Yes I know I blew off Flashback Friday last week. It was partly because of my heinous garage sale and partly because I’m running out of pictures. I mean, I can show you snapshots of Stacy’s seventh grade slumber party where we’re all wearing our “7th graders do it better” t-shirts or pictures from 8th grade science camp but will those be entertaining to you? I’m not sure. And some of my friends promised to send me pictures for Flashback Friday yet I still haven’t received anything (losers!) so let’s blame them, K?

Anyway, I was looking through some old photo albums that my dad gave me and I found a few pictures I kind of liked:

For example, when the offspring were born, Dave and I placed them, rear facing, in the back seat in infant car seats that required an engineering degree to install. Yet my parents felt comfortable putting Trish and I in the front seat of my mom’s Corvair. Even though we are in some kind of car seat, I do not see any buckles or harnesses and would bet money that those seats aren’t attached to the car in any way.

“Um, hello? An object in motion tends to remain in motion so if you hit something mom, Trish and I are going flying.”

In this next picture, my dad is participating in the ever popular balancing a baby on one hand.

“George, put her down, you’re going to drop her!” “Oh calm down Patty, we’ve got a spare.”

“Help, this cat is gonna sit on my head, suffocate me, and then eat me!”

Oh look, someone thought it would be funny to stick buckets on the helpless twins.

This? This right here? Explains a lot. And makes me wonder if alcohol was involved.

My mom died when I was eighteen so I love looking at old pictures of her. My mom would totally love this blog. If she were alive I’d let her guest blog and I’d post pictures of us doing crazy things. I can only hope there’s Internet access in heaven and she has read my blog and is laughing her ass off. And if there’s no Internet access in heaven then I don’t want to go but if there’s no wine in hell then I can’t go there either so I’ll go to heaven after all but if there’s no Internet or wine in heaven then I want to be reincarnated immediately as a six foot tall Sports Illustrated supermodel and if that’s not possible then freeze my head in one of those cryogenic thingies but someone please put vodka in there with me because when you wake me up I’m going to need alcohol because I’ll be a head without a body and that’s kinda fucked up.

As always, thanks in advance.

Back in my single days, getting ready to head out on the town with my girlfriends was almost as much fun as deciding what bar we’d be trolling around in. We tried very hard to select the perfect outfit to help us land Mr. Right (or at the very least, maybe a temporary overnight boyfriend).

One of my favorite articles of clothing was this red cardigan although I have no idea why since nothing screams “I’m about as sexy as a librarian” quite like a cardigan. My only regret? That I don’t have a picture of me wearing the cardigan with my red stirrup pants and red flats. That cardigan was not a man magnet at all but that didn’t stop me from wearing it all the time.

Here’s a picture of my roommate Janice rockin’ the cardigan. I don’t think either of us ever picked up a single dude while wearing it.

Next is the off the shoulder black sweater. I wore it no matter how hot or cold it was outside and I loved it. Why I would pair it with black bike shorts and black slingbacks I have no idea. Ditto for posing on a bathroom counter in a bar. Alcohol may have been involved.

I added black wayfarers to the sweater for extra hotness.

After I met Dave I moved on to something I’ll call “the blazer years.” I swear I had at least ten blazers and you would never see me not wearing one of them. This is the blazer I was wearing the night I met Dave (thus proving that proper outfit selection will in fact eventually land you a husband). I loved this blazer and wore it all the time.

Here I am wearing it again. Dave and I are singing “Afternoon Delight” at Karaoke back when he still used to sing with me.

Next up is the mustard blazer. It was a favorite from approximately 1992-1994. Check out Dave’s shirt. I hadn’t started dressing him yet.

I still have my favorite outfits although now I tend to choose them based on weight fluctuations and how hot or cold it is outside. I’m partial to black and white worn together and I also like khaki and black. And I love my chunky silver Silpada jewelry although ten years ago I would have worn only gold.

What was your favorite outfit? The one you wore all the time and loaned to your girlfrieds. The one that made you feel HAWT.

I know you had one.

