Acceptance

So I sat down to write a post about people who have nothing better to do than to write mean comments to me, but it turned into some rambling gibberish with a whole lot of cuss words, so I thought it better to leave that in my private blog rather than force all of you to read it.

But apparently there's this person, "Anonymous" (I think he/she must be Greek... it sounds like a Greek name to me... NOT THAT IT MATTERS... please don't send me comments about how I'm mean to Greeks... it's just an observation), who really has nothing nice to say to me.

And it sucks to get mean comments.

It really sucks.

But, I'm trying to tell myself that it doesn't matter. Not everyone will like you. Not everyone will agree with you.

I sure don't like everyone. And I sure as hell don't agree with everyone.

And since I opened up my blog to more people, I'm bound to get people who hate me and who just HAVE to share their two cents.

That's just part of the game.

So I should just let it go...

(Ha!)

This latest comment said: "I don't expect that you'll publish this."

And he/she expected correctly. I clicked delete, because this is a happy place, where only Ally B is allowed to be a total a-hole.

It's my right as an "artiste".

(I went through a brief moment where I was like, "oh I should so publish this", but that was AFTER I clicked delete so I would have had to go through all of this BS to try and get it published and I realized that nobody who tells me I'm a bad person is worth that much effort. If you're curious, they had a problem with this post. Something about me using "being a girl" as an insult... and therefore I can't be a feminist... I have a feeling Anonymous hates dead baby jokes, too... so it's not like we could be friends anyway.)

(Wait! What if Anonymous IS one of my friends who didn't have the guts to write his/her name... I'm going to have to investigate. All of you who are my so-called friends... please wait outside my house for an extensive lie-detector test followed by a beat-down from the dogs...)

(Though the majority of my friends are fans of dead baby jokes... hmm...)

(And don't send me a bunch of hate mail about how I hate babies!)

And so, to all you "anonymous" peoples out there who just can't help it:

It's okay. Sometimes I ask for it.

Sometimes I stick my foot in my mouth.

And sometimes I need to hear it.

But, you should know...

In the eloquent words of Ms. Tina Fey...

You can suck it.

Female Perspective: The Gym

*** ATTENTION MY FAITHFUL MINIONS ***

(Wait, what?)

So in a weird twist to this thing I call “My Life”, the following blog post is featured on MensHealth.com.

(I know. The irony is palpable, as I am not a man, nor am I healthy.)

The fitness editor / MH blogger / sleep model asked me if I would write a guest piece so that he could have a “female perspective”.

(Oh, I should probably mention that Adam didn’t just stumble upon me and think I was so amazing that he had to have me and my blog… we know each other from the hood… sort of…)

And I said sure.

(Actually I said, “HOLY SHIT! Are you KIDDING ME? YES!!”)

And so, for any of you brave souls who were redirected here from Adam’s Blog (I have a tendency to ramble quite a bit, so the whole thing couldn’t FIT on Menshealth.com)… I feel for you.

You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into…

*****************************

Sometimes (and this is just how I feel, I don’t claim to speak for any other person but myself… and my boyfriend…) the gym can feel like a “boys club”. Especially when you cross that threshold into the free-weights. The last time I entered that area of my gym I was struck with an ominous feeling that I had entered “man-land”. So I quickly turned around and left.

(Not because I was intimidated or anything… I actually ended up in “man-land” because I got lost looking for the bathroom… it’s a little disturbing when you’re trying to find a place to pee and the next thing you know you’re surrounded by half a dozen grunting guys…)

So I tend to have a pretty good vantage point from my perch on the cardio machines. And I’ve discovered some things about the opposite sex while I’m pedaling, walking, and gliding away calories.

Men at the gym can be really annoying.

(Just so you know, I’m the first to admit that women are also super annoying at the gym, (don’t get me started on girls who wear a full-face of makeup to workout) but that’s for a different post.)

Now, I’m not one of those women who will sit here and say, “Ohmygosh will these pigs just stop hitting on me! It is, like, so annoying…”

For one thing, I think that guys should be smart enough to realize that a gym is not a bar, girls are there to get their sweat on… not get on you.

