Ode to the Woman on a Segway

Oh, savvy business woman standing straight and tall
Atop your new Segway, lording over us all.
With your pin-striped grey suit and Coach briefcase in tow,
You think you’re superior – say walking’s too slow.
“Gangway! Step aside! I’ve a meeting to attend,
Vast proposals to craft and blast emails to send!”
With utter contempt you ran us off the sidewalk,
Quite oblivious to all our bitter jive talk:
“Who does Miss Segway think she is?! Who made her queen?”
Such unified hatred – the best I’d ever seen.
A man near me frowned and muttered, “Oh, how absurd!”
I said nothing aloud, just inflaming my GERD.
We’ll soon find out just who is the Queen of West Loop.
You doubted that down to your level I would stoop.
This story’s not over. The plot, it does thicken.
I challenge you now to a real game of “chicken!”
One day, someday soon, crowds will part like the Red Sea
As I speed right toward you in my new ATV.
My name, they will praise. It is the stuff of folklore.
Generations to come will be eager for more.
“Tell me again, mommy, how the battle was won,
That day when foolish Segway challenged Run Jen Run.”

So… Very… Sleepy…

After my long sabbatical from the working world, I am experiencing some severe challenges with reprogramming my body to meet the grueling demands of a traditional 9-to-5 job. It seems that, although I need to wake up at 6:30am, my body still doesn’t want to go to bed until about 1:30am. I don’t do well with five hours of sleep on a consistent basis. I’m not a kid anymore. I needs my sleep.

I thought that maybe I could catch up on some sleep this weekend, and kind of stock up for the week ahead of me. The best laid plans of mice and men. I got home pretty late on Friday night after an evening of karaoke hijinks, and had to get up early on Saturday to drive to my parents’ house because my brother and his family were in town. Then, after spending the day Saturday chasing after my nephews, I was all tuckered out and ready to fall into a deep, rejuvenating sleep that would carry me through this week.

That was the plan, at least. Until I noticed that there was a TV in the room I was sleeping in. A TV with cable. Digital cable. My mom knows that I have issues with a mild TV addiction, which is why I refuse to get cable! Why would she put me in that room? Why not leave me a crack pipe, a bottle of scotch, some chocolate cake, and a Playstation 2, while you’re at it?

I told myself that I would only watch a little bit of TV, and then go right to sleep. But then I flipped past the TV equivalent of a train wreck: The Surreal Life, starring Brigitte Nielsen, a guy from New Kids on the Block, and Flavor Flav. It was gruesome and disturbing, but I just couldn’t look away. As I watched the former sex-symbol star of Rocky IV roll around on the floor in a leopard swimsuit in her saggy 70-year old body and make blatant passes at the still gold-toothed and giant clock-wearing Flavor Flav, I just felt funny inside. Kind of like I needed a shower. When Flavor Flav serves as the moral compass on a reality TV show, you just have to ask what the world is coming to.

So here I am, Tuesday morning of Week Two, and I can barely drag myself out of bed. I think I have developed a mild obsessive-compulsive disorder because my exhaustion has made me afraid of sleeping late and missing work and getting fired and ending up right back where I started so many months ago. To combat that fear, I am now using two alarm clocks, which I check and re-check no less than four times each night to ensure that they are, in fact, set for 6:30am and not 6:30pm.

I only drink decaf, so I can’t count on coffee to pick me up in the morning. I am contemplating taking up smoking, because isn’t nicotine a stimulant? I’ve heard that exercising is supposed to give you energy, but that defies all logic to me, so I suspect it’s just a propaganda campaign launched by Bally’s Total Fitness. I saw what my friends looked like after they ran that 5K the other night, and let me tell you, “refreshed” and “energetic” are not two words that come to mind.

I guess I’ll have to rely on what my friend Seamus told me gets him through the day: shotgunning a couple cans of Red Bull first thing in the morning.

