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.

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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.

Drying Out

Well, we established a new rule here at the Casa de Ginley. 

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No beverages may be consumed while working on the computer.

This edict came about in the usual way – after disaster struck. 

It all started with a trip to the corner to visit Dunkin' Donuts, an old haunt we hadn't visited much since the pandemic. Now the lobby was open again, the day was warm and sunny, the snow had melted temporarily and it was a pleasant day for a stroll.

Returning home, I went back to work and that's when the trouble started. 

I splashed coffee on my laptop keyboard.

Panic ensued. 

I mopped up the mess as quickly as I could, turned off the computer and turned it upside down. I called my go-to Mac guy at Quadstar and asked if there was any hope.

He said that I did what I was supposed to...sort of. For future reference (and for all of my readers), I provide the following instructions. Should you ever make the same mistake, follow this sequence of actions IMMEDIATELY following liquid contact with your computer:

1. Turn off the computer.

2. Unplug.

3. Flip it upside down and put a towel underneath it to soak up the spillage.

4. Pray and/or do Reiki on your computer.

5. Wait 24 hours.

6. Pray and/or do Reiki on your computer.

7. Turn it back on.

As Mr. Ginley will attest, I was stressed. Also, very lucky. The following afternoon, my computer booted up, and everything worked fine – except for the keys. Because I put cream and sugar in my coffee, the keys were sticky. I resolved this by very carefully running a Q-tip soaked in iso alcohol around the keyboard. Eventually, the alcohol (and careful typing) did the trick.

Yes, I will miss drinking coffee in front of the computer, especially while reading the morning paper.

But I can use my iPad for that. I never want to have to plotz about having fried an expensive piece of equipment because I'm an eejit.

I only wish I'd remembered what the Pepsi Syndrome taught us. 

But like they say, those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it.

Mail Call-ed Off

Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

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Alas, no mention was made of COVID.

Like many of our neighbors, mail delivery has become erratic these last several weeks. As is the case with pretty much everything, the culprit is the pandemic.

COVID has quite a rap sheet:

• Supply chain issues

• Delayed learning in schools

• Increased drug usage/overdoses

• More gun violence

• Rampant road rage/plane rage/mask rage

• Widespread depression

• Rising number of suicides

• Absence of empathy

I'm not sure that COVID caused all of these conditions. I suspect it just chafed away the wafer-thin layer of civility that used to coat the surface of our society. 

But today, I'm going to look for some good news. Much like the nightly newscast, why not end on a happy note? 

So here are some upbeat thoughts to start the day:

• It's the weekend.

• I can have a Stella Artois tonight.

• COVID seems to be settling down for the time being.

• The sun is out today.

• I heard birdsong in my backyard this week.

• Daylight is getting longer – sunset is now post-6 pm.

• Mr. Ginley and I were able to get out of bed this morning.

In conclusion, I reprise a quote, the last words from the move The Tall T. 

After shooting up all the bad guys, Randolph Scott turns to a sobbing Maureen O'Sullivan and quips, “C'mon now, it's gonna be a nice day.”

Early Bird vs. Night Owl

"I'm turning this off," Mr. Ginley proclaimed, ejecting the DVD from the machine. "You fell asleep. It's only 9:00, for god's sake."

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"But I only closed my eyes for a second," I protested.

"You had your eyes closed for at least a minute. Just go to bed."

And there we go again.  Alas, I am an early bird and Mr. is a night owl. I'm up at 5:30 or 6:00 in the morning, while he sleeps in until 9:30 or so.

In all honesty, I like getting up early. I get so much done while much of the world dozes along, ignoring the dawn. Admittedly, part of the reason I rise early every day is the cat doesn't understand the concept of weekends. So even on Saturdays and Sundays, she gets me up so I can  see to her breakfast. The downside of this is that I also crash earlier than I'd like. Sometimes I'll nap on a weekend afternoon, just to stay awake for Saturday Night Live.

And no, that doesn't really work. Mr. Ginley is still prodding me to keep the peepers open.

I feel bad about my narcoleptic episodes. But somewhere around 9 pm, my brain shuts down and my eyelids quickly follow. And Mr. is left to channel surf or read until 1:30 or 2:30 a.m. 

There was an article in the New York Times about sleep patterns. There's a thing called segmented sleep, where you snooze for two four-hour periods rather than eight hours straight. So, for example, you might sleep from 4 a.m. to 8 a.m., then 4 p.m. to 8 p.m. The French even gave a name to the awake time: dorveille (translated to wakesleep). Some folks swear by it. Maybe it's a good alternative to insomnia.

As for me, I'm stuck with the straight-through-the-night method. Once my head hits the pillow, I'm usually down for the count until the cat alarm goes off (except for the three or four nocturnal bathroom runs, which are more like sleepwalking episodes). 

I'm not sure it's any more possible for me to become a night owl than it is for Mr. Ginley to rise with the birds. 

So I guess we'll just have to make the most of our time together.

Before 9 p.m.