Hunger Makes Me a Modern Girl: A Memoir

by Carrie Brownstein

One Thanksgiving my sister and cousin and I played catch with a silicone breast implant my uncle had lying around, while the movie Scarface played on the TV in the background. Another Thanksgiving, my grandmother sat at the dining table with taut skin and visible staples in her head from a recent facelift courtesy of one son, while the other son carved into the turkey with an electric knife. Our family liked to focus on activities instead of communication, so when we weren’t tossing around fake breasts or staging photos of relatives snorting flour off the counter to look like cocaine, we got the guns out. When my grandfather retired from medicine, he and my grandmother moved to Tucson, Arizona, which is where he developed an interest in collecting firearms and going to the shooting range. The grandkids loved to pose for pictures on the backyard brick patio, the bright orange Tucson sun and cactus-covered landscape behind us, our unloaded weapons pointed at the camera or, more likely, right at each other.

Hahahaaa. There is a picture of the latter activity. Like an old-timey stick up with dopey kids. Ahhh. What are they doing?!