The 5K That Almost Was

If there’s one good thing about having a violent stomach parasite for a week, it’s that your friends aren’t quite so hard on you when you tell them that you’re not going to join them in the 5K race you had all been planning on running for months.
Unfortunately, my friends are clever, so it didn’t take long before they realized that I had never actually signed up for said 5K race, which we had “all” been planning on running in for months. But again, I played the sympathy card and said, “Don’t you think I’ve been punished enough for my mistake? Don’t you think I see now that I never should have lied to you? Don’t you think I wish I were as healthy as all of you so that I could join you? You should just be thankful that you are all blessed with iron stomachs.”
I just hope they bought that load of crap. I think they did, because before they left me sitting on a grassy knoll surrounded by their smelly gym bags, they all clasped hands and said they were going to run this race for me.
“Let’s win this one for Jenny, guys!” shouted Seamus, as he rubbed Vaseline on his nipples and tried to decide whether his shirt looked cooler hanging out or tucked in.
“Yeah, let’s do it for Jenny! And all the other women around the world suffering from weak constitutions!” yelled Natasha, as she popped a piece of Gatorgum into her mouth and adjusted her Adidas headband.
My heart swelled with love. And pride. With prideful love. And perhaps a bit of jealousy. They now all shared a bond that I would never know. A bond of sweat and Vitamin Water. Our friendship will probably never be the same. Now when we get together, I’ll feel so left out as I listen to story after story about how they felt the “runner’s high” kick in at Mile 2, and the rush they felt as they saw the finish line just a few yards away, and how soundly they slept that night, their muscles still burning and twitching from their accomplishment.
I guess I really learned a lot from this whole 5K experience. I learned that I shouldn’t lie to my friends, because they always find out the truth in the end. And I learned that setting personal goals and accomplishing them can give you a high like nothing else, not even animal tranquilizers washed down with some scotch. But most of all, I’ve learned that any time I screw up, all I have to do is spend five days trapped in my apartment suffering from a rare Amazonian intestinal parasite and my friends will forgive almost anything. If that’s not love, then I don’t know what is.

Will You Bee My Friend?

It was 1976. The bicentennial. The town I grew up in held a contest to see which neighborhood could paint the fire hydrants in the most patriotic theme. My mom, my brother and I took our civic duty seriously and spent a week planning out the most patriotic hydrant we could imagine. It would be just like the American flag. The bottom half was blue with white stars and the top half was covered in red and white stripes. Around the very bottom we painted the words, “1776 – 1976. America the Beautiful!”
Unbeknownst to us, this seemingly unique theme was replicated by most every neighborhood in the city. We didn’t win, but I remember feeling a real sense of pride and accomplishment when I’d see the hydrant as I looked out our living room window. I think it was about 1981 before the city finally came by and painted all the chipped and faded hydrants blue.
But back to 1976. Aside from celebrating 200 years of freedom from the oppression and meat-centric diet of the British Empire, I also reached a personal milestone. Kindergarten. Big girl school. No more hanging around the house watching As the World Turns with my mom anymore. It was time for me to learn. Stuff you can’t pick up watching Sesame Street or even Electric Company. I remember being so excited about my first day of school. I could see the school from my house – it was just across the park – and had always watched with great envy as my older brother would walk to school while I had to stay at home.
My mom walked me to school on the first day, and within minutes of stepping into Mrs. LeBlanc’s class, I saw her. The girl who would become my new best friend. I would later find out that her name was Casey. Casey had long, stick straight blond hair and enormous blue eyes. Her hair was in pigtails, which was quite the rage at the time. She looked just like Marcia Brady. But that wasn’t really what drew me to her. It was her shoes. As soon as I walked into the classroom, I quickly scanned the room for familiar faces. I didn’t know anyone there, but as my eyes rapidly jumped from student to student, something caught my attention. Casey was wearing the exact same shoes as I was.
My first day of school shoes. I loved these shoes so much, I couldn’t wait to wear them on my very first day of big girl school. They were tan leather with rubber soles and had a little yellow bumblebee stitched on the sides of them. I remember running my finger across the bumblebee when we first picked them out. I liked the way the bee felt. It felt thick, not like a decal, but more official. Like a badge.
When I looked across the room and spied Casey’s shoes, I nearly pulled my mom’s arm out of its socket as I yanked on it and yelled, “Mom! That girl has the same shoes as me! She has the same bee shoes!” You have to understand – these were simpler times, and relationships were built on simpler foundations.
Friendships form for all sorts of reasons – common interests, common backgrounds, even common enemies. But a bond forged over a common sense of style is one that can never be broken. Never, that is, until one of those friends turns thirteen, starts smoking, wears black eyeliner that has been melted with her cigarette lighter, and gets a fifteen year old boyfriend with a tattoo on his forearm. Then somehow the bee shoe bond seems less important. So I shuffled my Buster Brown clad feet through several more years of school, always fondly remembering those days of innocence.

