A Thank You to The Gossip Girl

that's right, i'm resurrecting the gossip girl.  but only to say thank you.  remember that comment she left on my page about needing to hit the gym and what not when she was angry about my melrose place post?  well i did.  and i lost 9 pounds.  i fit into clothes i haven't fit into in a while.  my legs look pretty damn good.  i'm not even nervous in a bikini anymore. i have to have one of my bridesmaids dresses overhauled and taken in because its practically falling off of me.  and i can bang out 350 crunches and an hour of cardio like it's my fucking job. i feel lighter, stronger, healthier and more energized.

and i'm going to lose 5-10 more. because you were just the kick in the ass i needed when i was ready to feel complacent.

so, thanks for the motivation GG.  you rock!  :)

Need a Moment?

Yup, and I thought it over with a Twix.  Just like the commercial sold it.  And, I skipped my workout this morning, because I was so completely ass-up tired. Which means that now I have to make up said missed workout tonight, and somehow, burn off a fucking Twix bar.  

Yea Mr. Twix, i'm sure you're settling in nicely on the inside of my thigh somewhere and converting yourself to fat as quickly as you possibly can.  And just for that..Fuck you, you stupid cookie covered in super yummy carmel and chocolate, I hate you.  

You were only good for that one little moment anyway - but I'll tell all my friends that you were too small and didn't last long enough.  So there.

*there, I posted.  :)

New Lengths of Absurdity

So here's the breakdown on my weekly gym schedule right now.  6 days a week.  2 hours a day.  45 minutes lifting.  45 minutes cardio.  And 350 crunches a day x 6 days is also 2100 crunches a week.  Obviously, I'm not slacking.

Now here's the new level of ridiculousness that I mentioned above -- I'm typically there from 5:30 to 7:30 at night, which means that I don't really feel like eating much, let alone having to actually cook when I get home... so I've discovered these Green Giant frozen veggies that you just steam in the microwave for like, 4 minutes or something.  There's no butter or oil on them, so they aren't fatty.  Each box has like 300 calories or less in the entire thing.  And they're yummy - there's mixed veggies, green beans, snap peas, shoepeg corn kernels, you name it.

Because the boyfriend is traveling for work, I'm even less inclined to cook.  The moral of the story is that for the last 4 nights in a row, I have literally had a plate full of steamed veggies straight out of the freezer-to-microwave for dinner.  And while it might seem completely fucking stoopid that these are my current eating habits, I'm getting skinnier.  So I don't mind.

The question is... is this just fucking sick?  I fear the answer might be yes.  (But the snap peas are sooooo good.)

:)

The Gym = Hell, kind of.

you'll be fascinated to know that i'm not referring to the literal torture of lifting, stretching, running and wheezing my way through a daily workout.  i'm not referring to the fact that i weigh myself like a poor, unfortunate, weight-obsessed soul either.  i'm not even referring to the stinky guy a few treadmills down, scrunchie lady with the crazy hair or too-loud-music guy.

i am literally saying that my gym is hell.  they are refusing, for whatever reason, to turn on the air conditioning, instead choosing to leave the windows open and direct sunlight blazing in (read - i'm like that pathetic fucking ant on the sidewalk that you used to try and cook with a microscope when you were a kid.  you jerk).  it is consistently a balmy ohmygodmyskinismelting 3000 degrees in there.  they further ruin my existence there by running one, yea ONE TINY LITTLE FAN MOUNTED ON THE WALL... just to remind me of what it would feel like to breathe fresh, non-sweat-drenched, non B.O.-soaked, non-ninetyeightthousanddegrees air. Dear Prince of All Things Unholy - thanks for that, it's awesome. 

i spent 2 hours yesterday dripping every last ounce of excess water in my aching little body all over myself, desperately trying to sop it up in a timely manner with my sad little gym towel (because I refuse to break one of my own gym etiquette rules).  my cold, refreshing bottle of water was no longer; i'd have had better luck drinking molten lava with a heaping side of cayenne pepper.  i was so thirsty and desperate i thought about trying to catch the sweat rolling down my face with my tongue, just to recycle it and get as much liquid back into myself as possible (don't worry - i didn't; that's a level of yuck i'm not quite prepared for yet).

the only thing missing was a horned red guy with a tail and pitchfork poking me in the lower-ab section that's never as flat as i want it to be, laughing and whispering in my ear about vanilla oreos and mojitos and shit.  *actually, that would have been entertaining enough that i might have forgotten how ungodly hot it was in the first place.*

anyways, that's my rant.  i will voluntarily make my return to hell today, which is rather fitting, because that's probably where i'll end up on a permanent basis someday anyways.  :)

**kisses** 

Wore a Bikini. Didn't Die of Embarrassment.

