Stockyard Stalkers & Throwbacks {cont.}

I know you all came here to see endless pictures of Beckett and to get minutely updates on what he's doing. We'll get to that in due time.

I already talk too much about baby poo, so I'm not going to mention how I nearly asked another mom at Corner Bakery if I could buy a spare outfit off her so my kid wouldn't have to sit through breakfast in the soggy poop clothes I unsuccessfully attempted to wash off in the bathroom.

Since I'm not bringing up the mom fail from above, I will bring up Taylor's latest sleep-talking. It went a little something like this:

Taylor: What? What did you just say? Did you just say cheap date?
Me: No. No I did not. In fact, I said nothing at all. I just got back in bed after tending to our child.

He's totes cray cray.*

*for you, Lizard.

Stockyard Stalkers

Mom was in town from Kansas this past week for "Jared's birthday", aka to see her grandson. 

Regardless, Jared went along with the cover story and took a day off work to hang out with us. We went to the famous stockyards of Fort Worth and had a blast. 

We bought and played with a 75' Sky Ball in an empty parking lot, ate at Joe T's, raced each other in the Cowtown Cattlepen Maze, chose prizes from said maze out of a dirty Ziplock bag that had likely not been replenished since 1982, and ate our body weight in Nothing Bundt Cakes bundtinis. 

Our added excitement of the day came from the creepy kidnapper man who followed us from the restaurant to the stockyards. I had just finished telling my mom and brother how spooky the guy behind us at the restaurant was...what with his order of 5 margaritas and no food. 

Shortly after the words were out of my mouth, we saw him in all his creeptastic glory standing behind my car at the stockyards. My brother (who is a big, scary fellow at first glance) asked if he needed something; he said no. After said creeper winked at me, kind Mr. Stalker took my brother's warning of, "You need to get out of here." to mean "You should cross to our side of the street and walk 5 feet behind us." 

I think I saw a little steam come out of my brother's ears. It was reminiscent of high school brother who scared off any possible suitors of mine by threatening their very existences.

My brother kept trying to give him the stink eye but Mr. Creepy kept turning to face different directions as if he just found the most interesting speck on the ground or the most fascinating cloud.  I'm sure it had nothing to do with avoiding Jared's attempts at intimidation.

I was officially weirded out and made the executive decision to head home. I know you're all worried for our safety, but I've got it covered. I watch plenty of Chuck. Enough, in fact, to notice the red Chevy Cavalier that followed us at a safe distance for several miles. In perfect spy maneuvering, I intentionally missed the ramp to the highway to lose the tail. (The tail that ended up being a nice Hispanic family of 4.) 

You can never be to careful when it comes to Stockyard Stalkers.

I know what you're thinking: "You forgot about the hidden GPS tracker he slipped under your car!" Nope. Got it covered. Thanks for your concern.

Throwbacks {cont.}

So a few weeks ago I started a list of stories I wanted to remember in the event I need a stockpile of good material. You can find the original list here.

Behold the newest additions:

• Getting in an altercation at a showing of Passion of the Christ.
• Being mistaken as an 11th grader instead of a youth volunteer....a year ago.
• Chastised by a kidney donor for watching the abominable show House (and for hoarding all of my organs to myself).
• Receiving the nickname "Scuba Sarah" after running a 4wheeler into the same pond I'd been driving around for 2 hours.
• Being rear-ended on the interstate by an old man who offered baked goods from his car as consolation as we waited for the police.
• Being rear-ended by a shopping mall security vehicle.
• Pet-sitting for a hoarder whose kitchen floor was composed of alternating layers of newspaper and cat poop. 
• Keeping silent about an incredibly painful rash I developed in college because I believed it to be an infection from the tattoo I hadn't yet confessed. Turns out it was shingles at the ripe ole age of 21.

I'm still waiting to see your throwback stories. Don't think I've forgotten. Shoutout to Casey for her hilarious list.

And a shoutout to Grayson for letting Beckett borrow your blanket and your glasses seen in the following picture: