Every year, the average woman sends dozens of cards — birthdays, thank-yous, holidays, Valentine’s Day, Mother’s / Father’s Day, the expected occasions, and the quieter, in-between moments. She buys them ahead of time, tucking them away for when the moment arrives—so she’s never empty-handed, never caught flat-footed. And yet, the truth is—she often is.

Because having the card is one thing. Having it when you need it is another. And this doesn’t even begin to account for stationery in all its forms — monograms, personal notes, the pieces that reflect who you are and how you show up.

Which leads to a simple question: Where does it all live?

The cards you’ve collected, ready to send. The notes you’ve received, worth keeping.

A box?

A drawer?

A desk organizer?

For most of us, it’s some combination of all three — a method to the madness. I’ve always felt there should be a better way. A place that feels like your own.

This leads me to ask: how do you organize these pieces of your life? We, at HiNOTE, are working to solve that for you. Think: the modern-day stationary drawer.

I’ve always had strong opinions about color for myself. I always wished I could be a hibiscus pink or cerulean blue person. I’m jealous of people who wear kelly green and citrus yellow. But no matter how many times I tried, I felt like an imposter — wearing someone else’s perfume.

I’ve always loved the deeper, earthier side of the spectrum — raspberries, magentas, prunes. Those rich tones feel warm and bohemian. But over time I noticed something else happening. I kept returning to the same combination. I wear black. I accessorize my world in red.

Black is the color I reach for when I want to feel my most sexy, sassy and confident. It complements my complexion, and I feel good in that armor. I can dress it up or down.

I like black lace, velvet, silk, denim. Black and white polka dots. I love Dolce, if I’m honest. That Italian funeral-chic is my true thing.

And then there’s red. I love to paint my life in red. Red flowers. Red ribbons. Red scattered across my table linens. My lips. My shoes. My writing pens and markers. Desk accessories. Christmas uniforms. Stationery. Sunglasses. The secretary in my bedroom. The interior of my car. The walls of my living room and powder room. I should probably stop. There’s something vibrant about red. Something sensual and alive. Give me any opportunity to illuminate anything with red and I’ll take it.

Over time I started to notice something else: those colors weren’t just in my wardrobe. They were in the rooms I designed, the objects I collected, even the work I created. Red and black kept appearing together, as if they already knew each other.

For me, color runs underneath everything — the small signals that quietly say: this is me.

I’m curious: If someone had to describe you in a color, what would it be?

Two people. Six phones. One laptop. Two iPads.

We laughed about it. They weren’t offended. They were amused. “We know,” one of them said. “It’s bad.”

It was…. Memorable. This is kind of how we dine now. Half here. Half reachable. The world laid out between the charcuterie plate.

It struck me that we’ve stopped leaving the room. Lunch isn’t lunch. It’s a pause between notifications. I’m not judging it. I live in it, too.

I just found myself wondering what it would feel like to close every screen, turn everything face down, and let the table hold only what’s actually there.

Table for two. Devices for none.

I notice these things.

Given my line of work, I spend most of my days corresponding. Designing notes. Writing imaginary letters for moments that want a little extra phrasing or oomph.

Hello, it’s me.

Thank you for including me.

I owe you an apology.

You two should meet.

I’m thinking of you.

Dinner next Thursday?

And when I’m not creating them, I’m sending them — to friends, partners, vendors, neighbors, admissions offices, collaborators, investors. The message rarely stumps me. It’s the sign-off that makes me pause.

XO.

With love.

As always.

Kindly.

Kind regards.

Kindest regards.

Warmly.

Thanks.

Cheers.

Fondly.

Yours truly.

Every one has a temperature. If I don’t know someone well but want to feel warm, I’ll reach for fondly or kindest regards. It signals manners. A respectful distance. For men, I usually default to warmly. Safe. Neutral. Not cold.

And then there’s best. Best is so lame. Best says: I don’t really know you. I’m being professional. I don’t want to seem overly familiar. Or overly feminine. Or overly anything.

After thousands of notes and messages, I’ve realized there are two kinds of sign-off people. The XO / lovecrowd. And the from / best crowd. One leans in. The other keeps a little space. Neither is wrong. But both reveal something.

No surprise — I’m an XO, love, as always, yours truly person. And then there’s the name.

Do I sign Alexis?

A?

Alexis T.?

Mrs. T.?

Da Mama?

Each version is a different side of me — and it shifts the distance. A means we’re tight. Alexis means we’re getting there. Alexis T. means we’re familiar, but measured. Mrs. T. says we don’t know each other well, but I appreciate you. And Da Mama is reserved for you-know-who.