Yesterday was Memorial Day.  Which means today is Tuesday (lest any calendar-impaired readers want to question the timeline of my writing this article).  May 26th - I do hope this was specific enough.

Anywhoo - went to a BBQ yesterday with my boyfriend's extended family and friends.  Got a tan.  Had some drinks.  Threw my dog in the pool.  Threw myself in the pool (sunglasses on, because real stylistas never take them off.)  Actually, I was paying too much attention to walking as upright as possible and making sure everything was tucked in to the suit where it should have been to remember to take my sunglasses off.  So they sunk to the bottom like sad, lost treasure until I realized what an idiot I am, and swam down to retrieve them.  Because my $16 dollar sunglasses from Target are a close second to my boyfriend on the list of things I love most.

Again, digressing.  So, I wore a bikini.  Stringy and everything - and it's a super cute bikini.  Black and white and simple and chic and does what it can to flatter the crazy person who dares to wear it.  And, I can happily report that I neither resembled, nor felt like, a whale.  I didn't even feel like a fat seal, and they're way smaller than whales.  A little self-conscious?  Yup.  Constantly checking the knots so as not to involuntarily expose anyone to my tatas?  Yup.  Carrying on a conversation in my own head as to whether sucking it in like a cheap whore working for a $20 would ever look nonchalant?  You betcha.

But guess what?  My boyfriend thought I looked great.  And my girlfriends told me that being in the gym 6 days a week is really showing.  And beyond not feeling like a whale, I?? Had Fun. In a Bikini.  In Front of People.

So, score one for me.  I'm still breathing!  :)

I'm Declaring War.

On the scale.  I believe that I am bit obsessed with this item.  I step on it already knowing the general range of the number I will see appear and yet hold out hope that something 10 less might magically appear.  There's this one guy at the gym who weighs a weight before he gets on the scale - just too see how accurate or otherwise it might be, so that he knows his true number for sure.  I fear that I am heading in his direction.

is the scale all that important if I can tell that my clothes are looser because my jeans are hanging onto the top of my ass for dear life?  Is it important if I can see a little more definition in my arms or my calves from all the hard work last week?  What if I notice that I can simply run a little longer, a little faster than I could the week before?  Or do a few extra reps with a heavier weight?  Aren't these all signs that I'm doing right by my body anyways?

Does seeing the numbers 1-2-5 in that order make me alright? (Ps - I will never see those numbers in that order.  I've got curves and hips and thighs and shit that will never arrange in that order).  Just because Jennifer Aniston weighs something like that, does it really mean that if I don't, I failed?  Yea, she's like 5'5" and I'm almost 5'8", but still, shouldn't I be the same size?  

I spend a fairly decent amount of time convincing myself that I should, it does and I am failing.  Mostly because the scale doesn't always say what I want it to.  I'm not down enough, or worse, I'm up a half-pound.  That's the kind of thing that makes me contemplate starvation for a week or three.  But then I have dinner with my girlfriends and we laugh over mexican and mojitos at how silly we are for thinking this way, or I share sushi with my boyfriend and enjoy his company more than I detest the calories.  I buy a new dress (on sale, at H&M, obviously) and kind of like the way it shows off the curves that I so often mentally wish away.

And I realize - I'm not bad.  I'm not fat.  I'm not even thick.  I'm tough - I can lift heavier than I think.  I can run longer than I feel like.  And I can throw a punch and a kick like a kickboxing little maven.  So anyways, I'm declaring war on the scale.  I'm breaking up with it.  I'm swearing off of it like a Catholic at Lent.  I'm gonna worry more about how I feel instead of how the scale says I should.  Life is about balance and it's time I got some.

Maybe war ain't that bad.

Dear Abs - Time to Come Out of Hiding

Memorial Day Weekend is coming.  Which means Bikini Season is practically here.  Which means I've been dieting like a mothertrucker for the last few months.  Which means I'm hungry - and bitchy - but I digress.  It means I've been doing bunghole loads of crunches and situps and twist-y things... and if you could just do me a favor and look a little more toned and tight by this weekend - that would be just fantastic.  I know you have it in you, so thanks.

love ya (except for the whole little pooch under the bellybutton that never seems to disappear - you actually suck pretty bad)

**smooches**

Ally's Rules of Gym Etiquette

I feel like this needs to be said here and now, because if I don't get it out now, there's a very real chance that I will lose control of my own verbal reflexes and spew this shit out loud the next time I'm at the gym -

1) yes, there are mirrors in the gym.  no, you do not need to stand 11 centimeters from it counting out loud and admiring your own triceps (they look better to you than they do to the rest of us anyways).

