My sister's house has got to be one of my favorite places in the world. She and Tom live in this cozy, top-of-an-old-Victorian-house apartment in one of those fun villages at the end of a T line in Boston.
They have skylights, a big tub to soak in, a lightning fast Internet connection, and the kind of office-turned-guestroom that you think only exists in Pottery Barn catalogues. It's homey, and safe, and welcoming. There's a lot of napping on Egyptian cotton sheets.
My sister, being the most generous person I know, always lets me borrow socks or t-shirts or whatever I forgot. She also has an endearing, border-line obsession with bath and body products, which means that you can not only sample that fun, exfoliating fountain-of-youth never-tested-on-animals body butter you've been meaning to get with your next gift certficate, but she's probably already fallen out of love with it, moved on to the latest "On Sale at Sepphora" version, so she lets you take it with you.
Amanda also lets me bring my dog, who- with no hyper 90lb puppy to compete with- spends a great deal of time lolling around in cuddly canine princess mode. The other thing, too, is that my sister's house is organized a lot like our mother's. Forget your toothbrush? Here are five to choose from, still in their original Oral B packaging. Need pots and pans? Bottom cabinet next to the stove.
My own home is also organized partly like my parents' house. But I also adapted some of Amanda's organization ideas when I set up my apartment, so essentially- I can put my hands on bandages, Zip-loc baggies, etc in seven seconds or less.
I guess I love going there because it feels like a vacation, but it also feels like home. I was in a big hurry to leave for Boston on Christmas Eve. I grabbed a mug of tea out of the microwave just before it was done heating up, leaving 5 seconds blinking on the clock. My hands were full, my arms were full, I even had something tucked under my chin, so I didn't clear the time.
Hours later, when I finally arrived at Amanda's house, she and Tom were in NH celebrating with his parents. I found the hidden key, settled the dog, put the presents I brought under the tree, moved all my bags into the guest room and went to grab a can of the omnipresent Diet Coke from the fridge. The kitchen was extremely tidy, only a glass or two in the sink. But as I popped open the can of soda, I saw it. Instead of the time, the microwave displayed 12 seconds blinking on the clock.
Thanks for having us, Manda. :)
Tuesday, December 28, 2004
My sister's house
My sister's house has got to be one of my favorite places in the world. She and Tom live in this cozy, top-of-an-old-Victorian-house apartment in one of those fun villages at the end of a T line in Boston.
They have skylights, a big tub to soak in, a lightning fast Internet connection, and the kind of office-turned-guestroom that you think only exists in Pottery Barn catalogues. It's homey, and safe, and welcoming. There's a lot of napping on Egyptian cotton sheets.
My sister, being the most generous person I know, always lets me borrow socks or t-shirts or whatever I forgot. She also has an endearing, border-line obsession with bath and body products, which means that you can not only sample that fun, exfoliating fountain-of-youth never-tested-on-animals body butter you've been meaning to get with your next gift certficate, but she's probably already fallen out of love with it, moved on to the latest "On Sale at Sepphora" version, so she lets you take it with you.
Amanda also lets me bring my dog, who- with no hyper 90lb puppy to compete with- spends a great deal of time lolling around in cuddly canine princess mode. The other thing, too, is that my sister's house is organized a lot like our mother's. Forget your toothbrush? Here are five to choose from, still in their original Oral B packaging. Need pots and pans? Bottom cabinet next to the stove.
My own home is also organized partly like my parents' house. But I also adapted some of Amanda's organization ideas when I set up my apartment, so essentially- I can put my hands on bandages, Zip-loc baggies, etc in seven seconds or less.
I guess I love going there because it feels like a vacation, but it also feels like home. I was in a big hurry to leave for Boston on Christmas Eve. I grabbed a mug of tea out of the microwave just before it was done heating up, leaving 5 seconds blinking on the clock. My hands were full, my arms were full, I even had something tucked under my chin, so I didn't clear the time.
