What the kids scored: Polly Pocket, the Book of Lists, rainbow suspenders and so many cats

This is the face of my younger daughter when she learns that she has to accompany me on a thrifting expedition, but it's definitely not how she looks when she makes a great score—like those rainbow suspenders she's wearing, which are straight out of the Mork & Mindy era (I took this picture at art camp; her face is a reflection of the searing San Antonio summer temperature, not of her feelings about Robin Williams). She Morked out for a good two weeks after finding these suspenders at my favorite church-basement thrift shop in NJ; she even watched a few episodes on You Tube and mastered all the Ork lingo. Now I'm on the lookout for one of those puffy down vests.

I had to bring both of my recalcitrant daughters to a sale on a fancy old-school street around the corner from our house—thank god they had two vintage Bluebird Polly Pockets playsets of equal merit, perfect bribe fodder. One kid got the house set and the other got the vet's office. I'm too old to appreciate Polly Pocket, but these are cute, and sort of strange, and apparently collectible.

I am most definitely not too old to appreciate The Book of Lists, published in 1977, with which I bribed my elder daughter at a recent estate sale. She was absorbed by it for days. We'll see if she keeps returning to it the way I used to: I remember checking this book out at my local library so. many. times. My favorite list? "14 Preserved Anatomical Parts of Renowned People," because it notoriously features Napoleon's one-inch penis, alleged to have resembled a seahorse. Now I can't pick the book up without being sucked in by "Shoe Sizes of 20 Famous Men," "16 people Who Have Taken Opium," "10 Famous Librarians" and "9 Nations That Can Blow Us Up in 7-10 Years," including, improbably, Finland, Romania and Yugoslavia, but also Iran and Pakistan. Everyone should have a copy of this book in their bathroom, along with The Andy Warhol Diaries (but that's a post for another day).

My kids, particularly the younger one, are cray-cray-loco for cats. Ours died a year and a half ago, and while his robotic litter box and cat fountain remain in the garage, still I am unable to commit to a new cat. So I've been filling the void with cat books ever since. At this sale, my daughter scored not one but three excellent cat books. We just finished reading Socks. I have already celebrated Beverly Cleary on this blog, but I didn't realize that her remarkable powers of empathy somehow extended to the feline species as well. How does she do it? That woman is a national treasure. Reading Socks nudged me that much closer to admitting a new Socks into our lives. Don't tell my kids I said that.

Memories are made of this

Last stop on our trip down Memory game lane: This 1968 Milton-Bradley version is the best I've encountered since it's basically a Midcentury Illustration's Greatest Hits, featuring work by Alice and Martin Provensen, Roger Duvoisin, Mary Blair, Eric Carle and of course, our beloved Eames House of Cards. How did all this great stuff end up in one game exactly? I dunno, but the box says "under license to Otto Maier Verlag, Ravensburger, Germany." Ravensburger is the German game and puzzle company founded by Otto back in the 19th century, and obviously the Germans know (and create) good design so somehow it must all be owing to their genius. So to them, I say, "Thanks!" And also to the members of the Bain family (the name scrawled on the box in a couple of places)—I bought this for two bucks at his/her/their estate sale and I've cherished it ever since.

One of the subjects/themes of this blog (apart from the overarching theme of I-am-cray-cray-and-need-to-stop-buying-so-much-stuff) is...why do we like what we like? Why do we buy what we buy? Aesthetically speaking, what attracts us to an object? I'm not given to philosophizing; I was an English major and, I'm not speaking for all English majors here, but personally I'm not capable of deep abstract thoughts. I once attempted to take a class on the philosophy of aesthetics but dropped out after the first week on the grounds that I did not understand a single word that the professor said. ’Twas definitely a roadblock to learning. Anyway, why do you like to look at what you look at? What makes it pleasing to your eye? I find it hard to divorce aesthetic appreciation from nostalgia. I like it because I've always liked it. I like it because I grew up with it. I like it because I remember it. I like it because it reminds me of another time and place that's still somehow this time and place cuz it lives on in my memory. Memory mixed with desire. Wasn't that T.S. Eliot? Okay, sorry, I'm going off the rails—deep thoughts, watch out!—but then again, maybe not. After all, "mixing memory and desire"—isn't that what the best purveyors of vintage do?

