magic blanket

When I was a little girl, my parents always made us take a Sunday afternoon nap. I hated forced naps. Now I really wish someone could override my responsibilities and make me nap. How lovely!

The only thing that made nap time passably fun was the Magic Blanket. My father's aunt had given my parents a quilt as a wedding present, a quilt with brilliantly colored silk squares and a faux fur backing.

My siblings and I would argue over who got to sleep under the Magic Blanket every Sunday. I remember laying beneath that heavy rug of a thing, running my fingertips over the silky top, staring at the dry-walled ceiling. I would try to keep my tongue still, neither touching the roof of my mouth nor the bottom of it. I would hold every fiber of my being immobile, trying to calm my mind enough to sleep. I would concentrate on the feeling of the fur on my bare legs, the silk beneath my fingers.

Aladdin himself never had it better.

Why yes... yes, it is.

All my furniture is moved out. I now basically live with a futon mattress, a yoga mat, and a computer. Oddly, my apartment feels less stressful to me.

With the magnetic poetry on my desk at school, some students recently wrote this:

story I heard today

My friend Mandi is getting married in April. Today at her bridal shower, I sat across from her future mother-in-law. She told me this story:



When Tom's Mom (TM, we'll say) was in 10th grade, she had to move from her childhood home in Minnesota to California. Her best friend, Carol, was loathe to see her go, and the two promised that whatever happened, they would be each other's maids of honor whenever matrimony should find them.

Shortly after high school, TM was planning on getting married, and could not get ahold of Carol. She asked a California friend to take her place, but dear Renee (probably not her name as I can't remember such things) said that if Carol showed up, even the day before the wedding, Carol should be the maid of honor.

Oddly enough, a week and a half before TM's wedding, who should call but Carol? Carol was staying in Sacramento with her aunt. TM asked if Carol would come, and Carol did so, delighted to fulfill her old promise.

Fast forward eight years and Carol was living in Chicago. Carol called one day, shortly after TM had had her second child and had bought a new house. Carol said she was getting married and would TM be willing to fly out in April to be her matron of honor? TM was sad to say that money was too tight and the baby was too young. April wouldn't be possible. Carol hung up and called back half an hour later. What about August? Carol moved back her wedding, and TM kept her promise.

Don't you think that's an extraordinary story? They just don't make friendships like that anymore.

ways in which I wish my life resembled the Gilmore Girls

1. Endless variety of worthless movie/TV marathons.

2. The most ridiculous junk food diet, and yet neither Lorelai is ever apparently sick, sluggish, or fat.

3. Love interests around every corner, and only a few of them profoundly annoying (read here: Jason Stiles).

4. Coffee. All day every day.

5. Lots of parades and town events, some of which include lots of small children walking around in apple costumes.

6. Everyone Rory knows is well-read.

7. Sukie St. James. I want to be her friend very much.

Obama

Two nights ago I had a dream that Barack Obama was hanging out with my family at our old church in Pennsylvania (which was really the central office building for a group of Mennonites). Anyway, we had a nice old talk before he had to jet off to another speech somewhere, and I remember telling him that I sure hoped he would be able to find some time to take a vacation after these Texas and Ohio votes were done. He seemed to think that was a good idea.

Apparently, my subconscious seemed to be less worried about the fatigue levels of Clinton and McCain.

anime

A few weeks ago, at students' behest, I showed the movie Tonari no Totoro (My Neighbor Totoro) after school in my room.

They wanted to do it again, this week with The Cat Returns. I made a school announcement that I would be showing the film and "anyone who enjoys anime should plan to come."

The school secretary, who was reading the morning announcements, had never seen the word "anime" before and, after an awkward pause, eventually just skipped to the next word. She and the other secretaries, I heard later, decided they would look it up the definition for a "nime".

They found... a number between eight and ten.