At the Foot of the Stairs

So, I am driving down to Columbia today with Christian to go see his endocrinologist. We are having a great chat in the car, talking about lots of things. At one point, he asked me if it was bothering me that he was asking me so many questions. "No, Christian. I'm your mother. You can ask me anything." "Have you ever slept with a woman?" "Yes." "Wut." "Next question."

I think I don't know how to blog anymore. I once went from being a fairly open book as far as my life was concerned on these pages. Now, I am struggling to find things to talk about that are as interesting as what I don't want to talk about here. The title of this post is something my grand, stately, elderly, frail, High School teacher Betty Hoyt Fuller used to say. That should jar a few of you :-). Today, I had to get my car insured; my dad's insurance on it finally expired, so I got insurance, and will get it inspected on Friday and get new tags. I have a cold that I can't shake because I stay up too late. I had a birthday. I am older now. Actually, here's one thing: Last week, I finally burned the 934-page grant that I worked on from roughly 2006 to 2008. I was telling my friend Chris that I was sitting there burning it in my fire pit in my back yard thinking, "No good came out of this grant. None. It exhausted me and broke my brain. I am still pa