Collect Them All

Collecting junk goes back to my childhood, when boxes of sugary cereal held goodies that we would fight each other for. 

My little brother, Paul, (not so little now) was a big baseball fan, so naturally, he collected baseball cards. Topps, one of the companies that printed sports cards, saw there was a market for kids who wanted to collect but weren't into baseball. They began producing collectible cards that featured TV and movie scenes.

I fell right into their demographic.

Soon, I was collecting cards that celebrated the Monkees, Man From U.N.C.L.E. and other favorites of mine. One of the gimmicks they used was printing pieces of a puzzle on the back of each card. So when you'd collected them all, you could turn the cards over and arrange them to form a poster-sized picture. Inevitably, there were one or two cards I couldn't seem to acquire, so my puzzle had gaps. But it was still fun to try.

Groovy.

Then, one day Wacky Packages arrived. They were pure genius, because they appealed both to me and Paul. It was something we could both agree on, a true rarity in our formative years.

The gross-out humor appealed to boys, but I appreciated the play on words. "Bear Aspirin, Headache Relief for Bears." And "Raw Goo Uncooked Spaghetti Sauce." And "Pupsi-Cola, the Soft Drink for Dogs." Not all of them were winners, but enough of them were to make collecting worthwhile.

Mr. Ginley recently alerted me to an article in Retro Fan, a magazine he borrowed from the library. It had an article about the history of Wacky Packages. I didn't know that Art Spiegelman, writer of the award-winning graphic novel Maus, was one of the writers for Wacky Packages. As was Zippy cartoonist Bill Griffith. 

What a cool gig!

If you, too, were a fan of Wacky Packages, there's a website, hosted by a guy named Greg Grant. The web address is WackyPackages.org. I'm going to stop by later and pick up a chuckle or two.

That reminds me, I need to stop at the store for some Quacker Oats, Cap'n Crud and Harm & Hammer.

Didn't They Just Go and Do It?

My grandmother had a signature saying we always used to tease her about. Whenever someone did something wrong, she'd say, "I told them not to do it. Now, didn't they just go and do it?"

photo courtesy of Joe Ginley

After my blog last week about how society gives lip service to women on one hand while slapping them down with the other, the Browns provided a classic example to validate my postulating.

Deshaun Watson has been accused by 22 women of sexual misconduct or sexual assault. While the grand jury declined to criminally charge Watson for nine of the incidents, thanks to the "boys will be boys" and "he said, she said" school of law, there remain outstanding civil suits against the quarterback.

None of this prevented the Cleveland Browns from trading three first round picks for 2022, 2023 and 2024 – and even more. The Browns then signed Watson to a plum 5-year contract for $230 million, fully guaranteed. 

So much for the Browns' Twitter post on International Women's Day giving a shout out "to the incredible women that help make it all possible." Said women now have a view from under the bus.

Well, business is business after all, and the specter of a winning team was just too much for our "never-made-it-to-the-Super Bowl" franchise. Clearly, they no longer espouse their 2020 mantra, "Tough, Smart, Accountable."

Still, making a deal with the devil comes with consequences. Losing a percentage of their fans probably won't matter much to them. As for me, I'm mostly a fan by association, so they won't care what I think. But Mr. Ginley and my son were lifelong fans.

Yes, I said, "were." Both are incensed over the newest Browns player, and I couldn't be prouder of the two of them. They've packed away their Browns gear and won't be wearing it anytime soon.

Let's go Guardians!

I Am Woman, Hear Me Snore

Last Tuesday, March 8th, was the day when the media outlets put out a big "huzzah" for the women all over the world as we celebrated International Women's Day.

public domain image

I mean, yay for us, but what, exactly, were we supposed to be celebrating? I thought I'd come up with a list of possible reasons for this auspicious holiday:

• Here's Your Consolation Prize: Sure, you're still paid less than men, but you now have a day that's all your own. 

• It's Nice to Be Appreciated:  Once a year is better than nothing.

• It's Too Hard to Get the ERA Passed: The Equal Rights Amendment may be DOA, so by golly, there must be something we can do to show we care about half our population.

Before the guys I know read this (if any of you are still reading), know I'm not launching a personal attack. I've been blessed with the men in my life, from my husband who was a stay-at-home dad and raised our son, to my kid who has turned into a wonder and treats women with respect and kindness. Plus my Facebook friends, who wouldn't be my friends if they were assholes to women.

I just don't understand why we need to invent a day to honor women. Shouldn't we just take care of each other every day? The fact that women's dads provided them with two X chromosomes instead of an X and Y seems a sad reason for a holiday.

International Women's Day is part of Women's History Month, an opportunity to recognize female achievements over the course of our existence. 

Which brings up another question: Shouldn't women's history be part of the history we teach our children? Why do we need to separate history into categories? Will we ever get to a point where our history goes beyond our founding fathers to include all of the different genders and races that make America the crazy quilt it is today?

Oh well. A girl can dream, I guess.

I'll just mark my calendar for Mother's Day.

It, too, may be just one day. But at least I get presents.

When Fish Bite Back

I think we can all agree, aging sucks.

roly poly fish head (public domain image)

Part of the problem is that most of the time I manage to delude myself into thinking I'm decades younger than my actual age.

Then my body chimes in and reminds me there are certain things I cannot do anymore.

Like eat deep fried foods.

Last night, ignoring my intestinal history, I chose to partake of the Lenten season's first fish fry. I'm not a practicing Catholic anymore, so there's no reason to eat fish. I just enjoy fish fries.

Sadly, they no longer enjoy me – a fact that became all-too-apparent throughout last night. I won't go into the gory details. Suffice it to say, I'll no longer be eating fried fish, KFC chicken, onion rings or anything else that comes out of a bubbling vat of fat.

Still, I wish for fish. But I am grateful my malady isn't anything more serious. 

Better to be sick from the fishes than to sleep with the fishes.

I'm sure Luca Brasi would agree.