By Eugenie Seifer Olson
Dive into the occasionally attractive, occasionally sinister, constantly hilarious international of affection and motion figures within the toy with Eugenie Seifer, the quirky, shrewdpermanent new writer for Avon exchange. Toby Morris is 25 and prepared for a few pleasure. Her activity at a wide toy corporation is lengthy on filled animals, radio–controlled racers, and job units, yet brief on actual delight. whilst her former artwork institution blood brother lands a role at a neighborhood television station and Toby tunes into the weekend information, she quickly unearths the entire pleasure she'd ever requested for––through an infatuation with a tender, good-looking weatherman. As she slowly turns into keen about Doppler radar, hurricane trajectories, and cloud disguise, 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 start flying. it kind of feels as if Toby has virtually stumbled on her real love, until eventually a botched prank leaves Toby considering how she'll ever climate the typhoon. yet what is arising for Toby is whatever no weekend weatherman may well ever expect.
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Extra info for Babe in Toyland
Look, it’s Toby, and she’s got… Chapter 15 “Owwwww,” Michael is moaning from his bedroom, and for the… Chapter 16 I’m sleepy this evening—sleepy, sad, and disappointed. ” Kerrin says suddenly, turning away from the counter to face me. Her face is a patchwork quilt of overpriced cosmetics, with stripes of green and blue on her eyelids and blotchy pinks on her cheeks. ” I look up dewy eyed from my reverie. I’ve strayed from the circus of colors at the makeup counter to the bath and body products, where I’ve been fingering the beautiful bottles and inhaling the citrusy smells of the lotion of the moment.
My eyes fly open as I suddenly remember that tomorrow is another weekend weather day. Less than twelve hours until I see my wonderful weatherman, I think as I look over at the toucan-shaped clock on my nightstand. I fall asleep smiling, dreaming of Doppler radar. ” Dot is standing at the door of the North Star Bar, and, amazingly, is inhaling on a cigarette and cracking her gum at the same time. “Shouldn’t run like that in those crazy shoes you girls wear nowadays; you’ll break your ankle. ” She casts a sour glance at my brown suede platform shoes, stomps out her cigarette, and leads me to the bar.
And then I shudder when I think about how I’d ever explain a crush like this to Kerrin. I’m squeezing my eyes shut and trying to visualize whether or not he was wearing a wedding ring (I don’t think so, but perhaps this is wishful thinking) when the doorbell jolts me off the couch. I peer out the front window and see Hector, a runny-nosed student of Michael’s from a seedy block two streets over. Because Hector’s interest in learning music is ridiculously out of proportion to his mother’s ability to pay for it, Michael generously gives him a weekly lesson for roughly the price of a few purchases from the ice cream truck that winds its way down our street in summertime.