Hours later, when I finally arrived at Amanda's house, she and Tom were in NH celebrating with his parents. I found the hidden key, settled the dog, put the presents I brought under the tree, moved all my bags into the guest room and went to grab a can of the omnipresent Diet Coke from the fridge. The kitchen was extremely tidy, only a glass or two in the sink. But as I popped open the can of soda, I saw it. Instead of the time, the microwave displayed 12 seconds blinking on the clock.
Thanks for having us, Manda. :)
They have skylights, a big tub to soak in, a lightning fast Internet connection, and the kind of office-turned-guestroom that you think only exists in Pottery Barn catalogues. It's homey, and safe, and welcoming. There's a lot of napping on Egyptian cotton sheets.
My sister, being the most generous person I know, always lets me borrow socks or t-shirts or whatever I forgot. She also has an endearing, border-line obsession with bath and body products, which means that you can not only sample that fun, exfoliating fountain-of-youth never-tested-on-animals body butter you've been meaning to get with your next gift certficate, but she's probably already fallen out of love with it, moved on to the latest "On Sale at Sepphora" version, so she lets you take it with you.
Amanda also lets me bring my dog, who- with no hyper 90lb puppy to compete with- spends a great deal of time lolling around in cuddly canine princess mode. The other thing, too, is that my sister's house is organized a lot like our mother's. Forget your toothbrush? Here are five to choose from, still in their original Oral B packaging. Need pots and pans? Bottom cabinet next to the stove.
My own home is also organized partly like my parents' house. But I also adapted some of Amanda's organization ideas when I set up my apartment, so essentially- I can put my hands on bandages, Zip-loc baggies, etc in seven seconds or less.
I guess I love going there because it feels like a vacation, but it also feels like home. I was in a big hurry to leave for Boston on Christmas Eve. I grabbed a mug of tea out of the microwave just before it was done heating up, leaving 5 seconds blinking on the clock. My hands were full, my arms were full, I even had something tucked under my chin, so I didn't clear the time.
Hours later, when I finally arrived at Amanda's house, she and Tom were in NH celebrating with his parents. I found the hidden key, settled the dog, put the presents I brought under the tree, moved all my bags into the guest room and went to grab a can of the omnipresent Diet Coke from the fridge. The kitchen was extremely tidy, only a glass or two in the sink. But as I popped open the can of soda, I saw it. Instead of the time, the microwave displayed 12 seconds blinking on the clock.
Thanks for having us, Manda. :)
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Last Christmas...
About a year ago, I was having a three-way phone call with Alissa and Gwen that went something like this.
Gwen: When are we getting together to do Hanukkah? Christmas, Hanukkah, whatever.
Angie: A co-worker of mine is engaged to a woman who is Jewish. He referred to it the other day as Chrismanukkah.
Alissa: We are NOT calling it "Chris M0nica."
Hee. Just thought of that. :) Happy Hanumas everyone.
Gwen: When are we getting together to do Hanukkah? Christmas, Hanukkah, whatever.
Angie: A co-worker of mine is engaged to a woman who is Jewish. He referred to it the other day as Chrismanukkah.
Alissa: We are NOT calling it "Chris M0nica."
Hee. Just thought of that. :) Happy Hanumas everyone.
Last Christmas...
About a year ago, I was having a three-way phone call with Alissa and Gwen that went something like this.
Gwen: When are we getting together to do Hanukkah? Christmas, Hanukkah, whatever.
Angie: A co-worker of mine is engaged to a woman who is Jewish. He referred to it the other day as Chrismanukkah.
Alissa: We are NOT calling it "Chris M0nica."
Hee. Just thought of that. :) Happy Hanumas everyone.
Gwen: When are we getting together to do Hanukkah? Christmas, Hanukkah, whatever.
Angie: A co-worker of mine is engaged to a woman who is Jewish. He referred to it the other day as Chrismanukkah.
Alissa: We are NOT calling it "Chris M0nica."
