By Eugenie Seifer Olson
Dive into the occasionally attractive, occasionally sinister, continuously hilarious global of affection and motion figures within the toy with Eugenie Seifer, the quirky, clever new writer for Avon alternate. Toby Morris is 25 and prepared for a few pleasure. Her activity at a wide toy corporation is lengthy on crammed animals, radio–controlled racers, and task units, yet brief on actual delight. whilst her former artwork tuition blood brother lands a role at an area television station and Toby tunes into the weekend information, she quickly reveals all of the pleasure she'd ever requested for––through an infatuation with a tender, good-looking weatherman. As she slowly turns into keen about Doppler radar, typhoon trajectories, and cloud conceal, Toby starts to ship him nameless poems ("if you're keen on those poems/and the sentiments I speak/please put on your eco-friendly tie/on Thursday subsequent week) and letters commence flying. it kind of feels as if Toby has nearly chanced on her real love, until eventually a botched prank leaves Toby puzzling over how she'll ever climate the typhoon. yet what is arising for Toby is whatever no weekend weatherman may perhaps ever expect.
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Extra info for Babe in Toyland
Truth be told, I’m more in a hurry to wrap up with Kerrin than I am to see Knockout Mouse, because the news is coming on in three minutes. WPHX news, featuring Jenna’s news graphics. I’m terrified not to watch, because I know Michael will ask me if I did. And if I don’t, he’ll accuse me of being jealous and petty. Which of course I am, whether I watch the news or not. Da da da da da da da, da-da-da-da, da da da daaa daaa! The news starts with WPHX’s signature cheesy music, the same one that they’ve been using since I was about three years old.
Or they’ll live forever. ” “I’ll drink to that,” said Kerrin, hoisting her shot of Jack Daniels into the air. I am late as I run down the street to meet Will for lunch at the Twin City Diner. It is a true diner, not one of these prefab restaurants that feels like a ’50s diner but is really part of a giant chain that trades on the NASDAQ. It was moved here lock, stock, and barrel from St. Paul, and they were too lazy to change the name. The diner sits solidly on a gritty corner in a dicey part of the city, its metal exterior crying out for a serious cleaning.
My coworkers must be ovulating around the clock, because there has been a rash of pregnancies and new births in the last year. I’m all for little babies, but not when their mothers force you to look at their pictures, listen to feeding and diapering schedules, and generally act as though you can drop anything at any minute to hear about some hilarious episode that usually involves laughing or drooling. I swear that every time a woman announces a pregnancy here, I feel nauseated right along with her, imagining how I’m going to fake my way through another set of photos.
Babe in Toyland by Eugenie Seifer Olson