Dean Martin - Memories Are Made Of This by beautifulcynic

Pikku, the Finnish Memory game

As promised, this week I'm strolling down Memory game lane. I got this one on my storied trip to Finland back in 1975, and look how beautiful it is! You wouldn't expect anything less from a Finnish Memory game, would you now. I've talked about how I only had a few things with which to amuse myself on that three-week trip—complimentary puzzles and art supplies given to all kids on the Finnair flight, a farm-animal stencil kit, my Asterix books, my brother's Tintin books, a book about mammals entirely in Finnish... Well, suffice to say, I squeezed a lot of good times out of this game, on the trip and for many years after. Like the Eames House of Cards, its images are burned on my retinas, deposited for good in my memory bank, and see below—there's even at least one photograph from the House of Cards, the nails (or are they pins? I've never been sure).

Sometimes I let my kids play with this game, when I'm feeling very generous, but mostly it stays on a high shelf of treasures while they use their own, a 1980 version put out by Milton-Bradley, which I forgot to photograph but you can see all over etsy (like here, for example). It's cute, but not as cute as this one—nor is it a repository of my precious memories!

But the 1980 Memory is waay cuter than the current incarnation put out by Hasbro, which is seriously fugly. My kids have received several over the years as birthday presents, and I keep donating them or regifting them yet somehow there's always one in the game closet. Maybe it's like the proverbial single fruitcake being passed around the universe?

I think if you want a new Memory game that in any way rivals the vintage ones you have to make it yourself. As I was photographing these game cards a couple weeks ago, I suddenly realized how much their perfect squareness makes them resemble Instagram photos (really good Instagram photos, anyway, not so much the ones of your dinner or your latte). Naturally, I thought I'd hit on a great money-making idea—custom Memory games made out of your favorite Instagrams!—but a few seconds of googling confirmed that I was a little late to that particular party. But is anyone Instagramming images of vintage Memory games and turning them into Insta-Vintage Memory games? Hmmm... that might just be meta enough to work...

The Eames House of Cards

At some point early in my life I came into possession of this House of Cards set. My parents gave them to me, I assume, and of course, Crazy Lady still has them. The House of Cards, if you're not familiar, was designed in 1952 by Charles and Ray Eames for children. Like me! A deck of cards, a series of images, that celebrated what they called "the good stuff...familiar and nostalgic objects from the animal, mineral and vegetable kingdoms." I loved my cards to tatters, as you can see from the box.

The cards have small notches on the sides so you can build all manner of structures, but I was never a builder—more of a gazer—so I think I mostly just gawped at mine. A lot. Because those images—the snail shell! the pills! the technicolor veggies! the buttons!—all of them are absolutely etched in my brain, the way the Eameses meant them to be. And every time I see them, I get that Proustian chill of recognition and remembrance (excuse me for being one of those assholes who references Proust without actually having read Proust—I need to learn French! I don't trust translations! You already know that about me!).

So here are just a few of my favorite images from the cards. I've been thinking about them lately because I've discovered that they are also used on a couple different vintage editions of the Memory game, which I plan to share this week if I get my act together.

On a practical note, you can still buy these cards—I believe they're published by the Museum of Modern Art and come in a variety of sizes and styles. They're a bit pricey, but I think this is one of best gifts you can give a kid who has advanced beyond the stage of gnawing on cards or ripping them up just for ha-ha's.

What the children got: the ongoing saga

In honor of my younger magpie's sixth birthday today, I bring you the latest accounting of their estate sale scores. The Native American outfit, above, is completely awesome. The tomahawk is not lethal, but she can now add "archery" to the skills section of her resume.

The older child insisted that I buy this copy of Trudy Phillips, New Girl. I applaud its darling cover, but I'm reasonably certain she's never going to read it.

This box of beads and sequins was a straight-up bribe, purchased to buy me a little more time at the infamous Owl Estate Sale. No one has touched the beads since I bought them—though they HAD to have them at the time—but I expect one day they'll meet their fate in a vacuum-cleaner bag.