2) spandex is not actually a required element for physical activity.  whoever let this little gem of an idea fly out into the world should be tarred and feathered in public... and then made to wear spandex forever.  because if i'm right... they're probably not the type who can actually wear spandex without looking like a vacuum-packed sack of potatoes.

3) i'm thrilled that you're getting your sweat on.  Try not to do it on me.  or near me for that matter.  i'm not looking for a Ben Stiller in Along Came Polly roleplay.

4) Turn. Your. Shit. Down. - While we all have an appreciation for The Smashing Pumpkins (circa Tonight Tonight), who the eff runs to them on a treadmill?  Let alone loud enough that I can hear them 4 machines to the left.  

5) Grunting doesn't make you tougher.  It does however, make you creepier.  While we're on this subject, that weird ripped tank top you wear that hangs down over your man-nips.. is also creepy.

5) The following do not belong in a gym.  Ever. --> Full Make-Up, Earrings, Scrunchies of any kind (these don't belong anywhere actually), Hair Gel, Guido-style gold chains with oversize crosses, baby oil.  Seriously - NEVER.

On the other hand - deodorant is always a good idea.  Just wanted to put that out there (you know who you are... stinky guy on the first treadmill who always brings me to tears because my nostrils are burning in your stinky body waft.)  Thanks.

**kisses**

When The Eff Did Cake Become the Enemy?

I hear this all the time from people who are dieting, or trying to diet, or whatever they're calling it to make it seem not so crushingly obnoxious inside their own heads.  "I'm fine most of the time, but then someone at the office has a birthday and there's cake and I lose all control.  I wish they'd just not have cake and substitute a fruit bowl or something.  It would make it way easier."

Now - I will be the first double-standard bitch to say that I declared carbs the enemy a few posts back.  But I was referring to the fact that if there's a Maggiano's bowl of Rigatoni-D or a crusty, chewy loaf of French bread and Brie laying around - I will single-handedly try my damnest to out-do a Hoover vacuum and set a new world record for amount of time to straight suck a plate clean.

BUT -- I believe in having a life dammit!  People -- just an FYI - it's a fucking birthday!  Birthdays without cake is like sex without being tied to the ceiling fan (what, what? i digress) -- EAT A PIECE OF CAKE!! or else Johnny Hornrimmed Glasses is going to feel like douche when you blatantly refuse to participate in his office birthday party and politely ask for some strawberries and grapes instead.  

For the love of god bitches, I'm all about being healthy - but I think too many of us are drinking the crazy Jenny Craig Kool-Aid ... cake will not kill you.  It's not hiding a concealed weapon under it's icing-y deliciousness (i don't think) and last i checked, it's not mad that you blew it in that meeting with an important client last week (Marty, in accounting... is).  Walk a few extra minutes on the treadmill if you feel so damn guilty - I will gladly date the treadmill for an extra 15 if I can still have my occasional slice of b-day goodness (see also: side-piece, mistress, bootycall).

And if for some reason, the mere sight of Johnny's birthday causes you to go all Lindsay Lohan in Mean Girls and pounce over the table like a damned cheetah at the thing... just fake like you're really busy and work through the birthday party (don't forget to wish Ron or whatever his name is, a good one).  Because You? Have Bigger Fish to Fry.  Like, possibly, sugar-induced rabies.

**kisses**

PS - I'm making the article tags all about monkeys and chimps in honor of H-Banana's avatar.  Let's see what banner ads pop up.

Carbs Ain't Got Shit On Me

Because this is the story of my life, I thought I'd share.

1) I lost 2.5 pounds between last Tuesday and today.  YAY!

2) Because we were moving this weekend, I basically sustained myself on pizza and gatorade and coffee for 3 days, because I wouldn't have known where my fucking pots were if you drew me a map with a big label that said POTS ARE HERE ASSHOLE on it.

in other words, WHAT THE FUCK?  God obviously enjoys a good laugh at my expense... at least we know she's got a sense of humor.  (Yup, I said SHE - just to piss off the bible-huggers).

I refuse to admit defeat - I am convincing myself as I write this that my little victory was the result of this whole no carbs after noon thing-y, which by the way, I am back in the saddle on now that the move is complete and I can find my way around the kitchen without looking like a 24-yr. old with Alzheimer's. 