(If you didn’t realize that, then I hope I just opened your eyes to the fact that hitting on girls at the gym is CREEPY and ANNOYING, so cut it out…)

Another reason I won’t go into how annoying it is when guys hit on girls at the gym is because, personally, I have no experience with that. I don’t know if it’s because I’m not attractive (no! That can’t possibly be it!), or if it’s because I live in an area with very polite (and/or self-absorbed) men, or maybe it’s because I still haven’t mastered the whole “drinking-water-while-moving-on-the-elliptical-thing”, so it looks like I’ve been drooling on myself for an hour.

(I’m no expert, but I assume guys just don’t want to “tap that”…)

So instead, I have devised five categories of men that I have noticed while at the gym.

(I apologize in advance if anyone who reads this fits into one of these categories… but isn’t it better to hear it from some crazy chick who blogs than, say, that girl you’ve been trying to ask out for the past 4 months… consider it a public service announcement (“the more you know”).)

OK, the first category on Ally B’s List of Things that Annoy her at the Gym: Guy Edition:

(Drum roll please.)

The Strutter (aka: One Who Struts):

I was sitting in a recumbent bike, pedaling away, watching an episode of South Park on my MP3 player, when I glanced up at those around me, and noticed The Strutter.

He seemed to be in his forties, and he had shoulder-length stringy hair (I get not taking a shower before going to the gym, but this guy was in serious need of a deep-conditioning), and he was wearing a super tight black t-shirt and baggy black sweatpants circa 1984 (with the elastic around the ankles and everything).

His upper body was completely over developed compared to his lower body (his torso looked like an upside-down triangle perched on two skinny French baguettes, and he had no butt to speak of).

(DO NOT judge me for looking at his butt… it’s a natural instinct… and it’s not like there was even anything there…)

Anyway, so this guy is walking slowly back and forth in front of the recumbent bike station and I’m contemplating how he really needs a quality hairbrush and then I notice that he’s eyeing the woman next me. She looks about his age with long (well conditioned) blond hair and she’s beautiful in a MILF sort of way, pedaling in her pink sports bra and black yoga pants.

So The Strutter starts to do a few chest presses on the machine in front of Blondie and then he gets up, and starts walking in front of her again. And I notice that the guy is now clenching every muscle from his jaw right down to his non-existent butt.

If he were a peacock, his feathers would be out in full formation.

And Blondie just kept on pedaling and reading her US Weekly.

And so, The Strutter teaches us how his display of manliness did nothing for his intended target (Blondie didn’t seem to notice him at all), but ended up annoying those in the vicinity (ME).

So take your manly model walk somewhere else… it really does nothing for females… trust me.

Next category:

The Flexer (aka: One Who Flexes):

Now, The Flexer is similar to The Strutter in that they both enjoy clenching their various muscles. But The Flexer is not clenching for an attractive lady riding the recumbent bike, but for himself (at least as far as I can tell).

I was on the elliptical and my eye catches a fairly buff guy. Now, no, I was not staring at his muscles, I was actually caught off-guard because he was wearing grey sweatpants and an oversized tank top (please see the fifth category on this list: The Horrible Dresser, for more on why oversized tank tops should be discarded immediately).

The Flexer walked into the aerobics room (three sides of the room are mirrors, and one side is windows so that people working out in the main area can look in on the classes and make fun of the people who have no rhythm or who fall down… good times) and he proceeded to take his ugly shirt off and then roll his sweatpants up, transforming him into a sweaty and glistening muscled man with short shorts on.

(Again, see category five.)

He then spent the next ten to fifteen minutes flexing in the mirror. My favorite was when he would walk away, then turn around really fast to check out his butt in the mirror.

Now, I was thinking that maybe I should give him the benefit of the doubt. I mean, maybe he’s training for some kind of “show your muscles” competition… or maybe he’s spent all of his money on protein powder and bad workout shirts and therefore cannot afford mirrors of his own.

But seriously? Could he not flex in a more secluded and private area than in front of the entire gym? The locker room? His house? The basement in his mom’s house where he is living until he wins his first big muscle-showing contest? All places where I wouldn’t have to look at him.

(If you haven’t noticed by now, it’s all about me.)

So, The Flexer teaches us to flex on our own time, in a private place. I can handle if you want to see your biceps reflected back to you, but keep your clothes on in public… for the sake of us all.

