This is my 100th post. Jeez.

I wish I could show it the hoopla and fanfare it deserves, 100 times I've managed to impart some deep and important wisdom, but I don't know that I can.

Mom died yesterday, and I was hoping to be able to write something here that meant something, because as Mom used to say, "Come UP with something. . . YOU'RE the WRITER!" Yes, Mom, I am, but right now the words don't want to come so easily. I'm busy learning too late that you were more than I thought. I think it'll be impossible to know all the lives you've touched, but I'm beginning to suspect it was a huge number, and that you were well-loved in all corners. But those are the only words I can part with right now.

I have to write an obituary for the newspapers. I had to buy clothes for "the box" as Grandma used to call it, today. I sat for an hour and a half at a funeral home. And I am happy for Mom. She deserves the comfort and joy that I've been told time and time again she's got now.

How do I keep from being maudlin? Or irreverent? But then again, she WAS irreverent. Funny how it seems like the times when you most need to say something are the same times your brain shuts down and locks the door.

Pooh, and pooh again.


This picture is far cheesier than I usually go for, but it made me cry again.