Meet Milo!

Milo is the newest member of the Reeves' family!

Here are some facts about him...

- We picked him out from the Dumb Friend's League in Colorado, and I was originally after a Lab, but this little guy stole my heart.

-He is 7 months old and a mixture of Australian Cattle Dog, Heller, Collie, and no one really knows what else. But he's very adorable!

- As soon as you start to pet him, he flops over onto his back and loves to have his belly scratched.

- He loves to eat everything, except his dog food. He much prefers to eat my mom's dog's dog food, which she does not appreciate.

- When we went to Petco, he picked out a bone that is bigger than his head and carried it around the whole store.

- So far his favorite hobby is to go up to my room and bring my shoes down and give them to me and/or eat them.

- He's adorable.

Inappropriate story

This story is rated PG-13.

You've been warned.

I don't really have a filter about what is appropriate to share and what is not, but I feel that laughing at embarrassing situations helps me to not bury myself in blankets and never come out. So please, laugh with (at) me. 

My mom has some very nice Hispanic women that come to clear her house every couple of weeks. They usually just clean the main level and upstairs, and don't clean the basement. This is an important part of the story, because my husband and I lived in the basement of my parent's house for a couple of months this summer. So, on one fateful afternoon, I was aware that the cleaners were at the house, but I had been told that they don't come into the basement. After various marital pursuits, such as balancing the checkbook and discussing retirement of course, I found myself sans ropa, ifyougetmydrift. It also happened to be laundry day. I went to go run into the laundry room, on the opposite side of the basement, to grab some clothes. Just as I was making my sprint past the stairs, who should open the door? Of course the cleaning ladies. She quickly put her head down and mumbled an apology in Spanish and slammed the door. And then I'm pretty sure she went to go soak her eyeballs in lysol to cleanse them from the image burned into her retinas. I'm pretty sure my cheeks stayed bright red for about a week. And I had to hide in the basement every time the cleaners came after that because I could not bear to see that poor woman again.

Fast forward 3 months... The cleaning ladies came yesterday. I opened the door and immediately locked eyes with the one who was involved in "the incident." I immediately turned scarlet once again and we both kind of looked down awkwardly and smiled nervously.

I feel like my list of people who have accidentally seen me all nakie is higher than normal. There is the time I was in a changing room in Kohl's and the dumb door flew open, the time I was playing the waves in the ocean and several crucial functions of my swimsuit were compromised, and various other wardrobe malfunctions. Nobody wins in these situations. I come away embarrassed and unable to make eye contact with anyone, and those exposed have to deal with permanent and irreversible damages to their psyche.

The moral of this story is, take caution next time you make a dash across the house in your birthday suit.

I can never think of good titles for my thoughts.

I lost my camera charger, dag nabit. I keep wanting to take pictures and post 'em on ye olde blog but I can't. 

One thing I wanted to take a picture of is the freaking tiny airplane that my husband will soon be navigating through the skies. That thing is so small. Here is a picture of it that I found on the internet:

I feel like I could just bat it out of the air! Cary is all kinds of excited and nervous to finally be flying. I have so much anxiety regarding this event. On the one hand, it is awesome and I am so excited for him. Pilots are hot. And on the other hand, I sometimes wish his childhood dream was to be an accountant or something. Hey, accountants are hot too. I find staying on the ground and not being shot at to be a total turn on. But I guess I will try to calm my anxiety and remember all of the positives of my husband being a pilot. Number one being that he looks smokin hot in a flight suit. I am so dang proud of that guy. Cary has been studying his little fanny off at IFS (Initial Flight Screening) but I lucked out and got to hang out with him on Friday. We spent the night in Pueblo and ate pizza in our bed at the hotel at 10:30 p.m. and it was awesome. Two thumbs way up for that. 

Life is amazing when you are married to your best friend. 

I've been struggling to find motivation for my independent study classes. Why won't someone pay me for the unique skills I've already cultivated? Where is the job market for making and eating dessert? There has to be some demand for those who can talk insanely fast and remember a lot of useless information. Did you know that elephants are the only animals with 4 knee joints? That's what I'm here for. And let's not forget about my real talent: knowing all of the words to songs. Somebody let me know if they hear the Lyrics Police are hiring, because I would be an indispensable asset to their team. 