(Would you appreciate it if I went around in public flexing in the mirror with my shirt off?)

(Wait, stupid (and awkward) question… moving right along.)

The Noise Maker (aka, One who Makes REALLY ANNOYING NOISES!):

OK boys, you know who you are. You can’t help but grunt and groan and count your reps out loud.

I understand that there is something in the DNA of guys that sometimes causes them to produce noises when they are lifting a certain amount of weight.

I can handle some noise - especially if you’re lifting the equivalent of my body weight - but keep it down. If it sounds like you should maybe not be on a weight bench, and instead on the toilet, you can bet you’re annoying most of the people around you.

(And possibly grossing them out.)

But the most hilarious and annoying Noise Maker ever was a guy who used to come in and run on the treadmill.

I don’t run, but I hear that at a certain point, endorphins kick in and you feel really good and happy-go-lucky and all.

(I’ve never gotten to that point… I usually pass out from lack of oxygen and the pain radiating in my knees…)

Well, this Noise Maker really enjoyed running. After a certain amount of time, I assume that his happy endorphins kicked into overdrive, causing him to scream out with glee.

The first time I heard this guy, I was working out on the treadmill in front of him and I heard a high-pitched noise. I thought it was my machine, so I paused my music and listed for the squeak again.

Nope, nothing. So I turned on my MP3 player and went back to walking.

Then I heard the noise again. I turned around and saw a very happy bald man sprinting on the treadmill, but assumed that he would have the decency to keep that kind of noise to himself, and who yells like that while running, anyway? So I just hit my MP3 player a few times, thinking it skipped or something, and continued on.

Then I heard a “Whoop!” so freaking loud I swung my head around at lightning speed just in time to see running man with a stupid grin on his face, followed by another “Whoop!” that confirmed that this annoying noise had been coming from him the whole time.

And it’ not like this noise just escaped through his lips. No, this guy was proud to be on his treadmill. When he screeched he sort of hopped and threw his fists in the air like he was about to run his victory lap. And every time he “whooped” he would shake his head like he was thinking to himself: “Holy cow! I am the MAN! Look at how fast I am! Can you believe this?”

Which caused me to think: “What kind of noise would you make if you fell flat on your face?“

So, this particular Noise Maker is just one example of a guy who produces really annoying sounds that make me want to push the STOP button on his machine so that he goes flying over the front.

So, keep it down… or else I am not responsible if my hand “accidentally” slips onto your STOP button… or slaps you.

Can’t Help but do Pushups Guy (aka, One who Does Pushups in the Most Inappropriate Places):

So I’m on a stationary bike, trying to get through another workout, wondering why the makers of stationary bikes can’t make a seat that is at least somewhat comfortable, when I look over and see Pushup Guy.

He approaches a shoulder press machine and sits down, adjusting the weight to some ridiculously high number, when all of a sudden he shakes his head and gets out of the seat. Then he gets on the ground, does about 20 pushups, brushes himself off, and then goes on with his regular workout.

Now, this doesn’t seem like such a bad thing, right? Pushups are really good for you (or so I’ve heard), so this guy couldn’t be annoying.

WRONG.

The problem is where Pushup Guy decided to do his impromptu pushups. He got down right across the aisle where everyone walks to get across the gym. He essentially blocked off half of the room, forcing people to make detours to avoid climbing over him!

(I must say, the desire to leap over him like a ballerina was quite strong… at least for me…)

It wasn’t just annoying… it was plain rude!

So, the lesson here? If you can’t help yourself and you just HAVE to do a pushup session: go to an appropriate area. Or at least get out of the freaking way.

And finally, I can’t help but make this last category:

The Horrible Dresser (aka: One who Makes Others ask: “Are You SERIOUSLY Wearing THAT?”):

I’m not one of those girls who dress up to go to the gym. I’m a big fan of baggy concert t-shirts and baggier pants. I really don’t try that hard, and I don’t really expect others to look totally put together either.

But sometimes there are those men who just cross the line.

You might not think that dressing badly is annoying (I mean, it’s not really hurting anyone else), but it can be distracting and sometimes even scary.

(And that makes me annoyed.)

I mentioned The Flexer and his stretched out tank top. What I’m referring to is when a guy stretches out the armholes so that they droop down by his waist.