And here I am today, many years older, a little bit wiser, and still unfamiliar with the magic of eye makeup. But this week, as I find myself crossing a new threshold – the critical milestone this time being a new job – I wonder if old tactics can still prove effective. Now that I have a new career, maybe I might stumble across a new friend. One who will share the most intimate of bonds that two women can share: footwear. I haven’t found her yet, but I just feel it. I know that one day, soon, I’ll be sitting in the lunchroom eating a bag of guacamole flavored Doritos when I will look down and see a woman wearing the exact same thick soled shoes as I have on. Only this time, the role of Buster Brown will be played by Steve Madden. Until then, I just hope my co-workers don’t get the wrong impression if they see me walking down the halls with my head to the ground. I’m not shy – just trying to find some bees.

Train Wreck

People I hope to never again encounter on the “L”
Woman with silver boom box and headphones who kept singing more loudly and more off-key with each stop.
Diagnosis: Desperate attention seeker
Secondary diagnosis: Crazy
Woman allowing infant son to suck on the same pole that over 1,000 sweaty, filthy hands had grasped earlier that day.
Diagnosis: Irresponsible
Secondary diagnosis: Oblivious
Teen girl walking onto the train wearing enormous black and red angel wings.
Diagnosis: Desperate attention seeker
Secondary diagnosis: Drama student. Oh wait, that’s pretty much the same as the first diagnosis, isn’t it?
Woman reading Catch 22 while silently moving her lips and picking at imaginary bugs in her hair.
Diagnosis: Insane
Secondary diagnosis: In the membrane

A Fowl First Day

I reported to HR right on time Monday morning, all smiling and eager to learn all about the new company I hope I can call home for a while. After spending the morning in general orientation (“The company was founded in 1498; we have 49,034,987 employees worldwide; we generate $12,098,909,200 in revenue annually; the bathrooms are located to the left of the elevators…”), we were then informed that our new managers would be taking us out to lunch.

Oh crap.

I was really hoping to avoid any fancy lunches for at least another few days, given the fact that I’m finally recovering from what was most likely a week-long case of dysentery. But there was no way I could bow out of this one. All the new hires were going out to lunch with their respective bosses. I couldn’t be the only one who said she didn’t want to eat lunch. And I wasn’t really eager to tell my boss why I couldn’t eat lunch with him. Does he even know what the B.R.A.T. diet is?

So noon rolled around and I had no choice but to pack up my bags and head out to lunch with my new manager. He asked if I had any preferences, and I just said that I was open to anything, but preferably nothing spicy. Or greasy. Or Asian. Or fried. Or rich. Do you have any good toast restaurants around here?

He suggested a little corner restaurant known for its burgers. Great. That’s not rich or greasy at all. But I was trying to be agreeable, and I was sure they must have had other things, so I said that it sounded great to me. When we arrived, I immediately noticed that there really wasn’t anything on the menu other than burgers. Except chicken wings, deep fried potato skins, and deep fried mozzarella sticks. Basically, we were in a bar.

I ordered the entrée that I suspected would be the gentlest on my currently delicate constitution – the chicken breast sandwich. No mayo. No barbeque sauce. Just chicken on a Kaiser roll.

Our lunches arrived very quickly – so soon that I hadn’t had adequate time to mentally prepare myself for the first solid food I’d had in a week that wasn’t rice or… rice. This was clearly a restaurant that catered to the male crowd because the hamburger my boss ordered had to have been at least 16 ounces of pure beef, and my chicken sandwich took up almost my entire plate. The chicken extended well past the bun on all sides of the sandwich. It was the Dolly Parton of chicken breast sandwiches.

Everything was going along fine at first – we were talking, eating, talking, eating. I was pretty sure that I was going to make it out of this lunch unscathed. But then it happened. I got cocky and took a fairly large bite of my sandwich, when I heard a noise that you really never hope to hear when eating a chicken sandwich.

Something went crunch.

It sounded really loud in my head, but my boss just kept talking, so he must not have heard it. I had bitten into something incredibly hard and bony in my chicken sandwich, and my throat immediately closed.

My first thought was, “Ohmigod. I just ate spine.”

Now, sometimes when you bite into something you know doesn’t belong in whatever food you’re eating, you can just quickly swallow it whole and pretend you never noticed it in the first place. Unfortunately, this was not the case for me. I had such an enormous mouthful of bread and chicken and spine in my mouth that I couldn’t possibly swallow it without needing an emergency tracheotomy.