But since nobody is taking advantage of all I have to offer, I find other ways to occupy my time and neglect my studies. Today my sista came over and my mom showed us how to make these adorable little halloween guys. Jars+ tissue paper+ glue= precious halloween decorations to stick lights in. I wish I had my house to decorate! I've always wanted to be crafty. I have these great ideas and pictures in my head, and then when I try to make it, I get frustrated at how slow it is and how uncoordinated I am. And the fact that my Frankenstein looks like a Lego person's head. You think you know what Frankenstein looks like, but when it comes to cutting it out of tissue paper, I was at a loss. But it was fun anyhow and they turned out pretty well if I do say so myself! Minus lego head. 

I would like to close by stating for the record that my fam and my husband are the bomb diggity. 

Am I the only one who...

... irons my skirt with my hair straightener when I'm too lazy to do the whole iron and ironing board thing?

... eats so much cookie dough while making cookies that I can not eat any of the actual finished product?

... only feels inspired to blog when I should be studying?

... forgets whether I am shampoo-ing or conditioner-ing while in the shower and has to start all over?

... gets excited about eating breakfast the next day while falling asleep at night?

... gets jealous of my dog whose entire life consists of eating and sleeping?

... wishes I had a kid when I walk by cool looking playgrounds so I could play on them without looking like a creepy pedophile?

... thinks America's Funniest Home Videos is still hilarious?

... secretly wishes it was socially appropriate to live at home until you are 50?

Please tell me it's not just me. 

I am losing my mind.

My subconscious freaks me out sometimes. Almost every night, I have extremely involved and usually fairly traumatic dreams. Last night may trump them all.

I dreamed that Cary was deployed (sad enough by itself). So while he was gone, I started feeling really sick, so I went to the doctor, where they informed me that I was like 5 months pregnant. Side note, no one should ever watch the show "I Didn't Know I Was Pregnant" because I am pretty sure that watching that contributed to this dream. Side note to my side note, I don't believe that any of those girls didn't know they were pregnant. I think they were in denial. How in the world could you not know that there is a PERSON inside of you??? Anywho. So that was traumatic and I was all upset because the baby would be born while Cary was gone, I was in Texas by myself, etc. So then the doctor tells me that the baby is the least of my worries, because I also have extremely aggressive breast cancer, and I will most likely die before the baby is born. I called my deployed husband and he got together everyone we know in Texas (which consists of about 4 people) to come and help me and be with me, and I couldn't get a hold of anyone in my family and my husband couldn't come home to be with me. In my dream, we just spent hours on the phone, not saying anything, both of us just crying. It sounds ridiculous while I'm typing it, but it felt SO REAL. I honestly woke up sobbing!

Usually when I have these freaky dreams, I wake up and see my precious husband sleeping like a rock next to me and I cuddle up to him and try to focus my dreams on puppies and ice cream. But the hubs is gone so I just kept falling asleep and having that same dream over and over again! It was horrible. 

I need to lay off the drugs,  man. 

Also I would like my husband back. 

Things I am currently pondering.

Last night I dreamed that we were at the pet shelter, picking out our puppy, and instead I came home with a rooster. The rooster was not particularly friendly or cute so I'm really not sure what prompted this. All I know is that I do not want a rooster, I want a ball-chasing, foot-licking, tail-wagging puppy with floppy ears. 

I feel like I need to get something off of my chest. This has been a long time coming. I'm not sure if this is a confession or a proud announcement, but a few weekends ago, Cary and I ate a whole thing of bluebell ice cream in one weekend. One day it was all I ate. Why do I have the ability to do this? I wake up in the morning, and ice cream sounds like a perfectly reasonable breakfast option. I try very hard to suppress these desires, but sometimes I just want some ice cream for breakfast. 

The mail man is stealing our netflix. One time I opened the door right as he was delivering our mail, and I saw a netflix in the bunch and ours was supposed to arrive that day... but he did not give it to us. So I figured it must be a neighbor's. But our DVD never came! So we looked online and saw that it had already been sent back, and never made it to us. What the! I just know he is stealing it and watching it on a secret TV in his mail truck as he drives around. 

It is the morning and I haven't had breakfast yet. And I wish we had some ice cream.

The End.

I hate running.