Hee. Just thought of that. :) Happy Hanumas everyone.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
What's wrong with me?
"If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips would be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart."
-Ebenezer Scrooge, in "A Christmas Carol"
Welcome, everyone! It's time for a round of "What's Wrong With Angie?" An exciting blog game how where I describe my neuroses, and YOU get to try to figure out why I'm like this! YAY! (Disclaimer: The prizes are four size U vacuum bags. I bought a pack right before my vacuum died, and I replaced it with a bagless.)
I... I really don't like Christmas. I'm sorry. Bah humbug. I know you're supposed to see all the happiness, and constant depictions of good will and charity, and ideal living and loving, and feel all fuzzy inside. I just feel inadequate and lonely and sad.
This entry just might have too much truth in it.
I do try, though. I started buying Christmas Presents at the beach in August. (This is not as OCD as it sounds. I see my best good friends at least twice a year- at the beach and for the holidays. A lot of time at "the beach" is actually spent shopping in the outlet stores and cute boutiques, so when my friends admire something, I usually go back and buy it for them.)
Most other holiday presents I make myself. I started making them in September. All but one is finished. All but two are wrapped. My apartment is tastefully decorated. My tree is up and lit. My dog is festively outfitted in the red and white collar Kelly gave her three years ago.
In the last two weeks, I have mailed nearly 80 greeting cards to my high school friends; college friends; former teachers and professors; relatives; boyfriend's family and lifelong friends; professional mentors and networking contacts; former picture story families: paganism, bling family [actually, I meant to write "blind family" but "bling family" is too funny to change], lesbian moms; and former host families from foreign countries. I mailed the international cards so that they will arrive before the actual holiday that the person celebrates in the country where they were sent.
I tracked down and caught up with all of my high school friends (Except Melissa. Hellllooooooo? Are you out there?) I am relatively up-to-date with the happenings in my college roommates' lives. I am all connected and not phone-tagging any of the special six people I talk to weekly/daily.
I paid off all my charge cards. I lost twenty pounds and two sizes in the past year. I got two raises and survived a second round of lay-offs. I am extremely happy with Stephen. We're connected and functioning well as a couple. I remembered three important birthdays and my ex-boyfriend's wedding anniversary with presents and/or cards that arrived on time. I am on track planning/helping the two people for whom I am maid of honor in 2005.
But here's the thing: It will never be enough. It will never feel like enough.
I'm sad to say that telling me: "Well, you just need to relax. Don't do all that stuff for the wrong reasons and just enjoy the holiday!" is NOT a vacuum bag prize winning response.
I'm doing all these things because I WANT to, because I love the people I reach out to, because I love the responses in the cards and letters that come back to me, because I love being connected to people in all the places that I have lived, because I love that people treasure the presents I make for them, because I feel cozy in my candlelit living room, because my dog wearing the fuzzy collar is too damn funny, because I love seeing someone light up when they open something they admired in my presence five months ago.
I feel so loved in my life. I really do. That's what Christmas is all about, right?
So why does a Pier One pamphlet telling me, 'It's the holidays! Be amazing!" hurt so much? Why does the all-green Target commercial with the happy Spanish-speaking family make me feel so sad? Why does "the Christmas spirit" seem so elusive? Why isn't everything I do Christmas-y enough? Why is my dog farting like a trombone?(Don't answer that last one.)
Please do try to answer the others, though. (Win vacuum bags!)
-Ebenezer Scrooge, in "A Christmas Carol"
Welcome, everyone! It's time for a round of "What's Wrong With Angie?" An exciting blog game how where I describe my neuroses, and YOU get to try to figure out why I'm like this! YAY! (Disclaimer: The prizes are four size U vacuum bags. I bought a pack right before my vacuum died, and I replaced it with a bagless.)
I... I really don't like Christmas. I'm sorry. Bah humbug. I know you're supposed to see all the happiness, and constant depictions of good will and charity, and ideal living and loving, and feel all fuzzy inside. I just feel inadequate and lonely and sad.