I must confess that I was the one who bought this Lite Brite, without any nudging or nagging from any small child. I wanted it! I've wanted it for, like, 35 years. That commercial was irresistible. I don't know why my parents never gave it to me, but I rectified that wrong when I found this Lite Brite in the back of someone's closet. The box is beat to hell, but the lites are still brite. Don't we all just want our children to have what we didn't have? Happy birthday, kid.

Happiness is... a Mighty Men & Monster Maker

Just a little something-something from one of our favorite categories here at Thingummery HQ: what the husband scored. "Scored" meaning different things to different people, obviously.

This Mighty Men & Monster Maker, made by Tomy in 1979, would certainly be considered a score by any of the 229 followers of the Mighty Men & Monster Maker facebook page, if it were mint in box. Unfortunately, this is far from mint—it only has 6 of the original 18 plates, and all but two are torsos. Sorry, did that not make sense? Check out this action-packed video explaining how to use the Mighty Men & Monster Maker for further clarification, but basically this is like doing grave rubbings, with mix-and-match plates depicting the heads, torsos and legs of various Mighty Men and Monsters.

Still, who would presume to put a price on the joy Lindsay experienced upon laying eyes on the Mighty Men & Monster Maker and its $1 pricetag at a supercrusty estate sale? Not I.

Better than Atari

Right, so this thing.

Lindsay "scored" this Roberts Rally IV proto-Atari game console at a crazy ’70s sale—my friend Burgin, who hit it on the first day, breathlessly, rightly described it as "It's like your ’70s childhood exploded in this one house—you've got to go!" How could we not go?

Lindsay gets a little glazed when surrounded by the totems of his childhood, so he was in heaven, despite the children whining and pulling on his clothes and asking for things. (Where was I? In the room with all the books of course.) Unfortunately, he made a classic estate-sale error: He saw something he liked: a working Atari, with games. He picked it up, examined it, then put it back down, undecided. Never put anything down! If you see something and kinda like it, hold it close till you've made up your mind. Officious estate sale workers might try to pry it from your hands—they'll offer to relieve you of your burden, to write up your ticket—but you just wave them away till you're sure. When Lindsay finally decided to get the Atari, he went back to the room and saw another guy with it tucked under his arm. ARGH.

It's a terrible, empty feeling. Naturally he had to fill that void by buying something else, and the something else—the Roberts Rally IV pong game thingie—is still covered with dust and sitting in the garage. Apparently there's a small problem with the battery pack (there isn't one) but he's confident that he can make it work by crossing some wires, you know, when he gets around to it. And when he gets around to it, the kids will lay down their wii microphones long enough to play the four games built in to the system: hockey, tennis, squash and squash practice. Woo-hoo, squash practice!

The New York dolls

I'll be traveling next week for Spring Break, bound for the ancestral home in NJ and the spiritual home in NYC. If I can get my shite together, I'll be sending dispatches via instagram from my favorite thrift shoppes (e.g., my parents' basement, ministorage facilities, etc.). You can follow me if you want.

In honor of the occasion, I bring you the Campus Cuties Lodge Party collection by Louis Mark & Co. circa 1964, which wended its way all the way from New Yawk City to our humble San Antonio mailbox inside a lumpy padded envelope. At the time, my bro and his lady were in the process of downsizing—relocating from their overstuffed Williamsburg apartment to a minimalist loft in Bush-Stuy-Burg. Lucky for my older daughter, the package was addressed to her specifically or I would have snapped those Cuties up and displayed them, much like Mad Men creator Matthew Weiner does in his unsurprisingly rad pad (so I learned from a NYT magazine story featuring his "Mad House"—scroll through the photos and you'll see his extensive Cutie collection voguing atop the piano). Instead, these Campus Cuties bring their mod-girl insouciance (and in the case of the one wearing the teddy, very inappropriate attire) to the Toy Story–scale shenanigans with Barbies, My Little Ponies, Schleich animals and Playmobil princesses that play out across my kids' carpet-tiled floors on a daily basis.

