Tuesday, May 22

The Best Parts Of Going Home For My Brother's Graduation

Having this now be the person who I now call for medical consults. I spend my days reading Grub Street, he spends them cutting bullets out of gunshot victims' abdomens. Cutting BULLETS out of people. Delivering BABIES. Sutchering. Sutchering!!! I can't believe he went to school for three years and learned how to save other people's lives, and I went to school for four and still can't write a nut graph to save my ass. Well, I guess if you're gonna suck up the good genes in the pool, you may as well put 'em to good use.

Going to see the Cubs, drinking too much and magically running into a good friend of mine in the bleachers in that random, coincidental way that only happens when your visit your hometown. I wound up throwing a hissy fit over there being no fries for sale in the bleachers, leading me to be ridiculed for eating peanuts whole (which is, for reasons still confusing to me, socially unacceptable) then scarfing the entire bar menu down the block afterwards Martha Marcy May Marlene-style. Oh, and I bought a baseball hat! Now you know I'm a poser from the forehead up.

Never being more proud or excited for my brother than him being in love with a girl who's family owns a restaurant. Margaritas with my blood relatives until I steal their diamond-covered accessories! Eating appetizers three times quicker than the non-Wisel table next to us! A full-blown Mexican buffet! It's like a dream in aluminum serving trays and bowls of tortilla chips.

Drunkenly dancing with my grandmother and completely forgetting about it until my mom sent me photos. She goes line dancing every week in Florida and "all the men hit on her." Girl's got moves. I believe it.

My friend opened a boutique! A BOUTIQUE! All I own is SchmateChic.com and after visiting, her namesake candle, so at least my home will always smell as classy as her business endeavors.

Big fancy graduation dinner at The Bristol. Pictured a la izquierda: Smoked Chicken Hearts, which everyone allowed me to order so that I wouldn't ruin our nice dinner with non-stop pouting. Little did we know that my mom, whose tolerance was solidified at a half-glass of red wine, giving a rant about "Robin, the fucking slut" who once wore my dad's ID bracelet that she was currently sporting would be the highlight of the evening. And over on the riggity right, the aftermath of being two drinks in and peeling apart prawns whose exoskeletons you can't figure out while your family laughs at you for being a doofus since you boogied out of the womb of the woman next to you.

The dessert course glass of Disaronno (a throwback to family cruises, where i had to order a drink to sip on that wouldn't let on to my dark practice of secretly drinking in friends' basements) got me thinking: eating two entrees at once has got to be some sort of viable skill, right? If that bro from Man vs. Food can make gluttony into a career, surely I can make a honed mix of low tolerance and an inappropriately large appetite into a business? Just imagine the "Carlye, The Drunk Critic!" funnels and washable barf bags with my face on the tag for sale on Target shelves.

Family shenanigans, such as:

- My grandmother saying excuse me "sir, would you mind pushing the tables together for all of us?" to my brother's best friend since childhood, thinking he was a waiter

- My mother thinking it's normal to physically stand in a parking spot in an empty lot to hold it for another family member until they get there.

- Everyone yelling at me for losing five pounds like I had taken up a meth habit

- Going around the dinner table recalling all of the horrifically embarrassing things I've done as a child (pole vaulting down a staircase on crutches, tumbling down a hill and obtaining a bump on my head that's still there) to catch my boyfriend up on Those Hideous Pre-Teen Years We Don't Show People Photos Of


My parents are a family of two; I see ten avocados. Granted, I had to go in early every morning of junior year for help with algebra since I'm math-tarded, but unless they have a guacamole party and swim through it Super Mario Land-style, I just don't see how these people are going to eat all this food, even though my entire youth and genetic makeup makes me positive they will.

Hey, who invited the ghost?

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