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"You're not rape stories looking at my room!" "I am looking; it's beautiful, honey. I love your pretty bedspread." "But you didn't see my treasures." I walk over to the dresser she is standing next to and peer into her jewelry box. "Wow, rape stories look at all your sparkly things. Did mommy give you this ring?" "Those aren't my treasures . . . These are the treasures!" She holds rape stories out a cardboard box full of earth-covered rocks. "Well, I know what you're getting for Christmas this year, Lindsay," Greg chimes in. "It's coming straight outta the backyard." The man of the house, my brother-in-law Lee, is shouting things like "Bird's good and dead!" and "Hey, Bird, didn't you play for the Celtics?" which inevitable turns into "He shoots, He SCORES!" We take it as a sign that the turkey is ready to go on the table. In the kitchen my mother, my sister Peggy, and Lee's sister Laura are all looking for serving dishes to put the potatoes in, the stuffing in, the squash in, the turnips in, the creamed onions in.
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