A sign-off is a tiny act of intimacy. It’s where you decide how close you’re willing to stand — and how you leave the room. The way you leave says more than you think.

How do you sign off?

Interestingly, they weren’t meant to help someone reach you. They weren’t instructions. They were gestures. Most carried only a name — sometimes a single point of contact — but rarely anything that invited immediacy. That restraint was the point. Leaving one meant I came by, I paid my respects, I understood how to do this properly. They weren’t saying call me. They were saying I was here.

By the Victorian era, they were essential. A calling card marked intention privately and confidentially.

As cities grew and life changed quickly, the cards evolved. Phone numbers appeared. The card shifted from social signal to practical tool. Then the ritual collapsed. The telephone replaced the visit. And the keyboard replaced the phone. And with those shifts, something subtle went with it.

What disappeared wasn’t just a card, but a way of representing yourself — confidently, on your own terms.

In a world of constant accessibility, a calling card feels necessary. A way to signal taste. A way of choosing who you show up for, how you show up, and where you can be found.

What would your calling card say?

They were less cards than assemblages — built in layers meant to be discovered slowly. Lace paper folded and lifted. Flaps opened to reveal hidden verses. Ribbons untied. Tabs pulled. Reading them required patience; the gesture was part of the message.

Every detail carried meaning. Clasped Victorian hands stood for commitment and fidelity. Hearts meant constancy as much as romance. Flowers spoke in code — violets for faithfulness, roses for devotion. Nothing was decorative without intention.

But what made these Valentines unforgettable wasn’t just how they were made. It was what they said.

The language feels almost shocking now. These cards were unapologetically declarative, with expressions like “Be Mine,” “Ever Thine,” “With All My Affection,” and “My Heart Is Yours.” There was no irony, no hedging, no attempt to soften the feeling. Love was stated plainly — even extravagantly. The words meant exactly what they said.

Reading them now feels like stepping into a different way of loving. Love was expressed generously, without self-protection. People honored the beloved directly. These Valentines carried messages many of us would hesitate to say out loud now, let alone print and send.

As communication sped up, something subtle shifted. Messages became quicker, lighter, more efficient. Ceremony slowly slipped away. Love began to live between the lines instead of on the page. What faded wasn’t decoration so much as the feeling that saying “I love you” deserved time and care.

I’ve always loved these gestures of love, which is why I recreated one as my own wedding invitation. I didn’t want something that looked like the stack of wedding invitations saved in a drawer. I wanted something that unfolded slowly, like a story —layered lace and tissue, revealing an image at the center.

It was a simple Victorian nosegay. The words read: I cling to thee. Lasting love.

It said everything.

I longed for a painted secretary — the kind with endless drawers and hidden shelves. The kind built to hold more than it shows.

Not to sit at, but to live with. To keep things close rather than boxed away. Some people store the remnants of their life in attics. I wanted mine within reach — able to open a drawer and move between years and decades at a moment’s notice.

Mine holds letters and documents. Favorite books. Stationery. Photographs. Small records of a life. Proof that I was here. That I lived this life.

Every drawer tells a different story.

Matches I collected. Journals I filled, then closed and tucked away. Love notes. Wedding invitations. Birth announcements. Diplomas and old passports. Stamps. Airplane stubs. Hotel stationery. My mother’s art. Small heirlooms that don’t ask for explanation. Christmas cards saved year after year after year. A small box of ashes from holding my beloved dachshund. Photographs of my childhood. Of my children. Of my husband. Of my family.

For me, this piece of furniture became an artist’s canvas. Not for display — but for keeping, in private— and for my pleasure.

Vestiges of a life well lived.

There was something sacred in how it worked. The way the whole house seemed to participate in a call. And in hindsight, the beauty was this: you weren’t pacing. You weren’t scrolling. You weren’t half-somewhere else. You were tethered to a moment. A conversation had weight.

I miss the tactile satisfaction of those push-buttons. The slow, deliberate spin of a rotary dial. Even the bright light that glowed during a call — inevitably giving away my nocturnal penchant for late-night marathons, locked in the bathroom, which felt like my own private phone booth.

I even miss the busy signal: a firm little boundary in a world where no one is ever truly unavailable.

So now, I’m on a mission. I’m collecting vintage phones. Not to make a statement — but to make space. For longer calls. For calls that start with “Hi, it’s me,” and wander luxuriously from there.

Sometimes it’s worth bringing something back — for what it gave us.