So when I was home for Christmas, I sez to my mom, "Mom," I sez, "Mom, do you remember M.U.S.C.L.E. Men?"
me: Are mine still around somewhere?
Mom: In the basement on the metal shelves, in a red shoebox.
Go Moms! How does she remember this shit? Off the top of her head, no hesitation. The woman is amazing. So I went and retrieved them, and took them out, and looked at them, and counted them. I had seventy-nine, almost no doubles; not bad, I think, for a girl.
A few hours later, sometime in the mid-afternoon, my brother woke up and stumbled out into the living room to find them all standing on the coffee table, a veritable molded-plastic army. "Hey, my M.U.S.C.L.E. Men!" he said happily. "Bullshit!" I countered. "They are my M.U.S.C.L.E. Men." He acquiesed that they were not ALL his M.U.S.C.L.E. Men, in fact most of them were mine; he was a little too young when they were out, methinks. So then he procedes to toss them back into the red shoebox (which by the way said "Toddler University" on the side (?)) one by one, saying, "This one was yours, this one was yours, THIS one was mine . . . " Ridiculous! I guess an absurdly long memory runs in the family.