Basically - thanks for a good weekend Mr. Pizza, but we both know that you're like a sad bootycall - there when i need you and never fully appreciated (because I am a fitness-crazed ball of energy and insecurity).  Maybe I'll call you this weekend - maybe.

Hostess is the New DEVIL

Just an FYI - I had my sushi for lunch at 11:30 today.  California roll w/ brown rice - kept it light.  and NO, I don't feel guilty since it was before noon and I'll do the carb-less thing for the rest of the day.

But I had to get this next part off my chest - lest it fester and suddenly find myself at the McDonald's drive-thru in a wifebeater and some underpants at 2:00 in the morning.... I got my sushi at the Genuardi's down the street (like a Wegmans or whatnot) -- and while I was standing in line waiting to pay, I totally got stuck standing in front of the Hostess Cupcake display....

and while I didn't purchase the cupcakes, I thought I should tell you that I did notice a bit of drool trailing down my chin.  And I died a little bit inside, right then.

See - you crazy bitches love me because I'm human!  :)

I Am Not The Devil.

But those tasty bastards otherwise referred to as carbohydrates... ARE.  I am realizing this more and more each day.  Which is ironic, because I am a curvy, athletic, Irish-Italian 20-something with a penchant for pizza, pasta and anything else that looks as though it may have been made with flour or sugar or frying oil (combine all 3 and you will see me experience something of an orgasm... publicly).  But those fuckers are clingy - I can practically hear my hips and ass wheezing under their unrelenting will to hang on.  And who the hell decided that everything that tastes even remotely good - needs to be laden with carbohydrates?  I think that dieting women everywhere should find that guy and kick his ass.  Because you know it was totally a man.

So, in light of my starting this whole diet/exercise/food-lust section of my little corner of PNN, I have decided that I am going to challenge myself to forego carbs after 12:00 noon, each and every day, for as long as humanly possible (or until my boyfriend makes brownies later tonight).  Ok seriously though, I've been at it for 3 days so far... and aside from my vanilla orea dessert and no french fries at lunch and no rice at dinner withdrawal... it's not too bad.

I will keep you up to date on how this works and if I notice any difference in energy or weight.  Energy up, weight down would be freaking sweet, but given my current run of luck, I'll probably pass out in exhaustion before I finish typing this and gain 5 pounds to the gut while I lie on the floor waiting for my boyfriend to find and revive me.

And if after reading this, you have the insatiable urge to tell me that you think I'm off my damn rocker, feel free... but let's be honest, you'll be beating a dead horse and we both know it.

Cheers to my new low-carb lifestyle (read: experiment) - wish me luck.  and if i don't post for 5 days... call the authorities.  I've probably eaten 2 dozen Krispy Kremes and can be found in a dirty alley mid-carb-induced-catatonic-haze.  Thank you in advance.

**kisses**

Mexican Food Effed with My Diet

I will keep this brief, oh loyal and equally diet-hating followers of mine.  I had Mexican tonight.  And not knock-off, faux Mexican.  Real, yummy, amazing, authentic Mexican.  Ariba Ariba Bitches!

There were warm tostada chips with fresh salsa, and I had the greatest chicken fajitas, and yellow rice... and the best part of it all - my favorite - the MOJITO.  And ladies... it was goooood.  Vanilla Oreo and Twizzlers licorice good.  The rum was so clean and the mint and sugar so fresh, it went down like water.  Which means there was more than one ordered.

And I will probably have to work a little extra in the gym tomorrow to make up for it all (yes, I'm back in the gym. 1 week post knee-surgery.  Because I'm the bionic fucking woman and I will not be held down!!!)... but it was SO worth it.  So I didn't make love to any food, which is probably a good thing... but I'll tell ya the truth... I enjoyed it just the same.  :)

**kisses**

ps - Dear Mexico:  I know we still have this whole illegal alien thing to work on, but I just wanted to say thank you for the MOJITO.  As far as I'm concerned, we're all good.  Sincerely, Ally

Iron-Clad... or is it Deficient?

I'm just relaying this because I can't get over the irony of it all; plus my sarcasm and wit are beginning to return, and I figure it NEEDS to shared with all.

Last week, prior to my knee surgery, they ran some blood tests and told me that I was anemic.  They wanted to run a few further tests to figure out what was up with that.  Fast forward to today - I just talked to the doctor who told me that yes, I am indeed anemic and that my iron-storers (super-medical terminology) are extremely low.

She recommended that I take an iron supplement and up my intake of iron & protein-rich meat.  I laughed and politely informed her that I already take a 100% Daily Value iron pill and that I don't eat red meat or pork (I'm a chicken/fish girl).  She laughed at me and told me to consider taking a PRENATAL vitamin, because it would definitely give me more iron.

