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My mother did not intentionally set out to create an ambiance that only a full-scale tornado could reproduce; bisex it's just that she was bisex 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." She would arrive home from the match to start up again with the vacuuming; pulling the furniture to the center of the room to allow for a really thorough cleaning, when her eyes would light upon a half-finished novel. She would succumb to its lure, leaving the living room upside down. The woman read voraciously. She would immerse herself in a book to such a degree that she ceased to be aware of anyone or anything around her. My brother and I quickly learned to take pleasure from her comatose state. "Mom," my brother would bellow, "Ann just gave birth to twins in the bathroom and left a bloody mess on the floor."
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