{Entry 6: A week of love. Because my headstone will never read, “We Had No Idea How She Felt.”}



I got in trouble last year for tweeting that I “adored” a co-worker. It made another co-worker uncomfortable and it made me feel like a giant idiot. I don’t know that I’ve ever been so embarrassed than being (politely) scolded for something I’d written on the web.

And of all things I could have said.

I adore much and many. (Scolding, not so much) Clean sheets. Laundry on the line that smells of sunshine. Tomatoes warm from the garden. Watching friends’ dogs play with glee. French vanilla ice cream. A tart, icy cold margarita that isn’t too sweet. Great Mexican food. Foreign films at Camelview. Tory Burch flats. Sweatpants on the weekends. Everything bagels with two hours to read in the sun on the patio to enjoy. Shakira. Sam Cooke. Adele. Vampire Weekend. Rihanna. Jay Z. Gwen Paltrow and her crazy lifestyle blog. Pearls. Javier Bardem. An A-line skirt. Betty Draper’s wardrobe. Don Draper’s face. Joan’s attitude. Men who order a martini like they own the world.

Another thing I truly adore is my monthly chance to bowl. Horrifically and hilariously, the Pre-Emptive Strikes struck again this weekend. The dude still abides.

And as they say, “Better to have tweeted your adoration and been chastised than never to have tweeted at all.” Or something like that.