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Tracy is in town—fresh from North Carolina!

I’ve known Ms. Tracy since we were fresh faced suburbanites trying to figure out how the heck we’d escape small-town Massachusetts. She was an Earth-loving, baby-loving, cream-green-or-maroon wearing sweetie. Her car was peppered with peace, love, and happiness bumper stickers, while the inside was filled to the rim with junk. Items would literally fall to the pavement when I opened the door.

Tracy and I worked well together. She complimented my Earth and baby ambivalence, my love for black and shockingly bright colors, and my non-driver status--which is the only thing on my list that hasn’t changed. Me, Tracy, and Ange hung out all the time. So much so, that my dad was concerned. “Why don’t you have other friends?” he’d ask. (Not the kind of question I recommend asking your teenage daughter, fyi.) Of course, we all did have other friends, but they just weren’t as good.

Having Tracy here, holding my baby while she carries one of her own in her belly makes me want to hijack her. Why can’t everyone I like just move next door, already?
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