Up until that point, my boss hadn’t made overly intense eye contact with me, but for whatever reason, he chose that moment to start talking about a really important marketing initiative we were launching, and didn’t avert his eyes from mine for what seemed like ten minutes. I tried desperately to find a moment when he might glance down or take a bite of his food so I could quickly deposit the chicken skeleton into my napkin, but he never looked away.

So for ten minutes, I just held the vertebrae in my mouth, trying to hide the mass in my cheek, hoping it might dissolve if I took a sip of my Sprite. But after a few minutes, I couldn’t concentrate on anything he was saying. I knew he was telling me some critical information that I needed to remember, but I didn’t hear a word he said. I could only think about the bone in my mouth and how I was going to get rid of it.

My boss: “Pokslinm aknd licno marketing plan inlds nlcon diocna corporate-wide initiative cpnmd…”

My brain: [Oh god. Look away. Please just look away right now!]

My boss: “So Jenny, ikcuny ksyajrpc alsi sj ikkdpsh direct mail campaign kcisl unytobok…”

My brain: [Please David, please, just take a bite of your food. Oh god. Some vertebrae just touched the back of my throat. I’m going to gag. Don’t gag. Do not gag.]

This went on for what seemed like hours, until finally I knew that I was just moments away from vomiting right on the table. I had no choice but to spit the gigantic wad of half-chewed chicken and bones and soggy bread out in front of him. It looked like a baby gerbil had crawled into my napkin to die.

I’m not sure if he looked away just as I was spewing this out, or if he saw me do it and looked away in horror. Either way, the carcass was now no longer in my mouth, and it no longer sounded like he was speaking Klingon.

So there you have it. Only my first day on the job and I almost coughed up a chicken backbone in front of my new boss. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship.

Clean Slate

Today is my first day of work at the brand new job that I spent so many months searching for. As I was planning my first-day-of-work outfit last night, it struck me that I have an amazing opportunity here. Not the job itself, although I am just thrilled about that. My realization was that I have the rare chance to decide who I want to be to these new people. They know nothing about me or my past, other than what was on my resume, and who really remembers any of that? I can create and live out any persona I want. No pre-conceived notions of who I should be, no judgments. It’s what we all dream of – a clean slate.

Maybe I’ll part my hair on the side from now on. They never knew me when I parted my hair in the middle. Or I could wear earrings. Now I’m the kind of woman who wears long, dangly earrings to work.

I might claim that I grew up in Phoenix originally, but don’t have fond memories of the Southwest. I never say why.

I could be a vegetarian. Or Canadian. I’m Jewish. Or divorced. Maybe I’m an orphan. I have a twin sister. Maybe I’m all these things: a Jewish Canadian divorced vegetarian orphan twin.

Too much? You’re right – lose the vegetarian part.

I could be left-handed. No, that’s too hard to pull off. Instead, I’m ambidextrous, but I favor my right hand.

I lost 175 pounds after getting gastric bypass surgery.

I used to ski moguls before I blew my knee out. Now I can’t do anything physical anymore.

I wasn’t allowed to eat sugar or watch TV until I moved away from home to go to college. Now I’m addicted to both.

I have two children, but don’t like to talk about them. Or show their pictures. But I often have to leave work early to pick them up from daycare.

As these fantasy lives are swirling around in my head faster than Hurricane Ivan (or is it Jeanne now?), I suddenly remember that I really like this company, and I think I can see a positive future here. What am I thinking? I can’t lie to all my co-workers! I can’t fabricate a life built entirely on falsehoods! I can’t build a successful relationship based solely on lies and deceit! That’s what my personal life is for.

So that’s that, I guess. I am who I am, and frankly, I’m pretty happy with that. I’m a thirty-something recently employed amateur tap dancer. I have two cats, no children, and have never been married. I’m right handed, and have no athletic ability. I ate a lot of sugar and watched a lot of TV as a kid, which is why I’m currently addicted to both. I was born and raised in the Midwest, and I like to eat meat sometimes. Earrings bother my ears.

But I really might try parting my hair on the side. Don’t even try to stop me. I’ve got a clean slate, people, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to totally waste it.

