Food, Food, Food

Recently, I wrote about how my ADD makes me stay up at night, and when I am up at night I think.  In my post, I talked about how I meal plan, and I spent time writing out my meals for the week, writing a shopping list, and making a list of inventory that I have, and need to use. (refer back to this: Why Don’t You Sleep?)

I wanted to show you guys what some of those meals look like, after they come to fruition.

This image shows nine meals:
1. Maple Chili Pork Chops with Garlic Bok Choy
2.  Avocado Tomato Grilled Chicken with Summer Veggies
3.  Garlic Chicken Breast with Sauteed Brussel Sprouts
4.  Sesame Zucchini ‘Noodles’ with Chicken and Carrots
5.  Grilled Honey Mustard Chicken and Grilled Zucchini
6.  Grilled Pork Chop with Steamed Broccolini
7.  Grilled Chicken Salad with Sauteed Onions, Cranberries, Goat Cheese, Walnuts, and a Citrus Vinaigrette
8.  Zucchini Tomato Onion Mozzarella Frittata with Bacon
9.  Low Sugar Sweet and Sour Turkey Meatballs with Riced Cauliflower

All of the meals I make I break down into nutrition facts for the entire meal, and then per portion.  Once I have the right recipe down, I add it into My Fitness Pal under the brand  ‘Allys Own’.



That Time I Ran

So, I decided I would actually attempt to run.  Not Wun… but run.  This takes a lot of courage for me to do, as you may know from previous posts, and attempts I’ve made.

I planned it out, so I would go to the local high school football field/track at night, and no one would have to watch me look like a moron.  Dark night sky=no one can see me.

Unfortunately for me, I guess I didn’t wait until it was late enough, and people were ALL over the track.  When I got there, there were runners, walkers, people strolling… and people pushing strollers.

I decided to just start out by walking.  The plan was to walk until I was comfortable enough to run.  I decided to take my ‘getting comfortable’ time to study the people who were running by me.

One man looked stiff.  I knew I felt stiff when I ran, so I watched him to see what NOT to do.  Another guy seemed to be gliding across the track, effortlessly.  I studied how his feet hit the ground, and how his body moved.

With all of this watching, studying, and observing, I felt like I was finally ready.  It only took FIVE laps around the track to get to this point.

I start out running, trying to pace myself to conserve my energy, so I can make it all the way around the track without stopping.  I get around the first turn, and I’m proud of myself, but I’m actually dying.  My lungs are already burning, and my legs feel stiff.  In fact, all I kept thinking was that my legs weren’t moving fast enough for my body, and at some point I would be falling on my face.  Never mind that, but I couldn’t help but think about how heavy my legs felt, slamming against the ground.

Second turn, and I’m half way there.  This is when I start talking to myself.
‘You can do this!’
‘You’re going to be so proud of yourself!!’
‘If you keep going, you can say that you did it without stopping!’
‘Don’t die!’
‘Keep moving your feet, and you won’t fall’
‘You don’t look as stupid as you think you do’
‘You are so damn athletic!  Look at you go!’

These words of affirmation for myself lasted a whole half of a side of the track.  I’m almost to the end.  I haven’t stopped.  I am pretty sure I’m actually dying.  I know that if I make it to the end, without stopping, I will have accomplished a serious victory in my world.

I near the end of the track, back to where I started running, in the first place.  I had made it. Some how, I made it.  I stop and grab my water.  I’m feeling successful, and incredibly athletic, I hobble to the benches and plop down.  I then proceeded to google what the distance is for one lap around a typical football field track… for science.

When I got home, I started explaining this entire adventure to Mike.  He just sat silently, and listened to me.  At one point, when I was talking about my observations of other runners, his face kind of twisted up, and if I’m not mistaken, I’m pretty sure he slightly rolled his eyes.

At the end of my story time, he looked at me and said, ‘You’re ridiculous.’

“Why?!” I asked
“Because you studied other runners…. what is wrong with you?” and then he laughed in my face.

*SIDE NOTE: The week after this running extravaganza, Mike and I were driving, and we saw a man running.  I made a comment about how he looked kind of uncomfortable.  Mike agreed, and mentioned that the man looked like he was landing hard on his feet all while aggressively kicking his legs back… and then proceeded to question if THAT’S what I look like, when I run.  Nope, I’m pretty sure I look like a toddler learning to walk for the first time.