Happy Friday blogosphere! I’m a wee bit tired because Barbara, my roving photojournalist in the ‘hood, had a Silpada jewelry party last night and not only did I stay up past my bedtime, I had a little alky-hol too (weird, huh?). When Tracy and I were leaving (another Tracy who spells her name totally different than mine), Yeti’s husband was walking their dog Cody across the street to piss in someone else’s yard. And not only is there a new broom across their driveway, Yeti had her car parked at the very end of it lest one of Barbara’s guests try to turn around in it. But someone did anyway, ha ha! Yeti was probably cowering inside her home mainlining wine and Xanax to medicate herself from the fucking travesty occurring on her street.

Okay, it’s time for Flashback Friday. Here we go.

When I met Dave I had just bought my first place, a sweet little two bedroom condo with a pool and clubhouse. It had a few drawbacks, most notably the fact that the average age of my neighbors was approximately 107. There seemed to be a lot of strokes and heart attacks and the ambulance pulled up with some regularity. And those old people did not care for my stereo volume at all. If they’d chucked their miracle ears they wouldn’t have thought I was so loud but since they seemed to like those hearing aids I just sat back and waited for them to kick it.

Anyway, I found out you could rent the pool and clubhouse for parties and we had several during the five years I lived there. One was held in the summer and involved lots of drinking and skinny dipping and the other two were semi-formal holiday parties held in December.

Here we are at the first holiday party. What a nice group of young adults, all fancy in our semi-formal attire. I’m the one in back with the bangs. And bangs+me=icky. As always, click on any photo to enlarge.

Dave, me, and the icky bangs.

Oh so festive and silly.

Tom, Amy, and Dave.

This photo was taken at the end of the evening.

I guess the condo association felt we were responsible enough to have another holiday party a year later. Rookie mistake.

Look! I’ve grown out my icky bangs (but still have massive caterpillar eyebrows). And nothing says classy holiday party like a bunch of twenty somethings drinking keg beer out of red plastic Solo cups.

Wait, I don’t think we were ready.

Striking a pose.

I think someone spent some time in rollers at the beauty parlor!

How could you not swing from this chandelier?

Raise your hand if you think I’m over the legal limit. Ditto if you think Dave is.

Back then, everyone we knew smoked cigarettes and I think some people might have been smoking two at a time because the next day the geriatric manager of the condominium complex called me to ask if there had been a fire in the clubhouse. Apparently the walls were covered in black soot. Probably we should have cracked a window or something.

We blamed the massive smoke damage on a faulty fireplace, the manager bought our explanation, (thus proving there is an upside to senility and Alzheimer’s) and we escaped with nary a fine.

Neither Dave or I smoke anymore, and haven’t for a very long time. Almost everyone has quit and those that haven’t will be quitting SOON, right?

RIGHT.

P.S. Only 181 days until Christmas so start planning those holiday parties now. If you have a clubhouse, keg beer, Marlboro lights, and plastic cups you can party like it’s 1995.

You’re welcome!

(Please don’t smoke though – the surgeon general and I heard it’s bad for you).

Hey blogosphere! It’s me, Tracey. Remember me? This week has been crazy busy but I have no fewer than 19 some posts all in a state of half completion that I hope to publish on this blog next week. And my long-lost, separated at birth other twin sister Penne even bestowed an award upon me because she totally doesn’t think I suck. I’ll be blogging about that too, I promise. And just so you don’t think I’m pretending to have actually written something in the last two weeks, here are a few of the blog post titles you’ll probably, see: The Trifecta of Weird, Henry, His Name Is Henry, and The Real Housewives of NJ Are A Hot Mess.

Ready for Flashback Friday? Let’s get to it.

I present to you Betty Hill Dance Studio’s 1982 Jazz class. This was during the height of the Olivia Newton John “Let’s Get Physical” years and someone over at Betty Hill had the bright idea to capitalize on our culture’s love of headbands and workout gear. I hated these costumes. I wanted to wear a cool getup like we did the year before when we danced to Kool and The Gang’s “Celebration.” We wore sparkly tops and MC Hammer-esque pants and we rocked the house yo.

