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She would loose herself in the game and dunk ball after ball into the hoop. Her tongue lolled out of her mouth, wagging back and forth in concentration, as she hurled her games tiny self at the basket. "Let's go shopping," I would say to her after she scored games her 42nd point, to which she would roll her eyes and mutter something about my father's side of the games family. My mother rarely troubled herself with housework. Our hovel was strewn with half-bagged Avon orders, piles of books, perfume decanters in the shape of Dutch maidens, unwashed dishes, and dead houseplants. My mother did not intentionally set out to create an ambiance that only a full-scale tornado could reproduce; it's just that she was easily distracted. She would drop her house chores in favor of a good tennis match, reminding me that "the dishes will always be there, but the opportunity for a good game of tennis will not."
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