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I would sexual instruction often lurk about my friends' kitchens watching their mothers lovingly produce fresh salads and hearty soups. The Italian ones tortured me with sexual instruction the pasta sauces and lasagna. During lunch time these same sexual instruction friends magically produced carefully crafted sandwiches on bulkie rolls, little sprigs of romaine jutting out just over the herb-strewn tuna salad. I glanced down at the peanut butter and butter sandwich my mother had sat on before flinging it into my Partridge Family lunch box and wished my real parents would come back and get me. Surely I had been switched at birth. By some cruel twist of fate my real mother was out there saddled with some kid who wanted to shoot baskets and eat butter while I had been sent home with a woman who had no sense of appreciation for my interest in jewelry, evening gowns, and home cooking. My fake mother knew that something was amiss as well.
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