This Doctor’s Visit Has Been Brought to You by…

After dealing with [unpleasant illness that is best left unnamed] for the past week, I finally got in to see my doctor yesterday. Although I was right on time, I spent the perfunctory 20 minutes reading three-month old People magazine in the waiting room before they finally called my name.
Then I spent the perfunctory 10 minutes sitting on a piece of tissue paper while wearing a piece of tissue paper until the doctor graced me with her presence. Our entire conversation lasted about nine minutes, and went something like this:
Dr. X: “So… what brings you here today?”
Me: “Nothing really. I just wanted to say hi, see how you were doing. You look great! Did you change your hair? It looks a little darker. God, these new gowns are really comfortable! Read the flipping chart, woman! What the hell do you think I’m here for?”
(Okay – that part was all just in my head.)
Real Me: “Well, for the past five days, I’ve had [indescribably disgusting symptom] as well as a little [equally repulsive symptom], so I’m hoping you can tell me what the problem is.”
Dr. X: “Mmmm hmmm. Okay. And have you traveled anywhere recently?”
Me: “Uhh – I went to Milwaukee on Saturday.”
Dr. X: “Okay. No, I meant anywhere out of the country.”
Me: “Oh. No. Unless you count Wisconsin as a foreign country. Ha ha. Heh. Hmm. [nervous cough]”
Dr. X: “All right, well let’s just take a quick peek.”
Considering the nature of my [repugnant ailment], I really wasn’t sure what part of my body she planned on peeking at. I was quite pleased, however, when she simply reached for the blood pressure cuff.
After a few pokes and prods, and several dietary questions, she kind of shrugged her shoulders and said it seemed like I probably could maybe might have something that potentially could possibly be something like a gastrointestinal virus. Or something else. But only time would tell.
Never have I witnessed such confidence and conviction ooze out of the mouth of a medical professional. It’s exactly like they show on ER!
Based on a few quick Internet searches I had done during my 5-day sentence, I was pretty certain I had either colon cancer or a rare Amazonian intestinal parasite, and was already picking out outfits that would camouflage the colostomy bag, but if she wanted to go the viral route, I was happy to tag along for the ride.
Dr. X: “Well, since I kind of am thinking that I may suspect your [nauseating illness] could or might probably just be something that could possibly be kind of like one of those stomach virus type things, there’s really nothing I can give you. You’ll just need to ride it out. It should go away in a week. If it’s the virus thingy. If not, let me know and we’ll go from there. Until then, I’m going to recommend that you stick to a bland diet for the next 3 to 5 days.”
And this is where the conversation got weird.
Dr. X: “Drink some Gatorade Sports Drink to balance out your electrolytes. You’ll also want to have some Jell-O gelatin, now in convenient ready to serve Jell-O cups! I’d suggest you also eat a few cups of Uncle Ben’s rice and some Chiquita bananas each day. Oh, and you should also drink some clear broths. Campbell’s chicken broth is the best choice.”
Wait a minute! So not only did I get no real medical advice in this $150 visit, but now I’m part of some massive product placement conspiracy?! This was outrageous! I swear to you, she plugged no less than seven brands in the nine minutes I was in her office. I know she’s getting a kick-back for that. I just know it.
Then after dispensing some worthless dietary suggestions that I could’ve found on the Kraft recipe board, she left me with this one last piece of medical advice:
Dr. X: “Oh, and if you start to get a high fever, feel dizzy, have severe abdominal cramps that are at least an 8 on a pain scale of 1 to 10, lose vision in one eye, bleed from the ears, experience sudden and excruciating joint pain, or notice your intestines sliding out of any part of your body, we always recommend going to the emergency room right away. Thanks, and hope you feel better!”
Well, after those final words of wisdom, I could not stop myself from pulling into the grocery store on my way home to pick up two flavors of Gatorade*, some Mott’s apple sauce, and some Jell-O Gelatin Cups – now in Berry Burst! Flavor. I’m so prone to suggestion. I’ve never been so ashamed.
[*On a side note, I can now add Gatorade to the growing list of reasons I am not athletic. That stuff is N-A-S-T-Y! Now I understand why football players primarily use it as something to dump on their coach’s head after a good game. Tastes kind of like Kool-Aid mixed with sweat. Yum!]


I’ve been feeling a little sub-par for the past week, so yesterday I called my doctor to see if I could get into her office. Her nurse said she was all booked up that day, but told me until I could get in, I should follow the B.R.A.T. diet. For those of you who are uninformed – like I was – the B.R.A.T. diet is:
I guess these are all the foods that babies are supposed to eat when their stomachs bother them, hence the B.R.A.T. acronym. Apparently, the other diets I tend to follow are not good for upset stomachs. I don’t see what the big problem is – I mean, just because I don’t have some clever little acronym for the way I normally eat doesn’t mean it’s bad.
Heck, I think I’ll come up with a few special diets of my own. See what my doctor thinks of these:
R.ice, fried
A.bsolut & tonic
P.epperoni pizza
F.rench fries
L.emon bars
A.pple martinis
U.nusually large doughnuts
L.ots of cheese
C.abernet Sauvignon
E.ggs Benedict
R.are skirt steak
I’m going to suggest these to her today to see if she wants to start using them to categorize her patients. I knew that medical field just needed a good marketing mind to help make it more relevant.

