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My son was on his stomach in front of the television. "Hmm, I think someone could use a little fresh air, don't fetish you, Ann?" she hinted, using me as her means of communicating indirectly to her grandson. He continued fetish to ignore her, just as I had always done. "Mom, you've got fetish to watch this; it is so fucking funny," my son called out; turning to make sure I would do as he asked. My mother's lips pursed. "Are you going to let him talk like that?" she asked rhetorically. In the photo I am looking over at her with enormous gentleness, because I sometimes feel this. Some part of me is Odysseus's dog. But I was only feeling this about half the time that day. The rest of the time I was annoyed. I was annoyed in general because she is not at all whom I would have picked at the Neiman-Marcus Mommy Salon. --Anne Lamott, Traveling Mercies I lay awake one night thinking of Eskimos.
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