STRANGER THAN FICTION: ADDICITION TO COLLECTING MAY BE HAZARDOUS TO HEALTH, MARRIAGE

Maybe I'm the one with the problem, but I doubt it.

I don't understand why my husband finds it necessary to drop 20 bucks here, 20 there in an effort to obtain small pieces of cardboard with pictures of athletes on them. They aren't necessarily athletes who everybody recognizes, like Nolan Ryan or Pete Rose, whose pictures have a certain amount of value. The Other Half has taken to buying baseball and football cards with pictures of guys who he THINKS may go somewhere someday.

Yeah, he's a regular Nostradamus.

Frankly, this has me worried. It's reminding me of 1993, or The Year of the Miniature Cars.

Mr. Half and I were just sweethearts then, not two adults sharing a home, a checkbook and mouths to feed -- our own plus two cats. So I couldn't say a whole lot when he started dragging me across America's Heartland, looking for miniature NASCAR cars.

We went to Nashville, Pigeon Forge and Memphis, Tenn. We went to St. Louis and Springfield. We went to Little Rock, Ark., for heaven's sake! All in the name of finding the right little car.

"Sweetie," I finally ventured one day as we sat outside a toy store. "Why are we going to all these different places to find these cars?"

He barely looked up from reading a magazine that told him how much all the little cars were worth.

"Yeah, uh, just sit here a minute and I'll be right back," he replied.

That didn't exactly answer my question. And he came out carrying a bag.

Then came 1994, or The Year of Credit Card Debt. Mr. Half ended up selling all the little cars at about half what he'd paid for them so he could pay off his credit cards.

We were married the next year. Now, I'm like every other woman on earth and hate to be called a nag. Men, if you want a woman to either be very hurt or tear your nose hairs out with her manicured fingernails -- depending on the woman -- just call her a nag. But I have to admit I put my foot down when it came to the little cars. "Remember 1994?" I'd say, and he'd slink off muttering the word "nag" under his breath.

Fast forward to last month. Mr. Half had come so far in his financial recovery that I turned over the checkbook and became the one who got doled out a $20 bill here and a $10 bill there for lunch and gas. Hey, somebody has to be in charge, right?

I didn't even realize that the new addiction was beginning until Danny Wuerffel, a Heisman trophy winner now playing for the New Orleans Saints, was in town signing autographs.

Ricky, the guy in front of us, had just had hernia surgery and was standing there clutching a football and a Wuerffel rookie card. He was also clutching his side.

"Now my 12-year-old son's been in a car accident with his momma," he said. "He's gonna be OK, but it broke his little heart to miss this. I'm getting this stuff signed for him."

When we got to Danny after an hour's wait, the dude in charge said everyone could get only one thing signed. "I'll get the football signed for your kid, Ricky," I said.

Mr. Half, who was holding two cars, looked like he was going to pass out. To his credit, he recovered quickly and didn't knock the football out of my hand.

"You don't understand. You don't collect anything," he said later, indicating that I was a lesser person because, unlike his mother, brother, father and sister-in-law, I don't have one collection of any kind in my home. Oh yeah, except for that irritating collection of bills in the file cabinet.

Now it's Monday night, I'm at home and he's at work. I just happened to pick up the checkbook and saw several suspicious notations, like "Home Field Advantage, $25.72" and "Pro Image, $16.43."

There's got to be some kind of 12 step program for this.

~Heidi Nieland is a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian who now lives in Pensacola, Fla.