It's 6:20pm and the doorbell rings. This is never a good sign. Sure enough, when I open the door, there's a lone young woman with one of those leather-like folders that almost always means magazine subscription sales. I begin to prepare my polite go-away response.
Much to my astonishment, I am greeted with:
"I'm sorry for disturbing you. Is your mom or dad home?"
Much to my astonishment, I am greeted with:
"I'm sorry for disturbing you. Is your mom or dad home?"
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I have, in many ways, turned into my mom -- including the acne well into middle age. Fortunately, though, I don't have myself as a daughter. That would be a little bit much for my brain to cope with.
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