck him and make his year" way) and sort of successful but STILL has only slept with 1.75 women, I can tell you that looking pretty and smelling pretty are very important to the female sex.  No matter how matter how much tell them about how you have zero cancer in your family history or how many times you tell the story about the time you nearly got into a fistfight with Vincent Gallo, unless you look and smell pretty, they will not let you into their secret garden (to borrow a phrase from Bruce Springsteen). 

Yet though flowers look and smell pretty, this is not the reason why women enjoying getting flowers so much.  An example may help explain.  I used to date a girl who would continually berate me for sending her flowers at work, because it would send her co-workers into a tizzy and the gossip mill would churn endlessly, with her as the star subject, for the next two days (many of my guy friends have heard this complaint from women).  Meanwhile, I am 90% sure that this girl spent those next two days masturbating in her work bathroom, excited from all the attention it put on her; nothing screams "Someone cares for me and I’m awesome" than an $80 gift that will begin to rot in four days. 

This, I think, is closer to the real reason women like getting flowers.  It confirms that someone, somewhere, cares for them.  The fact that flowers are pretty and completely impractical – even essentially a waste of money – only furthers a woman’s happiness upon their receipt.  Instead of getting flowers for my next girlfriend on Valentine’s Day, I’m going to walk into her office, scream that everyone pay attention to me, and then say, "Elisha, honey, this is how much I love you."  Then I will take a series of $20 bills from my wallet and light them, one by one.  I imagine I will get through five before security (and possibly the police) end my "Spectacle of Love" (as the papers will later call it), but I am certain that my girlfriend and I will have very good sex later that night and possibly even act out one of my oldest sexual fantasies: me as the birthday boy with the cake and party hat and she as the Ronald McDonald with a special birthday gift and not-the-best intentions.

Anyway, my point is (basically) that flowers should not be accorded such thanks or draw such awe from women, since any asshole with access to a phone and a debit card can send them, usually in under forty seconds.  There are certainly monkeys – and probably some dolphins – that you can train to send flowers.  It’s really very simple.  For this reason, any man who doesn’t not send flowers to his lover, knowing that it takes minimal effort but reaps maximum rewards, is an asshole.

(And yes, I realize I’m undermining myself and may never be able to send flowers with success again.  I can only hope that whichever one of you readers I marry has a short memory.  Otherwise, I’m fucked.)

***

The best part of sending flowers from the man’s point of view is that time in the conversation when the florist asks, "So what do you want the  card to say?"  This, my friends, is where the men get separated from the boys.  Even though the florist has written down hundreds of messages, it’s still a very awkward moment in the conversation.  Are you expected to reveal the depths of your love for your significant other in front of this stranger?  Or intimate details of what you love said person?  Or apologize for some surely scandalous mistake?  It is a moment of true vulnerability, and as such requires the utmost sensitivity. 

There are several ways that a man can approach this awkward "Valentine’s Day flowers card message" conversation with the florist.  Below are some ideas.   

The juvenile.

Josie,

A poem for you on Valentine’s Day:

Roses are red
Violets are blue
Some poems rhyme
Some poems don’t.

Yours,
Jason

I can’t take credit for making up this poem – I heard it many (many) years ago, possibly from a stand-up.  Yet it graced the card of most of the Valentine’s Day flowers I sent from junior high through college.  Simple, short, and a little quirky.  Exactly like my sexual urges.

The "all out of love."

Scarlett, 

These flowers cost me a goddamn fortune.  Jesus Christ.  Anyway, pick up some KFC on your way home.

Love,
Jason

Because really, anytime you can work a KFC reference into a love note, that’s a great thing.

(Also, it’s just not right that florists jack-up the prices on Valentine’s Day.  Christ.  They’re just plants.)

The bitter ex.

Emma,

I hope you die.

Fuck you,
Jason

If any of you can get a florist to write "fuck" on a love note, please let me know.  Because I will put that florist’s kids through college with my business.

The romantic storyteller.

Kate,

Well, today is Valentine’s Day, and I’m sitting here thinking of what I love about you.  Indeed, the list is long and lovely, as long and lovely as your legs, which I first noticed on that fateful sunny day on the beach in August of 1999.  You were there with your friends wearing a bikini and I couldn’t help but stare at your great legs: their length, how even and bronze they appeared in the summer sun, and their smoothness, as they every pore on them seemed to scream, "Jason – come hither and caress me."  I remember remarking to Juan Carlos, who was visiting me from Portugal at the time…

This is a good one to try and might even make for a good skit on one of those lame reality shows on MTV.  How long can you get a florist to take down what you’re writing before he says "enough"?  I think in this case he might yell "stop" after the word bikini, but it really all depends on your storytelling ability.   

The soothsayer.

Elisha,

This florist is a real fucking asshole.

Happy Valentine’s Day,
Jason

I dare you. 

[Happy Valentine's Day.]