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2001-11-21 | 9:04 a.m.

I think my get-up-and-go got up and went.

Actually not in a bad frame of mind this morning. My mother called me yesterday and said, "Diane is cooking Thanksgiving dinner. She wants you to do the vegetables."

If I had been on my period, it might have made me angry, but I just shrugged it off. After all, I didn't have a turkey in the fridge, and I hadn't invited them over. After hearing so much lately about what torment it is to come here, I don't feel like inviting anybody. I don't particularly care to go over there, either, but it seems the better part of valor to acquiesce. I've read that the entire country is suffused in a warm familial glow this holiday season, but the glowduster neglected my house, apparently. I'm not feeling it.

Did I tell you that Duff said, while they were visiting, that he thinks his parents don't like to eat at our house because of the way the place smells? I don't think he anticipated the consequences of this revelation, which he is now trying, at least in part, to recant. Maybe it was his own freakout, projected onto me, in the hope that it would spur me to clean more thoroughly. However, since I had spent a fair amount of time cleaning the dog bed, bedding, and basement floor shortly before he said it, it only fanned my paranoid hermitic flames. Then when I hear my own people's complaints about being mistreated, I just think, why bother? And the cherry on top is that I've refused to let my niece's son Rojo, age 4, back into the house until he apologizes to me for pulling my tablecloth off the table (along with full bowl of cereal and other dishes) during a temper tantrum. I think he's forgotten, but I haven't.

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