Gag me

On Fridays, my preschooler has an alphabetically themed show-n-tell. This week's letter was "B," and she selected—okay, with a little prompting from her devious mother who likes to get her laffs where she can get them—this seemingly innocent Box of Balm-Olive After Shave. Little did her unsuspecting classmates nor the teacher nor the assistant teacher know, but when you slide open the box expecting to find a fresh bottle of after-shave... SQUEAL! A rat flies in your face.

Out of all the marvelous objects I've purchased for my lovely children at estate sales, I'm pretty sure this novelty toy is their favorite. And is it any wonder? I still fondly recall the snake in a can I got my brother for his birthday many moons ago. Pretty sure it was the best present I ever got him. The appeal is more subtle than, say, that of a whoopee cushion or fake puke, but equally effective. It may be old (1950s? 60s?) but it never gets old. As I was reminded when I picked my daughter up from school and she and her BFF re-enacted the show-n-tell for my benefit about 19 times. Apparently the best part was when the teachers, having sufficiently recovered from the shock of a rat flying in their faces, took the box down to the office and tried it out on the principal. Totally fell for it.

Happy Valentine's Day!

From a monkey and a chicken and all the other fine people who toil here at Thingummery.

A room with a Viewmaster (or two...)

Like a youngish lady who lets herself go prematurely grey, sometimes I think I make myself seem a lot older than I actually am by saying stuff like: "I wrote all my college papers in longhand on yellow legal pads!" Or: "I've seen Benny Goodman and Count Basie perform live!" And of course: "I remember when we got our first color TV—and the first show I watched on it was The Lone Ranger!" Yeah, I am somewhat old-ish, depending on the context, but I'm not yet a card-carrying member of AARP. Still, it's probably fair to say that my tastes have always skewed a little old, or old-school. Old-school sounds a lot better, doesn't it?

Here comes another fogeyish admission: The first time I saw Disney's Cinderella was on my Viewmaster; I never saw the actual movie till my three-year-old daughter got the DVD. I only knew Cinderella distilled to 21 eye-popping three-dimensional or "stereoscopic" images. And as swell a movie as Cinderella is—I might even say it was one of my favorite Disneys if its charms hadn't been somewhat eroded by repeated (and repeated and repeated) viewing—I'm not sure if you really need more than those 21 images.

Like most cool stuff, the Viewmaster was introduced to an incredulous public at a World's Fair (in this case, the 1939 fair). Back then, it was marketed as a high-tech alternative to the postcard, so most of the early reels feature tourist attractions, scenic landscapes etc, but they eventually started making reels of popular TV shows, movies and other fodder for kids. The old-fangled Viewmaster is still being manufactured as a novelty toy, though the $12 Fisher-Price version, while more or less the same product, isn't nearly as lovely to look at as the ones I've collected from the ’40s-’60s. Like the ’50s model pictured here (incidentally I did NOT pay 12 bucks for it—I'm sure it was half price).

I wonder if there's a way to share the images from the Viewmaster reel on the internets, because as cute as this object is, the awesomeness of the Viewmaster is what you get to view. Generally when you score one at an estate sale, it'll come with a bunch of reels. This one came with more than just highlights of the Grand Canyon and The Rescuers and Snow White: the three-part "Movie stars of Hollywood, USA" (featuring glam publicity stills of Debbie Reynolds, Van Heflin, Barbara Stanwyck, Robert Wagner, Dick Powell et al). Something called the Eighth World Boy Scout Jamboree (a wholesome good time, for sure). Tarzan, Roy Rogers, Hopalong Cassidy, Rin Tin Tin and several reels of Tom Corbett Space Cadet, including "The Moon Pyramid" and "The Mystery of the Asteroids." Apparently Tom Corbett was one of those midcentury cultural juggernauts—it was a Sunday comic strip! a series of novels! a TV show! a radio show!—that's pretty much been lost to the sands of time, unless of course you're still consuming your culture via the Viewmaster.

Bonus fun with the Viewmaster? Watching your digital native children, who've been effortlessly troubleshooting Mommy's iphone issues pretty much since birth, fumble with technology that is neither seamless nor intuitive. "Now, honey, don't get frustrated, you've just put the reel in backwards..."