This entry just might have too much truth in it.
I do try, though. I started buying Christmas Presents at the beach in August. (This is not as OCD as it sounds. I see my best good friends at least twice a year- at the beach and for the holidays. A lot of time at "the beach" is actually spent shopping in the outlet stores and cute boutiques, so when my friends admire something, I usually go back and buy it for them.)
Most other holiday presents I make myself. I started making them in September. All but one is finished. All but two are wrapped. My apartment is tastefully decorated. My tree is up and lit. My dog is festively outfitted in the red and white collar Kelly gave her three years ago.
In the last two weeks, I have mailed nearly 80 greeting cards to my high school friends; college friends; former teachers and professors; relatives; boyfriend's family and lifelong friends; professional mentors and networking contacts; former picture story families: paganism, bling family [actually, I meant to write "blind family" but "bling family" is too funny to change], lesbian moms; and former host families from foreign countries. I mailed the international cards so that they will arrive before the actual holiday that the person celebrates in the country where they were sent.
I tracked down and caught up with all of my high school friends (Except Melissa. Hellllooooooo? Are you out there?) I am relatively up-to-date with the happenings in my college roommates' lives. I am all connected and not phone-tagging any of the special six people I talk to weekly/daily.
I paid off all my charge cards. I lost twenty pounds and two sizes in the past year. I got two raises and survived a second round of lay-offs. I am extremely happy with Stephen. We're connected and functioning well as a couple. I remembered three important birthdays and my ex-boyfriend's wedding anniversary with presents and/or cards that arrived on time. I am on track planning/helping the two people for whom I am maid of honor in 2005.
But here's the thing: It will never be enough. It will never feel like enough.
I'm sad to say that telling me: "Well, you just need to relax. Don't do all that stuff for the wrong reasons and just enjoy the holiday!" is NOT a vacuum bag prize winning response.
I'm doing all these things because I WANT to, because I love the people I reach out to, because I love the responses in the cards and letters that come back to me, because I love being connected to people in all the places that I have lived, because I love that people treasure the presents I make for them, because I feel cozy in my candlelit living room, because my dog wearing the fuzzy collar is too damn funny, because I love seeing someone light up when they open something they admired in my presence five months ago.
I feel so loved in my life. I really do. That's what Christmas is all about, right?
So why does a Pier One pamphlet telling me, 'It's the holidays! Be amazing!" hurt so much? Why does the all-green Target commercial with the happy Spanish-speaking family make me feel so sad? Why does "the Christmas spirit" seem so elusive? Why isn't everything I do Christmas-y enough? Why is my dog farting like a trombone?(Don't answer that last one.)
Please do try to answer the others, though. (Win vacuum bags!)
What's wrong with me?
"If I could work my will, every idiot who goes about with 'Merry Christmas' on his lips would be boiled with his own pudding and buried with a stake of holly through his heart."
-Ebenezer Scrooge, in "A Christmas Carol"
Welcome, everyone! It's time for a round of "What's Wrong With Angie?" An exciting blog game how where I describe my neuroses, and YOU get to try to figure out why I'm like this! YAY! (Disclaimer: The prizes are four size U vacuum bags. I bought a pack right before my vacuum died, and I replaced it with a bagless.)
I... I really don't like Christmas. I'm sorry. Bah humbug. I know you're supposed to see all the happiness, and constant depictions of good will and charity, and ideal living and loving, and feel all fuzzy inside. I just feel inadequate and lonely and sad.
This entry just might have too much truth in it.
I do try, though. I started buying Christmas Presents at the beach in August. (This is not as OCD as it sounds. I see my best good friends at least twice a year- at the beach and for the holidays. A lot of time at "the beach" is actually spent shopping in the outlet stores and cute boutiques, so when my friends admire something, I usually go back and buy it for them.)
