ALL OVER THE MAP

My father never gave me a present that didn’t plug in or require batteries. When some schmuck broke my heart, he’d take me to Radio Shack to buy me a special weather radio that screamed out tornado alerts. He bought me an electric pocket thesaurus that spat out off-the-mark synonyms I found hilarious. When I typed in “cock”, for instance, the machine gave me back “faucet”. And this brings me to–

WARNING: RUN-ON SENTENCE DIVIDED ONLY BY DASHES APPEARS BELOW. MY HUSBAND SAYS IT IS “JUST LIKE HOWL” BUT YOU BE THE JUDGE.

Though appliances and electronics made my dad’s heart sing—in the exact way Bloomingdale’s uplifted my mother—I usually just went along for the ride—is it not the thought that counts–more than an alarm wristwatch that plays “The Yellow Rose of Texas”?—I did not long for my father’s electronica–not when I was young—but Autumn approaches and lately–oh lately–as the weather turns cold, which in Austin is 79 degrees–and the large winged cockroaches migrate across the lawn toward my house—surely I can see their feelers poking through the blades of grass like tiny, terrifying periscopes—and I open my cupboard doors and see through the darkness, crumbs—old carcasses of wheat chex, a floury haze—primal fear surges through my heart—what was once the cheery detritus of an enthusiastic cook is now insect food—and I sense in me a longing.

For a Dust Buster.

STAY TUNED FOR PART TWO, WHICH WILL RHYME