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Flowers for Hooter-non

I bought flowers last week. There were boobs involved. The boobs were not my wife’s. And neither are the flowers. Perhaps I should explain, lest I land my ass in serious agua caliente.

(Just for the record, I also bought my wife flowers this week. Roses, even. They were delivered today as a Valentine’s Day present. And I think we’d both like to think that her boobs were somehow involved in that transaction somewhere, too.

Not that I wouldn’t buy her flowers if she were boobless, mind you. The roses weren’t just to say, ‘Hey, thanks for having boobs!‘ But still. Maybe a little.)

So, back to the other flowers. There’s actually a very simple and relatively harmless explanation for those.

(Or is it ‘relatively simple’ and ‘very harmless’? Eh, you be the judge.)

A co-worker and I decided late last week that we should have a meeting, to discuss… ah, who knows? Some new planning something-or-other, or how we’re gonna build some system, or whether we can find a way to slip kegs in through the back door — who can remember? But we needed a meeting, to discuss it further, whatever it was.

So, we toddled off to see our receptionist. Our young, happy-go-lucky, wide-eyed, must-be-still-in-college, rather busty receptionist.

Now, please understand, folks — I don’t make it my business to catalog the relative bustiness of our various support staff.

(Or anyone else, for that matter — unless checking occasionally to make sure I haven’t grown ‘man boobs’ counts.)

I couldn’t tell you thing one about the boobs attached to our office manager, or her assistant, or the various other women flitting around our office. Well… okay, I might be able to tell you ‘thing one‘ about a couple of them. But not thing two, or any of the numbered things further down the line, whatever they might be. I’m not at the office to leer. Let’s be clear on that point.

Our receptionist, though, is rather fond of advertising her cleavage, and apparently has designed her entire wardrobe to feature the upper halves of her breasts. Not that I’m complaining, mind you. It doesn’t do me a hell of a lot of good at this stage in life, but still — not complaining. There’s nothing wrong with a little eye candy, and why ruin a good thing for the young single bucks in the office, right?

So, anyway, I don’t deal with the receptionist — or her boobs — very often, but we needed this meeting room, so I went to ask about it. And as she was looking up the schedule on her computer, she asked if I wanted to donate money for ‘Daffodil Days’, a charity for cancer research which also seems to involve receiving flowers. How ‘receiving’ something works alongside ‘charity’, I’m not quite sure. But apparently, they’ve got a scheme worked out. Who am I to question fundraising methods?

At any rate, I gave it some thought, as she looked up our conference room. And my first inclination was to decline. Not because I’m against cancer research, of course — hell, I work for a cancer center. That’s what we do. But I already give to a few charities, some cancer-related, and I’ve really got no use for daffodils, as far as I can tell. I don’t even know what daffodils are, exactly. Sounds like an allergy medication or something.

That’s when I noticed the receptionist. She wasn’t looking at me, exactly — her eyes were still fixed on her computer screen. But her boobs — her boobs were staring right at me.

(Well, now, not the whole boobs, of course. Just the upper parts, like muffin tops sitting on a sill to cool. Or something. I’m giving myself the willies with these analogies. And suddenly, I’m hungry for baked goods. Jeez.)

Anyway, to make a long story short, her cleavage stared me down. And you don’t say ‘no’ to cleavage, folks. It’s unpossible. I gave her seven bucks. The flowers arrive this week sometime. What the fuck am I supposed to do with daffodils, anyway? *sigh*