Most other holiday presents I make myself. I started making them in September. All but one is finished. All but two are wrapped. My apartment is tastefully decorated. My tree is up and lit. My dog is festively outfitted in the red and white collar Kelly gave her three years ago.
In the last two weeks, I have mailed nearly 80 greeting cards to my high school friends; college friends; former teachers and professors; relatives; boyfriend's family and lifelong friends; professional mentors and networking contacts; former picture story families: paganism, bling family [actually, I meant to write "blind family" but "bling family" is too funny to change], lesbian moms; and former host families from foreign countries. I mailed the international cards so that they will arrive before the actual holiday that the person celebrates in the country where they were sent.
I tracked down and caught up with all of my high school friends (Except Melissa. Hellllooooooo? Are you out there?) I am relatively up-to-date with the happenings in my college roommates' lives. I am all connected and not phone-tagging any of the special six people I talk to weekly/daily.
I paid off all my charge cards. I lost twenty pounds and two sizes in the past year. I got two raises and survived a second round of lay-offs. I am extremely happy with Stephen. We're connected and functioning well as a couple. I remembered three important birthdays and my ex-boyfriend's wedding anniversary with presents and/or cards that arrived on time. I am on track planning/helping the two people for whom I am maid of honor in 2005.
But here's the thing: It will never be enough. It will never feel like enough.
I'm sad to say that telling me: "Well, you just need to relax. Don't do all that stuff for the wrong reasons and just enjoy the holiday!" is NOT a vacuum bag prize winning response.
I'm doing all these things because I WANT to, because I love the people I reach out to, because I love the responses in the cards and letters that come back to me, because I love being connected to people in all the places that I have lived, because I love that people treasure the presents I make for them, because I feel cozy in my candlelit living room, because my dog wearing the fuzzy collar is too damn funny, because I love seeing someone light up when they open something they admired in my presence five months ago.
I feel so loved in my life. I really do. That's what Christmas is all about, right?
So why does a Pier One pamphlet telling me, 'It's the holidays! Be amazing!" hurt so much? Why does the all-green Target commercial with the happy Spanish-speaking family make me feel so sad? Why does "the Christmas spirit" seem so elusive? Why isn't everything I do Christmas-y enough? Why is my dog farting like a trombone?(Don't answer that last one.)
Please do try to answer the others, though. (Win vacuum bags!)
-Ebenezer Scrooge, in "A Christmas Carol"
Welcome, everyone! It's time for a round of "What's Wrong With Angie?" An exciting blog game how where I describe my neuroses, and YOU get to try to figure out why I'm like this! YAY! (Disclaimer: The prizes are four size U vacuum bags. I bought a pack right before my vacuum died, and I replaced it with a bagless.)
I... I really don't like Christmas. I'm sorry. Bah humbug. I know you're supposed to see all the happiness, and constant depictions of good will and charity, and ideal living and loving, and feel all fuzzy inside. I just feel inadequate and lonely and sad.
This entry just might have too much truth in it.
I do try, though. I started buying Christmas Presents at the beach in August. (This is not as OCD as it sounds. I see my best good friends at least twice a year- at the beach and for the holidays. A lot of time at "the beach" is actually spent shopping in the outlet stores and cute boutiques, so when my friends admire something, I usually go back and buy it for them.)
Most other holiday presents I make myself. I started making them in September. All but one is finished. All but two are wrapped. My apartment is tastefully decorated. My tree is up and lit. My dog is festively outfitted in the red and white collar Kelly gave her three years ago.
In the last two weeks, I have mailed nearly 80 greeting cards to my high school friends; college friends; former teachers and professors; relatives; boyfriend's family and lifelong friends; professional mentors and networking contacts; former picture story families: paganism, bling family [actually, I meant to write "blind family" but "bling family" is too funny to change], lesbian moms; and former host families from foreign countries. I mailed the international cards so that they will arrive before the actual holiday that the person celebrates in the country where they were sent.
