Spice Girls? No

spice girls

Handwritten page of a diary dated June 5, 1999

…  she would probably have convulsions if she couldn’t watch ‘The View’ and now that it’s summer, she’s been trying to get me to watch it with her again like she tried last year. At least that blonde girl is gone and a cool Asian girl has taken her place but seriously, why do I want to watch a TV show where everyone is trying to talk at the same time? I get enough of that at the dinner table when Aunt Mary Jane brings over my cousins every single Sunday since the day I was born. Last Sunday Maggie kept asking me if I still liked the Spice Girls and I kept saying no about fifty times and then Aunt Mary Jane tried to pretend she’s cool by saying “Oh, you’re not gettin’ jiggy Wit the Spice Girls any more?”

If there was a contest for the most UNcool family in all of the state of Pennsylvania, then they would win.


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Published in: on February 22, 2013 at 5:16 am  Comments (3)  

Almost made it to the new millennium

missed the boat for the new millennium

Handwritten page of a diary dated December 17, 1999

  goal was to live into the year 2000 (even if it was just one day) but he didn’t make it. What a drag. Wasn’t happy about going to his funeral and I was even less happy when I found out it was going to be outside — and at sunrise no less. But I dragged my sorry butt out of my warm bed and made it out there and yeah it was cold but it was kind of OK really with the bagpiper and the quiet waves. Then they passed out a piece of paper and I was afraid we’d have to sing something — knowing him it could’ve been anything and I even suspected he might want that dreary Paul Simon song that says “how terribly strange to be seventy” because he was always going around singing that ever since he turned 70. But it wasn’t a song, it was a Shel Silverstein poem (and I remembered he told me earlier this year that Shel Silverstein died).

“There is a place where the sidewalk ends

And before the street begins

And there the grass grows soft and white

And there the sun burns crimson bright

And there the moon-bird rests from his flight

To cool in the peppermint wind.”

And after we said that corny little poem in unison we were all blubbering like little schoolgirls — even the bagpipe player who was a complete stranger and only came out there to play as a favor to his mother’s best friend.


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Published in: on December 14, 2012 at 7:38 pm  Comments (2)