The best present I ever got in my whole life (besides the imaginary pony that I have yet to receive, and am still waiting for, even though my breath is not held and my spirit has shriveled up: small, hopeless and alone) is an electric blanket. My beautiful electric blanket is yellow like the sun, and hotter than it, and it fills me with real live keep-your-toes-warm warmth, and also the kind of warmth that heats up your heart to the bursting point, which might sound painful but is actually a beautiful thing because it is only metaphorical, but no less warm for all that.
It was the best present ever because I am always cold (especially now, with my reduced insulation), and it is always warm. And it was a very romantic present because my sweetheart at the time knew that I am always cold, and he got it for me because he wanted me to be warm, and in that way this blanket will always have a deep and sentimental attachment for me. Of course, gum wrappers and bits of string can have sentimental attachments for me, but that is not the point.
He never seemed to understand my attachment to my electric blanket,
which, if only the goddamn cord were long enough, I would carry from room to room and outside to get the mail and
down the street to catch the bus and in a coffee shop buying a latte
and sitting at my desk trying to kill project managers with the power
of my mind. But it is not and
that is its only, tiny, itty bitty minor failing. He was generally
pleased though, that I like my gift so much, and I am just very excited he
didnâ€™t ask for it back, because then I would have had to kill him, and
that would not have been such a nice, amicable breakup.
I spent most of my weekend under that blanket, and it was the best
weekend ever. And if only I had a portable nuclear generator of some
sort, my electric blanket would be the only thing I ever wore. I would
fashion a toga of my electric blanket, and even though yellow is not my
color and lumpy really does nothing for my figure, and the backpack in
which I would keep my portable nuclear generator would be even less
fashion-forward, I would be the happiest girl in all the land, and you
can never take that from me, even if you put ice cubes down my back and
laughed at my hair, because the ice cubes would melt, and I could cover
my hair with my cunningly designed electric blanket hood, and then I
would laugh at you and your non-electric clothes and then you’d feel
bad and go dedicate yourself to charity, and the electric blanket way
of life would be one that would be proven superior and I would be both
comfy-cozy, and also win.
I like to win. Yay!
In this, what I will officially declare the icy-coldest motherfucking
fall in all of San Francisco history (it’s gotten down to like, the 40s When it is supposed to be in the 80s. This is madness.),
I am especially grateful for my electric blanket, which laughs in the
face of the smell of the snow in the air, which, if you’ll take a
moment to parse that sentence, makes perfect sense. If you kind of
squint and do a shot. I do not approve of cold air, especially cold air
in California, where there are supposed to be naked girls with beach
balls on every corner, and sunshine is just a flick of the curtains
away, and hey, everybody, let’s play volleyball on the beach! Except I
haven’t had a good game of pickup volleyball since the cold snap, and
an electric blanket toga robe thing is not appropriate sports wear, as
it turns out, and also it would be unfair to take advantage of the
other players who are shivering and feeling icy and alone in their
hearts while I am heated thoroughly through and pink in the middle.
So no exercise for me. Instead, I will lie down a lot on my couch, with
my blanket tucked under my toes and thrown over my head and I will type
in my warm little cocoon of perfect toasty temperature and I will not
come out until the weather decides to be reasonable again, at which
point I will begin work on my groundbreakingly awesome air-conditioned
blanket, which will be sold at a reasonable price point, and will make
lovely gifts for your hard-to-buy-for friends and family.