It’s like this guy couldn’t possibly stuff all of his muscles in a regular t-shirt or tank top… no, he needed to stretch it out so that they could fit… and so everyone could see his nipples in all their glory…

(Seriously, if you have one of these shirts… destroy immediately. Your fellow gym patrons will thank you.)

Another annoying example of The Horrible Dresser: I’ve been seeing a lot of guys at the gym in jeans and a tank top. I mean, not only do these guys look plain silly doing squats in jeans (with a fine leather belt on), but it just can’t be functional.

This also goes for the guy I saw yesterday who was wearing a tracksuit with hiking boots.

(It was quite distracting.)

The other obvious thing that puts one in The Horrible Dresser category: short shorts on guys. Please, please, please, guys, if I can see you flexing everything you have to offer… well “annoying” isn’t so much the word I’m looking for as “horrifying” might be.

Plus, the gym is largely a family friendly type of place now… so keep those things to yourself, and get some longer shorts.

All in all, The Horrible Dresser might not seem like a very annoying thing, but I feel it is my duty to tell you all to run over to a sports store as soon as possible and get some more appropriate threads.

(Asking a female sales associate would probably ensure a positive outcome, too.)


So, as I said before, I apologize if you fit into one of these categories (or if you are actually one of the guys that I mentioned… I only criticize to help…) but changing certain things like NOT strutting around in front of MILFs, NOT flexing in front of 60 people who are trying to keep their breakfast down, NOT yelling, grunting, groaning, or squeaking (or at least keeping it to a minimum), NOT dropping and giving me twenty in my walking path, and NOT wearing inappropriate clothes to the gym, can make everyone happier while working out.

(Especially ME!)

A Bone to Pick

The following is a transcript of a conversation-via-blog-comments that Mark, Mike, and myself had the other day:

Ally B: Thanks for letting me hang out with you guys tonight... not that you had a choice in the matter... but thanks anyway.

Mark: Well thanks for coming over. You guys left at the right time, I was fading fast and trying my best to not make an ass out of myself.

Mike: You could have asked us to leave, you know.... It IS your house.

Mark: No, it's Lacey's [the dog] house remember?
Gordon is the dashing Doctor (Jack)
I am the big dumb idiot (Hurley) OR the eye candy (Claire)
you are an extra
...not sure what Ally is...the black smoke monster?
Lacey is the leader.

************

So, if you didn't know (loser), Mark was referring to characters on the TV show LOST.

Now, Mark... how did I end up the damn smoke monster?!?!?


There are, like, twelve billion characters on that show and I am the FAKE cloud of smoke that goes around the island whispering at people!

I don't even get to be a human? At least Mike is an extra... that's a HUMAN.

Well, you know what?

I've decided that I'm Sawyer. That way I get to make fun of all of you, shoot stuff, drink, and not have to wear a shirt.

And if we were on HBO, you know I'd be the one to cuss you suckers out every chance I got.

Boo-yah.

Genius

Dear President Obama (I know that you are technically not the President yet, per se, but it's less than 24 hours until it's "official", so let's just get it over with already),

First of all, congratulations on the whole president thing. I'm very happy and looking foreword to the next four (eight!) years.

I hope you are excited to move into the White House, and I really hope that you are able to get the republican smell out of the curtains.

I sure hope President Bush didn't think it would be funny to pull some sort of prank, like leaving a fake rubber rat under your pillow, because that would be mean.

So I was thinking about you and your exciting future and I remembered that you'll be getting a dog soon. And then I started thinking about what you should name the dog and I came up with the PERFECT name for your new best friend.

Why not name the dog "George Dubyah"?

Think about how awesome it would be!

"Oh man! George Dubyah pooped in the Oval Office again!"

"Stop humping my leg, George Dubyah."

"Oh crap... George Dubyah bit the Secretary of Defense again."

And it would be even better if it's a girl.

"Oh, what a good boy your dog is!"
"Nope, George Dubyah's a girl! George Dubyah's a girl!"

Well, it's just an idea. Take it or leave it.

Sincerly,

Ally B

Clearly

I was just looking through my pictures and found one of my favorite ones of Bonnie and Hannah.

It clearly reveals why I always talk about what a little diva Bonnie is and why Hannah is my little wallflower (obviously, her sister gives her no choice in the matter).

