Housewarming Gift Quotes

Surprisingly, it was Jackal who finally smiled and stepped back, raising his hands. "Okay, bloodbag," he said, looking past me to Zeke. "Fine. I can be civil. For now. Observe." He made a great show of looking around the chamber. "Nice place you got here. Love what you've done with it. If I'd known, I would've brought a housewarming gift. A shag rug to go with the lovely piles of garbage.

So here we are, in the family planning aisle with a cart full of sports drinks and our hands full of . . . “Trojans, Ramses, Magnum . . . Jeez, these are worse than names for muscle cars,” Jase observes, sliding his finger along the display. “They do sound sorta, well, forceful.” I flip over the box I’m holding to read the instructions. Jase glances up to smile at me. “Don’t worry, Sam. It’s just us.” “I don’t get what half these descriptions mean . . . What’s a vibrating ring?” “Sounds like the part that breaks on the washing machine. What’s extra-sensitive? That sounds like how we describe George.” I’m giggling. “Okay, would that be better or worse than ‘ultimate feeling’—and look—there’s ‘shared pleasure’ condoms and ‘her pleasure’ condoms. But there’s no ‘his pleasure.’” “I’m pretty sure that comes with the territory,” Jase says dryly. “Put down those Technicolor ones. No freaking way.” “But blue’s my favorite color,” I say, batting my eyelashes at him. “Put them down. The glow-in-the-dark ones too. Jesus. Why do they even make those?” “For the visually impaired?” I ask, reshelving the boxes. We move to the checkout line. “Enjoy the rest of your evening,” the clerk calls as we leave. “Do you think he knew?” I ask. “You’re blushing again,” Jase mutters absently. “Did who know what?” “The sales guy. Why we were buying these?” A smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Of course not. I’m sure it never occurred to him that we were actually buying birth control for ourselves. I bet he thought it was a . . . a . . . housewarming gift.” Okay, I’m ridiculous. “Or party favors,” I laugh. “Or”—he scrutinized the receipt—“supplies for a really expensive water balloon fight.” “Visual aids for health class?” I slip my hand into the back pocket of Jase’s jeans. “Or little raincoats for . . .” He pauses, stumped. “Barbie dolls,” I suggest. “G.I. Joes,” he corrects, and slips his free hand into the back pocket of my jeans, bumping his hip against mine as we head back to the car.

As I completed dinner preparation, Rosie set the table—not the conventional dining table in the living room, but a makeshift table on the balcony, created by taking a whiteboard from the kitchen wall and placing it on top of the two big plant pots, from which the dead plants had been removed. A white sheet from the linen cupboard had been added in the role of tablecloth. Silver cutlery—a housewarming gift from my parents that had never been used—and the decorative wineglasses were on the table. She was destroying my apartment!

What is it about the Greek character that has allowed this complex culture to thrive for millennia? The Greek Isles are home to an enduring, persevering people with a strong work ethic. Proud, patriotic, devout, and insular, these hardy seafarers are the inheritors of working methods that are centuries old. On any given day, fishermen launch their bots at dawn in search of octopi, cuttlefish, sponges, and other gifts of the ocean. Widows clad in black dresses and veils shop the local produce markets and gather in groups of two and three to share stories. Artisans stich decorative embroidery to adorn traditional costumes. Glassblowers, goldsmiths, and potters continue the work of their ancient ancestors, ultimately displaying their wares in shops along the waterfronts. The Greeks’ dedication to time-honored occupations and hard work is harmoniously complemented by their love of dance, song, food, and games. Some of the earliest works of art from the Greek Isles--including Minoan paintings from the second millennium B.C.E.--depict the central, day-to-day role of dance, and music. Today, life is still lived in common, and the old ways often survive in a deep separation between the worlds of women and men. In the more rural areas, dancing and drinking are--officially at least--reserved for men, as the women watch from windows and doorways before returning to their tasks. At seaside tavernas throughout the Greek Isles, old men sip raki, a popular aniseed-flavored liqueur, while playing cards or backgammon under grape pergolas that in late summer are heavy with ripe fruit. Woven into this love of pleasure, however, are strands of superstition and circumspection. For centuries, Greek artisans have crafted the lovely blue and black glass “eyes” that many wear as amulets to ward off evil spirits. They are given as baby and housewarming gifts, and are thought to bring good luck and protect their wearers from the evil eye. Many Greeks carry loops of wooden or glass beads--so-called “worry beads”--for the same purpose. Elderly women take pride in their ability to tell fortunes from the black grounds left behind in a cup of coffee.