Anyhooligans, for this performance we danced to a song by Diana Ross called “Work That Body.” The song kind of sucked, no one had ever heard it, and I can’t remember a single step of the choreography.

For some reason I don’t have an individual picture of Amy in her “Work That Body” costume. But I have this and I’m almost certain whatever dance she wore this costume for had a fuckin’ lot of jazz hands in it.

Remember to dance like nobody’s watchin’. We sure did.

First day of Kindergarten. I ♥ my snoopy lunch box.

Here’s Trish and I sitting on Santa’s lap (notice I’m still rockin’ the shag). Doesn’t Santa kinda look like he might belong on a sex offender registry somewhere? See the cast on my left arm. I attempted to do a penny drop off the chin-up bar on the playground. Fail. And lastly, who dressed you Trish? Your clothes don’t match for shit.

This is one of our senior pictures. We thought it would be fun to have our pictures taken individually and together. Psst, one of us loves Clairol Nice ‘N Easy.

This one was taken while we were sophomores at The University of Iowa. Hello spiral perm! And Brooke Shields called, she wants her eyebrows back.

Next week: Dance recitals!

Are you as tired as I am of the media firestorm surrounding Jon and Kate Gosselin of TLC’s highest rated reality show, Jon and Kate Plus Hate Eight? Whether it’s her business in the front, party in the back hairdo or his supposed philandering with a twenty-three year old, they are on my TV screen and newsstand every time I turn around.

I watched the original documentary about the Gosselin’s when it aired on TLC. I thanked my hoo-ha for only shooting out one baby at a time because, as a twin, I was a little worried I might also give birth to multiples someday.

Here’s Kate Gosselin shortly before she delivered her sextuplets. When I see this picture I think, “Wow, what would I do if I had that many little babies all crammed into my uterine clown car?

I needn’t have worried. At our ten week ultrasound we discovered there was only one little baby in there and we watched its heartbeat blinking on the screen.

I enjoyed being pregnant. Life was an all-you-can-eat-buffet and I no longer had to change the kitty litter lest I contract some heinous illness that would result in our offspring being born with paws and whiskers.

Pregnancy got a whole lot less fun as I neared my mid-summer due date. I had one pair of shoes that fit and stopped caring whether my maternity pants matched my shirt.

My due date came and went.

Every day after that, when I awakened in the morning and realized I had A)not gone into labor in the night and B) had to go to work, I became increasingly more pissed off.

Finally, 11 days past when my firstborn was due to arrive, Doogie Fucking Houser, who had joined my OB/GYN’s practice after graduating from medical school a scant two weeks prior, announced he’d be delivering our baby within the next forty-eight hours. We were instructed to check into the hospital by 8:00 PM that night so special medicine could be applied directly onto my girly parts and I’d finally go into labor. This picture was taken as we got ready to go to the hospital. I know I look like I’m about to give birth to sextuplets too but believe me, there’s only one in there.

We didn’t know if we were having a boy or girl but by 6:00 AM the next morning I no longer cared what we had as long as it was no longer residing in my body. At 1:00 PM I pushed for what seemed like hours and it still wouldn’t come out and since I was so tired I just screamed at them to use the vacuum. Once they saw the look on my face, they sucked Matthew out with a hospital grade Dyson.

He was 9 lbs. 7 ounces and 21 and 3/4 inches long. I can’t blame my inability to hold my pee-pee when I sneeze entirely on him because three years and four months later his 9 lb. 6 ounce, four days overdue sister came hurtling out of my baby box and ruined my bladder control forever. And, I gave birth to her without any drugs whatsoever.

Our household may not be reality show worthy but I don’t care. Unlike Jon and Kate, Dave and I won’t have to talk to the offspring about the time mommy and daddy’s marriage imploded on national television. There are also no cameras around to document me walking the offspring to the bus stop without a bra. Or to see me lying on the couch with my ipod turned up so loud I can’t hear them shouting “Mom!!” Or that time I pretended not to notice when they ate frosting out of a can for breakfast.

Thank.God.