You Know When...

So, you know when it's FINALLY a nice day (sunny AND warm... what a concept) so you decide to take the dogs out before heading to the gym for a little pre-gym warm up and so that your Aussie Shepard stops giving you death threats (she makes eye contact with you then looks at the leashes and then moves her paw across her throat in a fairly grotesque yet obvious fashion that lets you know that it's either a walk or certain death). And you're walking and enjoying the weather and minding your own business and your letting the dogs roll all over the grass and snow because you figure they really don't have a lot of grass to roll around at home and then you look down and realize that they are not rolling in grass and snow as much as they are rolling in grass and snow and a dead animal. And you scream "Oh shit!" and pull your dogs off of the deceased creature and they're upset because it was the most wonderful thing that has happened to them in a while but they get over it because they're dogs and have a short-term memory of three seconds (or is that the goldfish?) but either way they get over it and just go back to rolling around on the grass and snow that isn't covered in dead animal. And then you look at the dead animal to make sure that it's actually dead and not covered in maggots or anything and at first you think that it's some sort of monster like THIS and you get grossed out but kinda excited because you think that you just discovered a new organism and you think you'll be famous and people other than your immediate family will ACTUALLY READ YOUR BLOG because you discovered this animal (though, of course, you'll have to give some credit to Bonnie and Hannah because they were actually the ones who discovered it by insisting on rolling in it) and you are now famous. And then you look again and realize that no, it's just a plain old raccoon and nobody is going to make a fuss over a mushed raccoon even if your dogs did roll in it and even if it looks like a monster now. So you think wow, maybe I should blog about this because there's really nothing to blog about but then you realize that nobody will want to read about how your dogs rolled in a dead raccoon even if it could have been a monster but then you realize that sometimes you just have to share so you end up writing a number of run-on sentences about the raccoon.

But you can't write about it right away, no, because you have things to do. First you have to contemplate washing your dogs because they rolled in monster/raccoon and they probably smell bad but you aren't positive because you really don't want to test the theory and then you look outside and see that the dogs are rolling around in a pile of snow in the backyard and you think wow, what good doggies they are giving themselves a bath so that's one thing you can cross off of your list. And then you think, OK, now I can blog about all of this but then you look at the clock and realize that you need to get to the gym because Law & Order: CI is starting and you like to watch it on the gym televisions while you are on the elliptical so you really need to get going. So you decide to take your computer with you and treat yourself to a sandwich and skinny iced chai after Law & Order: CI while you blog about all of the exciting things that have happened that day. But then you decide to go to a coffee shop that you've never been to and even though it's really nice you end up spending over ten bucks on a extra small skinny iced chai and tiny sandwich and you get a little upset because it's not like you have a job but then you convince yourself that it's OK because it's Friday and you haven't really spent any money this week anyway so it's all good.

And then you remember that there IS something semi-interesting to write about but you've forgotten about it up until now because the whole dog-raccoon-slash-monster-Law-and-Order-expensive-food-and-drink-fiasco that is your life distracted you.

Since my brother is traveling Oceania, my mother is on her way to see said brother and then to stay a week on an island in Fiji that has 12 private beaches for a total population of 14 couples and my father is about to visit all seven continents... well I figure I need to do something otherwise I'll be the total laughing stock of my family and I should just get the pint of ice cream right now to let the self-loathing begin. But no, I'm going to travel the country and experience life and do something oh-so-crazy.

So I'm going to Nashville (which sounds like kinda a let down when you compare it to what the rest of me family is doing but that's OK).

There's a conference there for women who blog and so I decided to go and see what it's all about and hopefully get to have a drink with the fabulous Jen Lancaster who will be the keynote speaker and I figure that even if it blows it'll at least give me something more interesting to blog about than my dogs' affinity for dead animals.

Whew...

(PS: I know this isn't my regular style of writing but it's been one of those days where I'm thinking without punctuation and I downed that skinny iced chai super fast and therefore am having major caffeine overload. Plus I've been reading a lot of the bloggess and this is how she writes so I wanted to try it because she's hilarious and I want to be funny someday, too.)

Guilty Pleasures

We all have things that we indulge in that we are not all that proud of.

We just don't want to admit that we like certain things.

