There it is, in a see-through body bag, drowning in an ocean of life preservers: blue hair, red pantsuit, stuporous smile frozen on its face, "Thing 2" emblazoned on its chest.
Passed over by six children ahead of me, I reach down deep into the half-finished box of cereal and fish "it" out. What else to call it but "it"? Ageless and sexless, is it a he or a she? In any case, it is a "2". But where is its "1"?
Flashing that "1" is still buried, I frantically search the box. I realize, too late, that my empathy for "2"s loneliness is being exploited to dupe me into buying more boxes in a search for the missing "1". I wonder if there are any "1"s. Or was some advertising genius intent on having children everywhere plead with their parents to buy more boxes in search of "1".
I eat my cereal and milk, and save "Thing 2"; unable to throw it away. It sits, unopened, on my desk. A gift for Geri...
April 16, 2004