O Beanie, Where Art Thou?

Yesterday as I was sitting in my car waiting for a traffic light to turn green, I casually looked up at the car in front of me and noticed the strangest bumper sticker. It said, “I brake for Beanie Babies.” What made this bold claim seem even more curious was that on the other side of the car was a sticker that said, “Proud member of the NRA.” This sticker-laden bumper was attached to a black Ford pickup truck, which I suppose must come in handy for loading up all those Beanie Babies. And, of course, the guns.
This unique combination of pastimes made me wonder, though: does the driver brake for Beanie Babies so he can buy them, or blow them to pieces with his 12-gauge shotgun? Because if it’s the latter, I may be tempted to follow this truck around for a few days in hopes of seeing him use a stuffed turtle for skeet practice. It would at least help solve the mystery that’s been plaguing me for years: are they really filled with beans, or is that yet another bait-and-switch marketing ploy?
But really, exactly what neighborhoods are these folks driving through where they tend to run across Beanie Babies along the side of the road?
“I brake for garage sales” – sure, who doesn’t?
“I brake for pedestrians” – hey, it’s the law!
But, “I brake for Beanie Babies?” Does that really come up all that often?
I just imagine myself, driving along with some friends, chomping down some french fries and absentmindedly flipping the radio stations when someone in the passenger seat screams: “OHMIGOD STOPPPPPPPP!!!!!!!!! Jesus, Jenny! Pay attention to the road, would you? You almost ran over that Thimbles the Bunny, circa 2001! Oh, I think I almost peed myself!”
Personally, I’ve never been too fond of bumper stickers. They’re kind of like tattoos, in my opinion – sometimes I think they look cool on other people, but I can’t imagine finding anything I’d really want to permanently decorate my body with, or my car for that matter.
A friend of mine who also hates bumper stickers always says that there are enough reasons for crazy people to want to run you off the road without advertising a few more on your car. Who knows – your Grateful Dead bumper sticker just might be the trigger that sets off a road rage spree that runs six cars into a ditch. Is declaring to the world your appreciation for some hippie band really worth taking that risk? I think not.
Even I must admit, though, that whenever I see a bumper sticker on a car, I feel compelled to pull up next to the car to see who is driving. Just out of idle curiosity, I guess. I mean, what does the parent of a Shorewood High School Honor Student actually look like? Well, what do you know? She looks proud. Real proud. Just like it says on her bumper sticker.
And what does someone whose “other car is a Rolls-Royce” look like? Surprisingly, not at all like someone who owns a $300,000 car. And if their other car is a Rolls-Royce, why the heck are they still driving around in that rusted out 1986 Renault Encore? It just doesn’t make sense to… oh wait a minute! I totally just got the joke! Ohmigod, that’s hilarious! The irony!
Whew. That one really got me.
But back to the Beanie Baby lover. I had to know – what does a card carrying NRA member/Beanie Baby enthusiast look like? All I could see was the top of his head. Heck – maybe that’s a woman. Hard to tell from this angle.
So I followed the truck for a few more blocks, racing to catch up with him. He was dodging through traffic, possibly on a quest for more Beanie Babies. Or more assault rifles. I had to know which one.
But alas, the elusive Beanie Baby collector would escape me. For now. But I’m still on his trail. I must know who this enigmatic soul is. What makes him tick? How many Beanies does he own? Does he think they’ll bring Kingly the Lion out of retirement? Has he ever met Charlton Heston? Maybe I’m making this out to be far more interesting than it really is. Maybe guns and stuffed animals aren’t all that strange a combination. Maybe this creature I’m hunting isn’t all that rare.
Well, only time will tell. In the meantime, I have returned to that intersection and placed a 1999 mint condition Porridge the Bear on the ground, poised seductively under a trap I made out of an old refrigerator box, a stick, and some string. Now, the hunter becomes the hunted.
We’ll see who brakes for Beanie Babies. We’ll just see.