Hoppy Birdday

It was my birthday, and a friend presented me with a massive bouquet of multicolored gladiolas with stems, almost as tall as me.

I’m from Connecticut, so I can’t show my irritation since, one pink rose would have done it, so instead, politely ooh and ah, blush and gush, tossing them in a cab.

No, not on their own, but I thought about it, not remotely having a vase that big.

Plus, they’re my least favorite flower, famous at Italian funerals where men with too much Brylcreem in their hair and pinkie rings, send them.Β  images.jpeg

When I get off at my corner, my fruit man says…

“OHH, DOES ARE VEDDY BEEG FLOWAZ.”

“Yes, they sure are Fruity,” my nickname for him.

Suddenly a woman walking two miniature poodles with rhinestone collars that look better than I do, starts speaking to me through her zebra mask, me thinking she’s lecturing because my mask, at this point, is dangling around my neck.

I put the gladdies down, pull it up, apologizing since the last thing this sweaty girl needs is a dress-down from a zebra.

She whips off her mask like Zorro and says…

Nooo, I am saying what BEU-TU-FUL flowers they are. Glod-iolas…my faveadites, and those. Oh my, where ever did you get those?”

I, knowing opportunity when it knocks, say, “They’re your favorites, really? Have you a 7 foot vase by any chance?”

“Sevedal,” she says.

I say, “THEY’RE YOURS!!!”

“Oh no, you mustn’t. They are much to spoctacular to give away.”

“Yes well, it’s my birthday, and it would please me… BELIEVE ME…to give them to you.”

I watch her accept them like a swaddling infant, her poodles watching almost in tears as their mistress thanks me in sevedal different dialects.

When I turn to leave, Fruity is standing behind me, holding a bag.

“HOPPY BIRDDAY,” he says, presenting it like the Noble Peace Prize.

When I peek in and see plums, I smile and think…this is more like it since, I do have the perfect bowl.

Only in New York folks, only in New York. Unknown.jpeg

SB

About Susannah Bianchi

I'm just a girl who likes to write slightly on slant. I've had a career in fashion, dabbled in film and to be honest, I don't like talking about myself. Now my posts are another matter so I will let them speak for themselves. My eBooks, A New York Diary, Model Behavior: Friends For Life and Notes From A Working Cat can be found on Amazon.com. Thanks.
This entry was posted in animals, Connecticut, Culture, food, humanity, humor, New York City, words and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

31 Responses to Hoppy Birdday

  1. A birthday means you get to decide what happens to the flowers. Well done!

    Liked by 2 people

  2. skinnyuz2b says:

    I love gladiolas, but they hate my soil, sunlight, whatever, they won’t grow for me. They remind me of one of my aunts (Italian) who had a magnificent bed of them. I guess it’s all in what memory they hold.
    I’m glad you had a hoppy birthday from the sugar plum fairy!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Hoppy Birdday! I laugh, just looking at that sincere wish for good things for you from Fruity. I can understand your relief and pleasure in regifting the glads. Bet that made the plums taste even better.

    Liked by 1 person

    • I’m not a lover of inconvenience, meaning, having to somehow plop those stemmed showgirls in water left me swooning. I would have had to cut off their legs and that just didn’t seem right Anne. I’m certain, they’re still kicking up their heels alongside those pampered Poodles. πŸ™‚

      Like

      • I hadn’t thought about the feelings of the flowers. I’m sure the glads were glad they didn’t have their legs cut off.

        Liked by 1 person

      • Thanks for reading my latest attempt at entertainment since, it more or less bombed. I’m told I should have the same theme on designated days…History Monday…Fashion Thursday. But you know Anne, one of the joys of blogging is, you can write whatever happens to be tickling your fancy at the time, even if your fancy is the only one tickled. The Rogue Blogger πŸ™‚

        Like

      • What??? I haven’t read comments yet. I am horrified. Writers write what they want, when they feel like it. Don’t put fences around us. Your muse is free to roam at will, and I for one, will always enjoy the result. Rise up, writers! Speak up for freedom of (Word) Press!

        Liked by 1 person

      • I agree. We have enough shackles around us at the moment.

        Liked by 1 person

  4. A lot of laughs here, Susannah. Thanks.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Sorryless says:

    Hoppy Boifday!

    Like

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