Monday, March 4, 2013

Kelsey Lately: Random Ramblings

Kelsey Lately: Random Ramblings
*disclaimer: I cannot promise you there will be any rhyme, reason, or systematic approach to what follows*


At our house, we suffer from something called "The Hungry Monster."  We can be perfectly normal people one moment, feeling a little ready to eat, and then we cross a certain line and suddenly we turn into total irrational jerks (my husband and I have had some nasty arguments in the presence of The Hungry Monster).  Unfortunately, as displayed at a restaurant on Saturday night, our three-year old inherited this lovely trait.  We all want our kids to be precious little angels in public.  But when my son gets past a certain point of hunger, he's the one screaming that his grilled cheese is too sticky to eat and he just wants to go home and he hates lemonade and he needs to go play and his shoes are too cold.  Once we can coax him to get a few bites down, he turns normal-ish again (I say "normal-ish" because he is my son, after all).  It doesn't take much coaxing for me to eat, but if I start acting like a complete ass hole and I look like this:
Dead yourself here. would be in your best interest to feed me.  Immediately.


Speaking of food, one time I almost gave the Schwan's man a heart attack.  We don't ever order food from Schwan's.  Partly because their selections don't exactly fall into my attempt to feed my family clean, natural foods.  Mostly because I hate -- HATE -- when my doorbell rings unexpectedly.  The Schwan's guy always comes at nap time, and his arrival makes my dog think that our house is under siege and she needs to alert the world of her toughness.  Guess what?  That irritates the crap out of me and wakes up my peacefully sleeping toddler (sleeping = quiet; not sleeping = not quiet).

Anyway, late one evening when our son was still a newborn, I saw the Schwan's truck parked at our curb.  I looked at my husband, and told him I wanted ice cream.  I hadn't ventured into this weight-loss journey yet, so I was still rather large.  Because I was crazy (postpartum is the pits, folks) and huge, he was maybe a little afraid of me, so he handed me a twenty and said, "Go."

Apparently the Schwan's delivery system does not work at all like the ice cream truck.  At all.  Mainly because they lack delightful music.  But also because they are not accustomed to a crazed ice-cream-craving new mother running through the darkness (in her pajamas, barefoot) waving a twenty in the air shouting that she wants some ice cream.  The poor guy nearly shit himself.

I got my ice cream, but had to wait until he came to my door to ask for my order the proper way and then go back out and get it.  He was nearly accosted by our dog and it woke up our peacefully sleeping child.  All for the name of ice cream.

It was totally worth it.


Unless you've been living under a rock, or in California, you have likely been subjected to a fair amount of snowfall (or at least your friends on Facebook have been posting all about the snow, just in case you don't have your own window to look out of, or have never heard of the weather channel).  We had over a foot of white stuff at our house and built a gigantic snowman with our son.

It was taller than my 6' husband and was very cute until his blueberry smile and baby carrot nose fell off.  Then the sunshine melted his head off.  I felt weird having a head-less snowman in our front yard so I kicked the belly onto the ground next to the bottom part.  What is even more weird is that now we have an unfortunate looking pair of headless snow balls in our front yard.


Like most women, I am very specific about the color of things.  Nothing is just tan or orange or green.  It has to be tobacco or burnt pumpkin or celedon.  This annoys my Mr. B.  A lot.  A few days ago, he was looking quite dapper in a shirt that is dressier than his normal polo shirt.
Me: That shirt looks very nice on you, dear.
Mr. B: Thanks.
Me: Would you call that cerulean?
Mr. B (looking at me like he would MUCH rather be watching sports): No.  I would call it blue.
About 8 months ago, our son (who was 2 1/2 at the time) dropped his cup at the table and grumbled. Then he said "DANNIT." 
I was dumbfounded and had to ask him to repeat it three times before finally asking him, "are you saying 'damn it'?" He looked at me like "duh, mom" and said yes. I corrected him and told him that is a naughty word and that we can say "darn it."
So for a few hours he walked around saying "DARN it, DARN it, DARN it."
The following day, some books fell off of his bookshelf and he said "DANNIT." Even though I was dying laughing on the inside, I managed to say "We don't say that word!" He rolled his eyes at me and said "DAARRNN it," with all the attitude of a teenager.
Later that same day, he looked at me and said, "Mommy, I not can say 'dannit'. I say 'darn it', right?" At least he's learning, but I think we are in for oh-so-much trouble.
My husband asked "Do you think he heard that from his friends?" I was stupefied. I said, "No, dear, I am CERTAIN he heard it from us."
We visited my sister and her family over the weekend.  I love getting to spend time talking with my sister until 2:00 in the morning, laughing until we cry.  I also love getting to cuddle my very sweet not-quite-brand-new niece.
Chunky Ballerina

Snuggle time with Aunt Kelsey

All dressed up and ready to get baptized

While we were there, we were highly entertained by our too-smart-for-his-own-good nephew.
I was playing the piano for him when I noticed a song he had written on a piece of paper.  It was a song about Jesus.  I said, "wow that's a really great song!"  "Thanks!  I wrote it," he said.  "Awesome!  How does it go?  Can you sing it to me?"  He was incredibly annoyed with me.  He said (with a ton of attitude), "Read the notes."


I found, on Pinterest, these adorable (and free!) printables from Over The Big Moon and had to have them printed immediately.  I uploaded them to MPix and had them right away.  I just had to share because they are so darn cute!


I make awesome faces when I work out.  I also cuss.  A lot.  Not on purpose usually.  I've been trying to watch my mouth a bit, which isn't really going all that well.  I've always said that liquor and CrossFit make me cuss -- but I might add blogging to that list.  Shit.


After my last blog, my dad printed this for me to hang on my refrigerator.  I love it, and him.

Thank you for letting me spew randomness at you in no specific order.  And thank you, as always, for keeping me In Good Company.

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