I have saved every rosebud and petal from every bouquet or single bloom that mr rampy has ever given me.

This is either very sweet or very obsessive-compulsive. I am not sure which, although the fact that I have run out of crystal and glass bowls in which to display them causes me to lean towards thinking one diagnosis more likely than the other.

The very first rose he ever gave me came from a gypsy who accosted us downtown during our first official date. I still have its severed, dried head in a little cardboard box on a shelf.

The rose, not the gypsy.

The rest of the petals are from bouquets given on holidays or for no reason at all. The only one that retains its stem is a rose that came off of mr rampy's grandfather's coffin. That may seem macabre, but it was presented to us by the mortician, and anyway, at this point I would feel wrong just throwing it out.

I actually prefer roses after they have aged. They don't come into their full beauty until several weeks after they have been plucked. That bright arterial red color they are when fresh is fine for a buttonhole or a Valentine's Day display, but day in and day out, I prefer the dusky wine-black shades they go once they have crinkled and dried. Properly matured they become so much more velvety rich and varied than the traditional rose red.

Ideally I would like to get a large glass bottle (like water-cooler size) to put them in. One just like the bottle I want to get for our wine cork collection (which is also overflowing bowls), yet refrain from doing so for fear people would look at its contents and conclude we are packrat alcoholics.

Which we are, but at least our house is pretty with flowers.