My grandmother is not just a regular old-world relationship advice spewer.
Usually, between my grandpa’s stories and my grandma’s ponderings, we hardly even have a moment to glance at a menu or chew our food—although it somehow all gets chewed because none of us ever leaves a crumb behind.
My grandma arrived in her usual state—twenty minutes late, wearing a long, flowing skirt, and with the flowery grandma smell that probably takes eighty years to curate.
She is a psychiatrist, specializing in sexual dysfunctions.
Once she had kissed me hello and placed the microphone around my neck, she pulled a small notebook out of her purse.
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