Begin fireworks on my mark.
I’ve been trying for days to think of something really special to do for this post.
Why? One hundred isn’t even my favorite number. I should have made 88 be the special post.
Everyone else seems to think it’s a milestone. Triple digits and whatnot.
But I am currently at the bottom of a deep pit of self-loathing due to my habitual reaction to the wheel of fortune spinning me down into the mire of every damn lousy thing blowing up in my face at once. It’s one of those moments when you realize you’ve spent the last few weeks juggling a dozen eggs, and then your hand cramped up, and now they are all shattered at your feet. And you know you are supposed to cheerfully shrug and go get some more eggs and start over. But you just want to stomp them and shriek, turn and walk away.
As a somewhat serendipitous slap in the face, my husband just this morning emailed me a link to someone else’s blog post that he had enjoyed yesterday. Super interesting, glad he shared it. I highly recommend it if you are interested in the subject of teenagers and how to parent them (even though dude appears to only have an 8 year old. It will be interesting to see what he’s writing when the kid’s 16). But it only served to remind me that, in good company with billions of other people, my husband doesn’t read my blog posts.
Jealousy is a bitter little bitch, isn’t she?
So here is my 100th post. I’ve honored the occasion by spitting on the floor, whining into my coffee, and just generally being a pithering little wretch.
It’s my party and I’ll cry, oh I guarantee at some point I will wail like a baby, if I want to.
Aaaaaaaand – fireworks.