So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m not a runner.

90% sure that I took this PRIOR to running… when I was
still full of life, and hope, and promise.

Why Don’t You Sleep?

This is a question that many people ask me.  I am ALWAYS tired.  Like, always.  I’m always yawning, and dragging around, and even when I am at my most ‘awake’, I am dreaming of my bed.

But…why?  Why? Because I don’t sleep.  For those who don’t know me well, I have ADD.  My brain doesn’t quit.  It especially doesn’t quit, when I want it to quit.  In fact, it goes into overdrive.

I am famous for starting big tasks, late at night.  Who starts painting a room at 7:30 pm?  This girl.  Want chocolate chip cookies?  9:30 pm seems to be the best time for that to happen.  Oh, and in the morning?  I’m a fucking zombie.  This zombie can be zombie-like until 10:30/11 am, and still feel like it’s 5 am.

Anywho… last night, I was so tired.  I decided that I would crawl into bed, and try to turn my brain off.  Instead, I crawled into bed… with a notebook and a pen.  My head was swirling, and if I didn’t get what was IN it, OUT, then I knew I’d never sleep.

I sat for the next hour, meal planning dinners.  My meal planning also consists of making my shopping list, complete with an inventory of what I already have in the house.  For the entire hour, I planned out (what would end up being) 10 nights of dinners.  I made my shopping list- set up as if I was walking through the store, so I wouldn’t forget anything, and then I put it to the side, and closed my eyes.  It only took an hour and change before I fell asleep at 12:30 am.  Early for me.

I woke up, all bright eyed, and bushy tailed at 4:45 in the morning.  I was up until about 7:30 when I, all of a sudden, passed out.
I mean, I had to rest up for my big shopping trip and meal prep day… 

The first image is photographic evidence of me writing my list, in bed.  I took this picture while texting a friend, telling her that I think I really AM insane.
(the list made for the specific store was rewritten, later)

Second image is my chalkboard that lives in my kitchen, with all the meals planned.  I cut, marinated, labeled, and packaged meat for over an hour…

I do this every single time I go to the store.

You’ve Been Franz’d

Breaking News:  Apparently, ‘Franz’ is officially not only a noun, but also a verb.

Before we go on, I’d like to take a moment to clarify something that I know will come up.  Franz and I have a love and respect for each other, and we show each other in very strange ways.  Like a fucked up brother/sister relationship where we just make fun of each other, hit each other, and then laugh our asses off.  In fact, now that I say it, our relationship reminds me of the relationship I have with my real brother.  Maybe the fucked up one is really just….me?!  Anyways, I respect Franz no matter what he does or says.  You kind of have to know him to deal with the shit he does, and to be perfectly fair to Franz, it goes the same for dealing with me.  I seriously don’t know how he does it……… (in other words, no Ally’s were hurt in the making of this blog post)

With that being said, let’s begin.

It’s the end of the week, and I am at the gym doing an upper body training session with Franz.  The laughs and the giggles are getting to us, and I am trying my damnedest to stay focused and not waste all of my energy on laughing at him.

By now, you know that Franz does things just to make me laugh;  Like try to push me over, when I’m crouched down on the ground in between sets, catching my breath.  I’ve learned to be prepared, and he hasn’t knocked me down, lately.  Super proud of myself!  Yet, I wasn’t expecting what he did do.

As I was showing off the super awesome, amazing, incredible, huge muscles in my arms, he went to squeeze the muscle to make fun of me, and while he did it, he slapped my bicep.  This slap, left a red hand print on my already flush skin.  Of course, I scream ‘Abuse!’, and in normal ‘The Boy Who Cried Wolf’ fashion, no one came to my rescue, because they know me better than that.

A little while later, Franz decided to add to his artwork on my body, and left a pretty ‘good job, buddy’ hand print on my shoulder.  He’s hilarious.

As my training ends, and the thought of freedom from the gym lifts my spirits, we walk outside into the hot parking lot together, chatting.  It’s Friday.  We’re both a little giddy.  We get to my car, and Franz pauses mid sentence from whatever nonsense he was talking about, and says something about how funny he is when he pours water on me. So hilarious, Franz.  Really.

