Alexandra Duncan

Science Fiction. Fantasy. Feminism.


Jeremy and I found this piggy bank while trolling Goodwill for sandals and other oddities last week. We found it's angry expression charming. What injustices had been perpetrated on its ceramic piggy person to justify such an expression? Was it the $1.00 sticker pasted to its cheek? The bouquet of pink roses stenciled on its side? The mysterious substance adhering to its coin slot?

I also found an old Correct-O-Sphere electric typewriter for $5.00. I don't know why I was suddenly struck by the urge to own a typewriter. In college, I made crazy eyes at the people in my writing workshops who professed a preference for writing on them, rather than computers. I may be as near a complete Luddite as anyone of my generation can be, but it seemed so impractical at the time.
Now that I no longer have a paper due every Monday at 8 a.m., I see it. How could you not love that rapid-fire clackity-clack, and the gentle ding! that warns you you're nearing the margin? I am completely smitten, and Jeremy, who made crazy eyes at me the day I bought it, isn't far behind. I came home from work today to find the typewriter desk littered with typewritten test sheets listing the obscure birth names of deceased celebrities. Only one person in our house could have compiled such a list for sheer entertainment.
It certainly wasn't the cat, who dislikes noise machines of any kind and lacks opposable thumbs.
He looked at me with an
expression of complete betrayal the first time I sat down to use it. "Not you too!" his eyes said. Although he could have been perturbed simply because the new addition is on a desk right next to his litter box.

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