PRENATAL.  as in, baby-wanting.  A persuasion of which I don't currently subscribe to at this point in my life.  Now, I'm on the ol' birth control... but given my recent string of bad luck, one would have to assume that the only possible outcome of me taking a freaking baby-helper-alonger pill, would be that I would inevitably get knocked up.  With, like... octuplets.  I would be the next Octo-Pussy, or whatever they're calling that insane fame-whore with all the babies now.

And so, as I sit here, I've got to tell you... it looks as though I'm doomed to remain anemic for the present time.  Which sounds better than anorexic.  And means I still have boobies & my assteau instead of clavicle and jaundice.  So I'll take it.

Welcome to my world Anemia - make it work.

What It's Like to STARVE

SO, I'm 4 days post-op on my knee... and my ability to sustain myself on food and other life-enhancing nutrients... has not yet returned.  Rather, I have been existing almost solely on chicken broth (with nothing in it, which makes it mostly chicken-flavored water) and jell-o.  While I'm a fan of both of these individual products when the time or recipe calls for them, let me tell you what it's like to subsist on them for the better part of a week now.  IT'S FUCKING AWFUL.

If you listen close enough, you'll hear my tastebuds screaming wildly, begging for mercy and asking what they ever did to make me hate them so much that I would force tasteless upon tasteless day upon them, like I'm a goddamn food Nazi or something.

It means that I stare longingly at the Oreos and Twizzlers in the pantry... and that I cast violent glares upon my adorable significant other while he enjoys beer and pizza.  

On the other hand, it means that I'm wasting away like an Ethiopian on a 112 degree summer day.  I think I lost like, 5 pounds in 3 days.  Which might mean that this whole chicken broth and jell-o thing isn't so bad after all.  Hell, I could probably turn this thing into some kind of official diet and trademark it - make millions of dollars pawning it to desperate Oreo-lovers everywhere.

Or I could admit that while it's lovely to see a little more bone structure in my face than I'm typically accustomed to, I couldn't give up Rigatoni-D at Maggionos or my twice-a-week sushi obsession for the friggin money in the world...and that I'll be seeing those 5 pounds again shortly.  and while my hips and ass might not be so thrilled, my tastebuds will love me.

stupid old 5 pounds - piss off.  i hate you.  

:)

Cookie Schmookie - Fuck Dessert

I almost made love to a vanilla Oreo today.  Not kidding.  Were it not for the fact that I'd probably have to take a trip to the emergency room and become an urban legend (Did you hear about that girl that tried to have sex with an Oreo?), I might have really gone through with it.

I have a love-hate relationship with my body, I'll admit it.  Somedays, I like that I've got cute, perky (real bitches, real) boobies and curvy hourglass thing going on.  Generally, I'm a rather happy size 6 (it's an 8 at the stores that cut clothes for models only, I can admit it!) with a strong, athlete's body.  Other days, I give serious consideration as to whether anorexia and a little lipo would be a good look on me or not.  Somehow, a 6 is not enough to make me happy.  A slightly emaciated size 4 (and probably bitchier, due to lack of apprpriate nutrients) sounds more attractive for some reason.  I blame Carrie Underwood.

I work out 6 days a week and I'm in great shape.  I watch what I eat like a fucking obsessive-compulsive maniac who has to put deodorant on in a certain direction, 7 strokes on each side front to back or something like that. And much of the time, IT SUCKS.  I eat healthy all day and by 7:00 at night, I'm salivating over cream-filled deliciousness like it just sprouted legs and penis and bears a resemblance to Hugh Jackman.  Naked.

My assumption is that I'm not alone here.  Not on the whole trying to sex up a cookie bit, but on the other stuff.  If we're together on the cookie part, we might consider sponsoring one another at OLA (Oreo-Lovers Anonymous - first meeting to take place asap).  Anyways, the scoop (mmm, ice cream) is that I'll use this section of my illustrious little blog to dish on all things food, diet and exercise related.  And you can feel free to either rant along with, or freely laugh at me.  Because I like you all enough that I don't mind.

PS - I'm scheduled to have MCL surgery tomorrow on my knee, as a result of training too hard like a maniac for a triathlon, which means two things:

1 - you will need to write many posts to keep me entertained while i'm laid up over the next few days

 2 - i will have plenty of acid-tongued hate material to write about dieting and exercise while i'm recovering and going through physical therapy and desperately trying not to get fat while my knee gets back to normal.

**Kisses**