"He'll sit there and go, Dipsy... Po... Dipsy... Po. I honestly don't think he knows colors. Just Teletubbies."


Ceramic Grandmothers and Cement.

Two stories I keep forgetting to tell that I'll forget to tell forever after Alaska.

1. "Ceramic Grandma": Diana and Betty Jean's friend from gymnastics has a grandma with two fake knees and a fake hip, or some equally synthetic combination, and said friend calls her her "ceramic grandma," which would be an excellent name for a band. Almost as good as Dental Tart, the name of my band that does not yet exist.

2. Cement: This is better told in conversational format.

(Scene: A hotel room in Madison. DrunkMummy, Vati, Zach, Cate, my grandfather Little Lenny and my uncle Brain are watching TV. Except not really because Vati is channel surfing.)

DrunkMummy: Stop! Cement! (We stop at the cement channel.) I love watching people pour cement.
Me: Oh, God.
DrunkMummy: Seriously! It's therapeutic.
Vati: [Mummy's first name], they're putting dead-people ashes in the cement. To make "living reefs." For people who want to be buried at sea.
Me: Oh, God.
DrunkMummy: I still love cement.


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