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"What?" I asked. She shrugged her shoulders and gave me one of her little coy smiles. "No. What?" I pressed, sure that she definitely had something to say about daughter father story breasts the meal I had spent hours preparing. "Well, Sweetie, isn't this a little fancy? I mean, it's daughter father story breasts not like the Shah of Iran is coming for dinner, or is he?" she giggled. My face dropped and I began grinding my teeth. "I'm just going to get up and make myself a simple little something," she drawled as she began opening a can of tuna. A second later she dipped daughter father story breasts a spoon into the five-pound jar of mayonnaise, swirled it into the lumpy fish once or twice, and then dropped it onto the nice clean counter. I knew we were in for it. The Chinese man I had dated once told me, in between slugs of Geritol, that the Chinese character for war was made up of two separate symbols. The first was a roof, the second, two women under it. I could see the honeymoon phase of our family reunion screeching to a halt.
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