How I ended up with Flowers This Weekend

Hooray! I got flowers. Ready for the story?
OK, so don't be mad, because even though the previous exclamation and statement were faithful and true, they imply that the story is full of romance and whimsy. If that is what you are looking for today, you may have to check out someone else's blog. The story of my weekend is decidedly less than romantic, and while my life always has a touch of whimsy, it's because I believe in glitter and making things happy if I can.
The low-down:
It was a rather crap weekend.
At least from the social aspect of things.
So last week I'd mentioned to a "friend" of mine (quotations because acquaintance is better, but now he is nothing to me) that I was planning something fun for the weekend-- the two high schools in my hometown were both undefeated in football (!) and were playing one another, and I was ready to go and see some semblance of success come out Los Lunas, NM.
"That sounds like an awesome game," he said.
"Would you like to come along?" I asked.
"That could work."
Now, for those of you out there who have not read "He's Just Not that Into You," lemme break it down for ya-- "That could work" is not an answer. It's hedging. It sounds polite and gives you hope, but it isn't "yes." And if it isn't "yes," you can't treat it like a yes.
I tried not to let it discourage me. I figured I'd mention it again later in the week. But I didn't see him later in the week because I've been spending every bit of free time I have helping my mother as she prepares for knee-replacement surgery (going under the knife tomorrow at 12:30 MST-- prayers please). So when I hadn't received the typical barrage of texts from Mr. So-n-So, I took the bull by the metaphorical horns and sent a text Thursday night which read, "So the game starts at 7 tomorrow night if you'd like to go with me." No. Response. (Insert cricket noises here.)
I'm not gonna lie, I was annoyed. Because even if someone doesn't want to go, shouldn't they respond? I sent my text around 6 p.m. By about 9:30, I was determined to find other plans. Unfortunately, the one boy who wanted to take me out couldn't go til Saturday. I was bummed, but it was something.
So when did I finally get a text response? On Friday night, 7:10 p.m. Yes, the game had started. No, I wasn't there, because I had no one to go with. The other friend I'd mentioned it to had company coming into town.
"I'm gonna have to take a rain check on that game."
Yes, because this opportunity comes around every weekend.
So I lied and wrote back, "I actually made other plans because I didn't hear from you." (LIES) "Hope you got a better offer."
His a-hole response: "Unfortunately I didn't."
What a wanker!
Whatever.
I spent the evening watching "Burlesque" which is an hour and a half I'll never get back, and then re-read a good chunk of "The Secret Garden." At least Frances Hodgson Burnett didn't let me down.
But it gets better (read: worse)--
The next day I actually did make some nice things happen. I took Mumsy to town to get some Christmas shopping done, pre-convalescence, and managed to finish most of mine. Only my sister and sis-in-law are left, which I consider quite a triumph. I bought myself the world's softest PJs and had some ho-cho and really felt like I'd given my mom a lift.
Of course, when I got to Costco to pick up my mom's Rx and some dinner for her and Papa, I noticed a text on my phone. It was Mr. Replacement-Date, also canceling. In his defense, it was because he was sick, but I'm not gonna lie and pretend I didn't think the Universe was playing a cruel joke on me.
So I went to Trader Joe's and bought myself some orange Gerbera daisies, fuchsia spray roses and purple stock. They're gorgeous. And then I went home, nestled down in the afore-mentioned soft jimmy-jams, and read a little more SecGar. With the time change, I awoke well-rested and ready to start life again.
Unfortunately, church did not prove a major comfort to me. Only three people came to my class, which I worked hard on, but on the bright side, I at least had three students who actually cared about the subject matter. When Rent-a-Cop's pseudo-testimony started, I excused myself to the restroom. He was still talking when I got back, but I missed most of the ridiculous. My head nearly exploded when a girl started talking smack about another religion-- so, so uncouth, and not-condoned by the Church, by the way. There was no room in RS, so I helped a gal with some family history stuff she had questions with, but then sat by myself for most of the meal. Props to my girl Arlinda for coming to my rescue, but I have to admit by then I didn't feel like being rescued. Needless to say, I went home and cried. Later that night, there was no one to sit with at the fireside, and no one talked to me afterwards, save darling Daniel, so I went home and cried some more.
It was a hard weekend. I probably shouldn't have relived it here, but it's a cheap and effective therapy. Lurking haters, feel free to go ahead and spread around my social demise. Tell Mr. Nice Guy what an effective kicking to the curb he gave me before I'd even made it out the door, let alone to the street, and do it in your typical, conspiratorial and gleeful way. You have my permission. In the meantime, I'm just gonna hunker down in my PJs and look at the flowers I had to buy myself.