Rugs and Life and Stuff

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I spent an inordinate amount of time contemplating rugs this past weekend. Arguing about rugs, looking for inspiration on how to style different rugs, shopping for rugs, vacuuming rugs, straightening rugs, rolling up rugs. The fact that I could spend that much time on rugs tells me that my life must be pretty cushy, overall. But the arguments about rugs are also about other things: money, and how to spend it; aesthetics, and how other people judge you based on your living space; mobility, both in terms of class and in terms of whether we’ll be in this apartment (or this city) 6 months from now. So, this weekend was about rugs, and about all of that other stuff.

I guess maybe it means that we’re growing up, too, and that we’re coming to think of our crappy little apartment as home, which is kind of nice. A couple of years ago, our furniture was all hand-me-downs cobbled together as best we could. Now, we actually invest in pieces to make our home our own.

In the end, most of our work was rearranging, reconfiguring, readjusting, renewing. The apartment feels a little more like us, and we get to show off a bit more of the one nice thing about this apartment: the hardwood. Insert innuendo there.

Sunday Night Connection

Sunday Night Connection

E and I have a burgeoning new ritual of splitting an ice cream sandwich down the middle every so often. It’s usually a nice surprise when either or both of us is feeling stressed out. And come on, a Neapolitan ice cream sandwich is basically edible heaven, am I right?

Tonight, E had to run to the corner store, and he brought home this treat. A few words, a few smiles, a few bites later, and we were absorbed in our individual Sunday night rituals again. After a hectic weekend (and before a long week), it was the perfect mini-break.

In the Holiday Spirit

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Last Monday night, E and I followed the signs from the subway station to “Ditmars Forest,” the slice of sidewalk in our neighborhood that has been overtaken by fresh-cut evergreen trees available for purchase. After just a few minutes of holding trees up for inspection, we selected one: a 4-ish foot high Noble Fir that looked much fuller and more symmetrical on the sidewalk than it did once we got it home.

But get it home, we did! I spent the evening wrestling with dollar store strings of lights and ornaments from CVS and Ikea (and a few special ones we’ve picked up over the last few months, such as that zebra up there). While I worked, I listened to the Bonanza Christmas album, which was an inexplicable but integral part of the Christmases of my childhood. At the end of the evening, we had a glowing, sparkling tree in the living room, with the bald side tucked up against the TV stand.

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This is our fourth Christmas as cohabitants, and the first year we bought a tree. We’ve always talked ourselves out of the expense, and the work, because we visit family for the holiday and reckoned we wouldn’t be able to enjoy it anyway. But this year, I put my foot down (and, since E is int he throes of finals, did just about all of the related work). I’m glad I did. The tree is lovely, and it makes our tiny, stupid apartment feel more festive than my paper snowflakes ever do.

More than that, every time E walks through the living room on a study break, he grins from ear to ear and tells me he loves the tree. Usually I’m the one pushing seasonal decorating and activities; he tolerates my whining about going pumpkin picking in the fall or to see the giant trees around the city. But his excitement about the tree has been a welcome reminder that the people in our lives can and will always surprise us.

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