Whether it's trashy romance novels, the occasional soap opera, or the Spice Girls, we try to keep it under wraps that we are fans.

(No I don't watch soap operas... yes, I will always love the Spice Girls...)

(Girl Power!!)

Well... my guilty pleasure is the awesome, the disgusting, and the truly remarkable reality contest: Rock of Love Bus with Bret Michaels.

(I'd like to say that I enjoy the show because of my background in sociology: it's truly amazing to examine the societal structures and interactions at play on such a show, especially from a liberal feminist perspective... but it'd be a big fat lie...)

Now, don't judge me.

I don't smoke, don't drink, don't take part in illegal substances, and I don't watch American Idol.

I am allowed one vice.

And I choose Bret and his cast of crazy-ass biahtches.

I wasn't even going to post about it, but I can't deny myself this purging of my feelings any longer.

(Plus, Bret was on The Today Show this morning. I figure that if they can talk about it, so can I...)

For those of you who don't know what Rock of Love Bus is, let me quickly fill you in.

Bret Michaels, the lead singer of the eighties hair-band Poison, is in search of his other half. The man just wants someone to share his music, his home, and his mascara with. He wants a woman who is ready to party with him, worship him, and participate in groupie threesomes with him.

Now, the poor guy was not having much luck, so Bret and VH1 teemed up to find him his true love. There have been two seasons, and he has still had no such luck.

(*tear*)

Then, this season, it hit him that he's on the road 300 days a year (where? I have no idea... who goes to a Bret Michaels' concert?), so having these women compete for his love while stuck at home in a mansion must be the problem with the whole reality contest = true love equation.

And so, this season Bret has commandeered two extra tour buses to cart his 20 lovely ladies around the country with him (to really classy and exciting places, like Kentucky and Indiana).

The women will compete for one-on-one dates with Bret, and at the end of each episode, Bret has to say a tearful (/hilarious) goodbye to one or more of them.

So, you may be wondering why the hell I would enjoy this. Ha! So many reasons.

First of all, the women that they find for these shows are mind-blowing. As in they make you want to blow your brains out. The first two seasons had quite a few crazy girls (Lacy), strippers (Heather), and sociopaths (that crazy bitch Megan who really needs to be locked up in some sort of institution).

But this season... these girls are in a league of their own.


Where the hell did VH1 find these creatures? I can only assume that they had to do their casting calls at some sort of convention (for strippers, porn stars, the circus...).

At least 98 percent of them have implants, which wouldn't be that surprising on its own, except that these implants are about the size of pumpkins. I mean, forget cantaloupes and honeydews, these breasts are the size of prize-winning watermelons! Who are these women's doctors?? And how do they stuff these boobs into extra small mini-dresses without busting a seam?

It's truly like watching gravity fail on television.

The amount of silicone, collagen, and hairspray is absolutely outstanding.

The next thing that is amazing about the show is what comes out of these girls’ mouths.

Personal favorites so far (there have only been two episodes):

• One girl said that she got her implants (the size of overweight babies) so that she would be unable to climb walls to do graffiti, and therefore would stay out of jail... This was right before this same girl rapped for Bret, reading the lyrics off of the back of a sheet labeled "Facts About Genital Herpes"...
• A confirmed porn star (Bret has seen her movies) screamed at a black girl that the only reason the black girl was there was because of her race. And then, when the black girl told this porn star that she was, indeed, a racist, the porn star proceeded to cry, "I'm not a racist! My grandfather is black! And he is a big, beautiful black man!" She then went and cried herself to sleep in a bed shaped like a spaceship.
• And finally, when a model (read, Penthouse Pet) said: "I take off my clothes for Penthouse and I'm the classiest one here!" The scary thing is that she was totally right.

You cannot write this stuff! Seriously! Some reality shows (enter, The Hills) are scripted and the scripts aren't even this entertaining!

Finally, the funniest thing (/most depressing thing ever) about this show is how these girls truly believe that what they are doing is finding TRUE LOVE.

They believe that Bret Michaels is their prince, their happily ever after... their soul mate.

Well, ladies, sorry to break it to you, but it just ain't so.

But, you know what? Thank you for giving me hours of entertainment, lots of laughs, and a very long blog post.

Now I have to go... I have a very important appointment with my plastic surgeon.