My major is exercise and wellness. Given this fact, you would assume that I enjoy doing things such as exercising. Ha! I do exercise, and sure, I enjoy the benefits, like cardiovascular health, reduced stress, and not being obese. But the actual act of exercising is about as pleasant to me as cleaning out the toilet. It needs to be done, but if a system were available in order to stop doing it, I would be the first in line. 

I went for a run this morning. There are a number of things that I have to do in order to delude myself from reality enough to run a few miles. If my mind becomes too conscious of the fact that I am exerting myself, I am suddenly overwhelmed by the desire to sit down and wait for someone to take my deranged self back to the couch where it belongs.

My iPod needs to be pumping out tunes constantly. One time I was on a run, and I was 3 miles away from our house. My iPod died. So I called my Dad and he came to pick me up, because taking away my iPod is the equivalent of chopping off my foot. My iPod serves 2 purposes: 1. So I can't hear myself panting. If I can't hear it, it doesn't exist and I am much less aware of the agony I am currently experiencing. 2. Most of my songs on my running iPod are rap and pop songs with lyrics pertaining mostly to hot bodies. Somehow, listening to Fergie sing about her humps motivates me to get my booty in gear.

I also have to trick myself into thinking I haven't been running very long. I put my watch on upside down so that I can't just glance down at my watch and check how long the torture session has dragged on. Sometimes I play games with myself, seeing how long I can go without looking at my watch, and then trying to guess exactly how long I've been running.

When I'm running up hills, I look straight down at the concrete and try to guess where I will be when I look up again. 

I tell myself that if I were running a marathon, 6 miles would feel like nothing. 

I try to remember all of the names of my teachers from school, try to remember all of the dates my husband and I went on when we were dating, count the number of steps it takes to get to the end of a street, and a variety of other menial tasks to distract my poor brain from the reality of the situation. 

I wonder what motivates most people to run. Fitness? Hot body? The actual enjoyment of exerting yourself? Ha. I am motivated purely by guilt. When I see other people exercising, I just wish everyone would go home and be fat so that we could all be fat together and I would not have to sweat anymore.

It is 6:30 in the morning.

Every morning, our alarm goes off at 6:30 and I feel like I am coming out of a 5 year coma. I am quite confident that if that darn thing didn't go off, I could sleep for about 7 more hours.

And yet.

Almost every Saturday, 6:30 rolls around and my eyes pop open, ready to attack the day. I try very hard to convince my brain that sleeping is really what we want to be doing right now, but it does not listen. Every song in the world gets stuck in my head, everything is suddenly unbearably uncomfortable, and I have to go pee.

Why, oh why, must this be the case? 

That very thing occurred this morning and I did not want to suffer alone, so I spent the next half hour subtly trying to wake up Cary. I wanted to wake him up, but gently and slowly enough that he would think he woke up on his own. But after half an hour of poking and sighing very loudly and fidgeting in the bed very ceremoniously, the boy is still in there sawing logs. He may never wake up. 

I am also pretty scared of waking up Cary. He is not very sane when he is woken up. One time, when we were engaged, we were at my family's condo in Utah. Cary had fallen asleep while we were watching a movie. It was almost time to leave for my big family party that we have at Christmas. This was the first time Cary was meeting my extended family, and I was really excited about it. I went to wake him up, and he kept snapping at me to leave him alone and not touch him. I kept telling him we needed to go and he said he wasn't going, and he didn't care about a stupid party. I was freaking out, telling him how everyone was expecting to meet my fiance, and he needed to get his rear out of bed, but he just kept pushing me away and telling me he wasn't going. So I go to finish getting ready, on the verge of tears. A few minutes later, Cary saunters in, gives me a kiss on the cheek and starts putting his shoes on. I am so confused. I ask him where he's going, and he says, "Doesn't the party start in a few minutes? I woke up a minute ago and realized it was time to go. Why didn't you wake me up?" Of course I told him about how I nearly broke up with him for being such a jerk when I tried to wake him up, and he has zero recollection of the event. 

And that is why it is best to let sleeping dogs (and husbands) lie. So now I am blogging and watching things on Netflix. We became Netflix members yesterday and it is the best decision I've made in my entire life. 

Aside from marrying this guy:

Cary in his natural habitat.