Here Comes the Time Machine

In addition to Facebook, twitter, and this blog I also have an Instagram account. (seriously I am in trouble when the robots take over. Or the EM pulse takes out all the electronics. Pick whichever tech apocalypse you prefer.)

I mention this account because a few days ago my beautiful cousin posted a picture of me and my Mom from  a long, long time ago. This of course prompted me to pull out the old albums and share some photos.

Sweet mullet like hair. (jealous? hell yeah!)

 This would be me (in the blue sweater. I was a paragon of femininity. Even then.) my younger brother Sal and my Pops. Or "The Big R E C C O" as we affectionately called him. He wasn't huge. More like regular size but there was something larger than life about him.

His hands though, were scary big. Ask triple S. He was certain Pops was going to choke the life out of him.

He probably wasn't far off. Luckily pops always liked him so there was never any attempted homicide.

Me, Aunt Cathy, Uncle Jack and my eyebrows. I figure they deserve their own mention. You see them right?

16 there. I asked for a Nordic Trac instead of a sweet 16 party. That would lead you to believe I lived to exercise but that would be a misconception. I did use it for a few years but then it became a clothes rack like so many of it's siblings. Maybe I should have just had a foot long sub at the local Knights of Columbus with a DJ that played the best mix of NKOTB, En Vogue and House of Pain?

As a side note. 16 was also the year this happened:

 

 That's me in the middle in the white dress with blue flowers. Me and these lovely ladies are heading off to the Soph Hop (The Sophomore dance.)  You know how foolish you feel when you see someone wearing the same thing as you? Imagine 3 other girls, wearing the same dress, at your little high school dance.

Seriously, 4 of us.

All dressed the same. Like creepy bridesmaids in search of a bride.

There is photographic proof of this but it's tucked into a yearbook, in a box in the attic, or maybe the closet, or maybe the garage? We have a lot of boxes.

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Next time we can talk about this:

you want to know. 

You really want to know but I'm not telling you until next time.

You'll have to come back.

That is what they call a cliffhanger.