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When my mother had finished her diatribe I looked at her and smiled beatifically. "Mother, having read the autobiographies of half a dozen porn stars by the time I was 12, I hardly think that this child will andrei codrescu wind up a pervert after andrei codrescu watching Four Weddings and andrei codrescu a Funeral. Look at me," I added, "I turned out okay." Seven years had passed from the day I had returned home from Iran. My mother had long since gotten over the hunger to be with her grandchildren, particularly as they edged towards puberty. My daughter greeted me at the door in tears. "She keeps calling me Vicky Iverson. So I leave one book on the kitchen counter and all of a sudden I'm Vicky Iverson?" she gasped hysterically. "Of course, she can leave mayonnaise knives all over the place, but if I leave just one book, I'm Vicky Iverson?" she continued. I walked into the house that I had left clean that morning to discover that Hurricane Mom had done her worst. I dropped my briefcase on the kitchen floor and found my mother reading in the living room.
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