This morning, I’ve been thinking a lot about notes - love letters, memos at work, press releases and general correspondences. PostSecret that is delivered to my Google Reader every Sunday is to blame. One of the secrets, this one, really got me thinking.

I’ve gotten and given flowers a few times. I never thought about the florist on the other end of the phone, writing down what the card should say. It’s a blimp in the whole process, really. I’m always more concerned that the person will get my message correctly, aren’t you?

For me?

The last time I got flowers, from someone not with the same last name, was on Valentine’s in 2007. It was from a man I met at Have A Nice Day Cafe in Milwaukee. (It’s a nice day there — if you like being groped by strangers while listening to “Ditty” by Paperboy. I regress.) He found out where I worked at the time, and sent me a dozen of the most beautiful red roses my mom has ever seen. But the card. It said something like, “Thanks for the great time, cutie.” This morning, I got really worried that the florist thinks I’m a whore! We had a nice time, dancing. Nothing else. For reals.

I wish I knew a florist — I want to know some of these secret, little cards. (”Thanks for the crabs”? “Your balls are delicious.”? Each message could be both incredibly clean or dirty. Choose Your Own Adventure.)

For those who are wondering: I’m not much of a red rose girl. Or roses in general. Just not for me. Not to say that I’m not interested in romance. I am. With a card to make the florist blush or scratch his or her head.

I guess the morals of my first post on my brand spankin’ new blog (Adios, LiveJournal!), whatever you think is a secret, isn’t. My mom likes red roses. And, I like double entendres. Word.