"...we're like Steve and Jean Kennedy Smith's kids going to a family function in Hyannis Port..."
My Sister Eileen, Nov 30, 1999
Hey, how come you never write about me, my sister Eileen IM'ed to me the other day when I pretending to work.
Hmmm. Why wouldn't I indeed? Me, a web hack who dropped out of college my freshman year to pursue a financially unfullfilling career as a stand up comic, write about my baby sister, who has a Master's degree in creative writing from NYU, whose work is respected by no less a former Poet Laureate of the United States, (with whom she on a first name basis; Bob) and who is now waitressing her way through medical school.
I don't think so, Sister.
This website is all about gaining sympathy from
my audience of bored soccer moms with aol accounts. Who would listen to my tales of anonymous hell if they know yours? Well, who besides this disgruntled reader:
are you making fun of handicapped children it seemed that way to me, i have a child that has problems and you better be very careful talking about children and taking god so lightly. you can say all you want about the pope and make your joke but you better be careful. talking or making fun of children. the rath of the living god you may just see.
Curious? Me too. Her name is Kathy Williams and you may
email your questions(and also the correct spelling of the word "wrath") to her .
I was an only child for four glorious years, long enough to get used to it. Then came Eileen, all dimples and baby fat and curly hair. When she was old enough to be scared of monsters, I told her that several blue ones resided in her closet and only I could save her. She crawled into my bed for protection and I scratched her legs with my long toenails. She cried and I said you can always return to
your room, brat, but she stayed like I knew she would and I skinned her alive and those were my glory days as an older sister.
She is vicious and fast and together we can horrify our mother in five seconds flat.
You girls, our mother will say, I don't know where you get your mouths. Not from me, I'll tell you. I don't even understand what you mean half the time anyway, I just know I have to cover my ears. Hand me the remote; you aren't wearing that out in public are you? It's a little snug in the rear end, don't you think? What, what! What? You're so sensitive, both of you! Can someone hand me the remote control, please?
Eileen earns a public high five for last weekend- it was her second solo Thanksgiving in a row. Solo means being the only under-sixty representative of our tiny corner of Kilmartindom. We have cousins. We have lots of them, they multiply like wealthy rabbits and Eileen and I are being bombarded with a second generation of relatives who have to pay an inheritence tax. If you include their spouses, the us against them ratio is 53 to 2 and Eileen says she is never going back if I'm not there and I can't blame her. We're like Steve and Jean Kennedy Smith's kids going to a family function in Hyannis Port; there's no rapist brother, but there's two unmarried women, working, with no children.