I tracked down and caught up with all of my high school friends (Except Melissa. Hellllooooooo? Are you out there?) I am relatively up-to-date with the happenings in my college roommates' lives. I am all connected and not phone-tagging any of the special six people I talk to weekly/daily.
I paid off all my charge cards. I lost twenty pounds and two sizes in the past year. I got two raises and survived a second round of lay-offs. I am extremely happy with Stephen. We're connected and functioning well as a couple. I remembered three important birthdays and my ex-boyfriend's wedding anniversary with presents and/or cards that arrived on time. I am on track planning/helping the two people for whom I am maid of honor in 2005.
But here's the thing: It will never be enough. It will never feel like enough.
I'm sad to say that telling me: "Well, you just need to relax. Don't do all that stuff for the wrong reasons and just enjoy the holiday!" is NOT a vacuum bag prize winning response.
I'm doing all these things because I WANT to, because I love the people I reach out to, because I love the responses in the cards and letters that come back to me, because I love being connected to people in all the places that I have lived, because I love that people treasure the presents I make for them, because I feel cozy in my candlelit living room, because my dog wearing the fuzzy collar is too damn funny, because I love seeing someone light up when they open something they admired in my presence five months ago.
I feel so loved in my life. I really do. That's what Christmas is all about, right?
So why does a Pier One pamphlet telling me, 'It's the holidays! Be amazing!" hurt so much? Why does the all-green Target commercial with the happy Spanish-speaking family make me feel so sad? Why does "the Christmas spirit" seem so elusive? Why isn't everything I do Christmas-y enough? Why is my dog farting like a trombone?(Don't answer that last one.)
Please do try to answer the others, though. (Win vacuum bags!)
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Oh. Alrighty.
"Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end."
-author unknown
Words to live by. Easy to say, hard to believe.
-author unknown
Words to live by. Easy to say, hard to believe.
Oh. Alrighty.
"Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end."
-author unknown
Words to live by. Easy to say, hard to believe.
-author unknown
Words to live by. Easy to say, hard to believe.
Wednesday, December 08, 2004
Ha. HA!
Take that, Cancer! I've said it before, and I'll say it again. We are SO perfectly happy being the Medical Miracle Freak Show Family.
As for the previous entry, I'm not too worried, despite Gwen's lovely, valid-in-some-situations concern. :) I'm not alone in my feelings about covering black-tie galas. It's okay. G's point is well-taken for future reference, though.
It's okay, everyone. Choose a Wealthy Name and take a shot at it. My faith in goodness is restored anyway. Someone is flying back to Cyprus with his entire thyroid in tact and cancer-free. It's all good.
As for the previous entry, I'm not too worried, despite Gwen's lovely, valid-in-some-situations concern. :) I'm not alone in my feelings about covering black-tie galas. It's okay. G's point is well-taken for future reference, though.
It's okay, everyone. Choose a Wealthy Name and take a shot at it. My faith in goodness is restored anyway. Someone is flying back to Cyprus with his entire thyroid in tact and cancer-free. It's all good.
Ha. HA!
Take that, Cancer! I've said it before, and I'll say it again. We are SO perfectly happy being the Medical Miracle Freak Show Family.
As for the previous entry, I'm not too worried, despite Gwen's lovely, valid-in-some-situations concern. :) I'm not alone in my feelings about covering black-tie galas. It's okay. G's point is well-taken for future reference, though.
It's okay, everyone. Choose a Wealthy Name and take a shot at it. My faith in goodness is restored anyway. Someone is flying back to Cyprus with his entire thyroid in tact and cancer-free. It's all good.
As for the previous entry, I'm not too worried, despite Gwen's lovely, valid-in-some-situations concern. :) I'm not alone in my feelings about covering black-tie galas. It's okay. G's point is well-taken for future reference, though.
It's okay, everyone. Choose a Wealthy Name and take a shot at it. My faith in goodness is restored anyway. Someone is flying back to Cyprus with his entire thyroid in tact and cancer-free. It's all good.
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