Attention, all you boyfriends, girlfriends, spouses, wannabees and other potential treasured purchasers of seasonally overpriced hothouse flowers:

We, the recipients and wannabe recipients, love and fervently want to get the aforementioned overpriced flowers. But get this: You must send them to us at the OFFICE, not the HOUSE. (Exception: The paramour’s office is in his/her house, in which case it is hoped there will be staff nearby to gape and coo.) And since Valentine’s Day falls on Sunday this year, for maximum impact flowers should be delivered this Friday, not next Monday. (Better to suggest an overeager admirer than a swain with a faulty memory.)

After all, the whole point of being presented with a box of roses whose sticker price would feed a family of four for a week is that others be present to witness the event. We already have the act down: Open the box speculatively, maybe a little fearfully, and gasp when the contents are revealed. Oh! A little color in the cheeks never hurts.

There must be a card as well, of course. Its message will not be revealed. Instead, it will be placed faux-surreptitiously in the receiver’s pocket or desk drawer while verbal gushing begins, to wit:

“How beautiful! I never . . . ! Who . . . ? Oh! Gosh, I . . . ” from the receiver, while coworkers echo little gushes of their own and speculate aloud as to the identity of the benefactor and/or the unique charms of s/he to whom the bouquet was delivered.

As a finale, the words inscribed on the accompanying card will be revealed in some fashion or another, either by the recipient or by a close friend who peeks. Optimally, the note will be cleverly worded to reveal nothing but suggest a little somethin’ somethin’.

Only once have I sent flowers to a sweetheart, but I did it the right way.

He was a Brazilian engineer at a high-tech firm in Texas. The flowers: a dozen yellow roses. The message on the card:

Violets are blue, roses are yellow. Duracell lasts longer and so does Marcello.

Now, that was a Valentine’s Day.

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