Charlotte held up the glass ball. It was the size of an apple and was one of her prettiest, graduating from clear on top to a bubbled lavender color on the bottom. One of the glassblowers at the Sugar Warehouse had made it. "I came over to give you a housewarming gift. Welcome to the Dellawisp." Surprise registered on Zoey's face. She stepped out onto the patio and took the ball from her. Sunlight caught the three strings of glass suspended inside and made them shimmer like icicles. "It's called a witch ball," Charlotte said, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her cutoffs. "Those thin glass strings are supposed to catch spirits that come into your house and trap them inside the ball, protecting you from them. If the ball breaks, it means you have a particularly strong ghost.

I don't know why my mother insisted on giving us two of Jezebel's kittens as a housewarming gift. Who is going to watch them?" "Not a problem. Oded already offered. And they're Juju's kittens too." "Exactly," he says with a shudder. "Well, Keanu is adorable and Katniss is---" "Trouble. I caught her climbing the curtains the other day.

We singles buy gifts we can’t afford and take off work to get fitted for endless numbers of (mostly unflattering) bridesmaids’ dresses and budget for housewarming presents, birthday presents, anniversary presents, graduation presents, shower presents, and on and on and on . . . all in the name of being supportive of our married friends’ life choices. And that’s a beautiful thing. But why aren’t our choices being celebrated?

I’ll have to get her a housewarming gift… whips are good for that right?

She wondered what it would be like to be more like Isabelle, so aware of your own feminine power you could wield it as a weapon instead of gazing at it mystified, like someone presented with a housewarming gift they had no idea where to display.

You’re not leaving yet.” “No,” I said, taking my backpack back and unzipping it. “I wanted to, um…” I thrust my hand into my backpack and gripped a stack of what must’ve been three hundred double-spaced and double-sided papers. I pulled them out and handed them to him. “To give this to you, as a… housewarming gift.” Blaise arched a brow and slid onto one of the stools beside me. “What is it?” I glanced down at my feet, heart pounding inside my chest. “It’s the story that I’ve been writing… about us. It’s our story. It’s not finished yet. I still have to write the last chapter, but I wanted you to read it.” With brown eyes so big, Blaise peered over at me. “You wrote a story about us?” Somehow my cheeks burned even hotter. “Yeah, I did. And I plan on publishing it one day because I love us so fucking much.” I moved closer to him, so I stood between his legs, and then I grabbed his face. “And I love you more than I ever thought I could. You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, Blaise Harleen.

The precious money Fiona’s mum gifted them as a housewarming gift, and more than they believed she had tucked away, is just enough to pay a plumber to fit a new boiler and replace the pipes in the kitchen and bathroom that make the sounds of a submarine running aground. A home-improvement loan, through the bank where Fiona works, must cover the roof’s repair, or replacement, a new fuse-box and wiring. New windows will have to wait until they can afford them. When he’s got work coming in again. To remain buoyant, to keep his nose and mouth above the choppy surface of the deepest, most precarious waters he’s ever swum – the mortgage he can’t really afford on a house that needs everything doing to it – his focus must remain upon one task at a time. One room and then another. Or he will be consumed, will drown. He knows this and tells himself this fact over and over.

She had already tied on her apron and started tapping notes into her phone as Daisy laid out the ingredients: a whole kosher chicken; a bottle of olive oil, a pound of butter, a lemon. Onions, garlic, shallots, shiitake mushrooms, Parmesan cheese, and a container of arborio rice; fresh rosemary and thyme, a bag of carrots, a half-pound of asparagus, and a half-pound of sugar snap peas. That was for dinner. For pantry staples, she'd gotten flour, white and brown sugar, kosher salt and Maldon salt, pepper, chili, and paprika; for the refrigerator: milk, eggs, and half-and-half, and, for a housewarming gift, a copy of Ruth Reichl's My Kitchen Year and two quarts of her own homemade chicken stock.

In South Korea, the typical gift for a house-warming party is toilet paper.