Roses should be red

Today is the first anniversary of Kathy’s mom’s passing. She is taking it pretty hard. It’s kind of been building up for the past week, so I thought I’d do something nice for her and send flowers to her work. I looked on the net and found a site that looked OK. I chose something with daisies and roses in it—her favorites. The photo on the web looked like it had 16 roses in it and daisies tastefully arranged around them. I clicked “Order” and that was it.

Because she leaves work around 4:30, I was concerned that it get there in time, so I called their 800 number, they in turn called the local florist and said everything was fine.

Kathy called me, as I knew she would, to thank me when the flowers arrived. There was something odd in her voice, though, so I asked her to describe what she had received. It sounded nothing like I ordered. There were three crappy orangeroses and a few yellow daisies in a pitiful little vase. The roses were already fully open and the petals were torn. The web photo promised red roses 15 inches tall. She felt funny telling me, but in her head she had been thinking that it doesn’t look like something I’d send her. I do have some taste, you know.

I considered waiting to see it for myself, but I knew if I didn’t call the vendor right away, I’d be burning all weekend, so I got back on the phone. The woman on the other end listened politely as I carefully described my disappointment. When I finished, all she said was, “Would you like me to get you a refund?” Whew! Thank goodness.

Wouldn’t you know it? One of the roses even fell off on the way home.

It’s rare that I stick up for myself, and so satisfying when I do. How come I don’t do it more often?