Without skipping a beat, he shakes is bottle of water towards me to scare me.  I flinch,  but it had the cover on it.  Phew!  Saved from the warm back wash splash to my face, that I (sadly) know so well….

Until he took the cover off.

He laughed his ass off, said “YOU’VE BEEN FRANZ’D!”, and walked off, leaving me soaking wet ….


Story Time.. And An Announcement

This is a story that has nothing to do with losing weight (kind of), Fat Girl Wunning, or training.  In the past, I’ve used this platform to tell stories, that were a little more serious, or had more meaning than my adventures while working out.  This is one of those stories.

This is a story about why I have been married for so long, and haven’t started a family yet.  A few years ago (beginning of 2015 to be exact), after months (years?) of going through doctors appointments, consultations, meetings, and having serious conversations with numerous people, my husband and I decided that having a child of our own would be a long, costly, emotional, and potentially dangerous (due to my health at the time) journey.  After our last appointment with a well renowned IVF doctor, who told me that they wouldn’t do implantation on me because my diabetes was so bad, we left defeated.  It was the weirdest feeling though.  We each knew that the other one was equally as upset as the other, but we didn’t say much.  I remember driving home, and we got on the high way, and he turned to me and said, ‘Ok, let’s do this’.  THIS was making an appointment with an adoption agency.  An agency that happened to be very special to me.  We were going to find out what it would take for us to adopt a child.  In the same short, quiet conversation, we also agreed that it was time for me to do whatever it took to get healthy.  It wasn’t a long conversation, it was one of those ‘we both just knew’ conversations.

The next month, we were sitting in a meeting room in the adoption agency office.  We were talking about the route we’d want to go in an adoption, what it looks like financially, what it looked like time wise, and what it would take paperwork wise.  If you have no clue… it was a lot. All around.

Over the next few months, I spent every extra moment in my life tracking down original documents, filling out paperwork, documenting our finances, and getting letters from work/bank/friends/family.  We did more background checks then any one could ever imagine.  We had our fingerprints taken multiple times, each.  We had several in office meetings with social workers, and nerve wracking meetings in our home to prove we were allowed and ‘good enough’ to be parents.  Finally, after a lot of work and time, and money, we were approved to adopt.

Next came making profiles to show potential birth moms how awesome we are.  Seriously… like online dating.  We had videos, pictures, and stories.  We had multiple websites, a hard cover copy of our story, and I even updated a blog with life events so that people could see how interesting we were… and maybe they’d pick us.  Again, after a lot of work, time, and money… we were live, online, and ready to be the chosen ones.
** Side note:  I saved ‘outtakes’ from our attempt at making the video profile.  The company needed just 3 minutes of us talking, and it took us about 2 hours to do because we can’t take anything seriously.  I will honestly keep those videos for the rest of my life… they just show how ridiculous, hilarious, and embarrassing we are together.

Over the next year we had just a handful of potential placements.  None were promising enough to move forward on, even though we tried.  There always seemed to be an obstacle in the way.  Each case had a new set of things to make us worry, or get us excited, or even make us jump the gun on buying things to ‘get ready’.  In fact, after one potential placement, to calm our nerves for the next one, we purchased furniture for a babies room.  All of a sudden I became that person.  The person who had an furnished nursery and no child to put in it in the foreseeable future.

After the first year passed, it was time to renew some paperwork, get fingerprinted again, do a couple more meetings, and oh… pay some more money.

In the meantime, we were starting to see that we were having issues with the agency.  They weren’t working with us the way we thought they should be.  They weren’t communicating.  They didn’t seem to care, to be honest.  At the same time, I had been working to become healthier.  I was doing it for my future.  My future family, and the future of my own health.  Parts of my life were going really well, and parts just seemed to be at a stand still.

At the end of 2017 I had had enough.  I decided that 2018 would be MY year.  OUR year.  I wasn’t waiting around for my own life to begin.  I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life waiting, and taking care of other peoples children (which, btw, I love doing).  I had always wanted to foster children, so I contacted DCF to see what that would look like.  After a meeting with a social worker, it was made clear to me that I couldn’t work with both the adoption agency, and DCF, at the same time.  I had to make a choice.

I don’t tell you this because I want to bore you with details.  I am telling you because when people come up to me and say, ‘when are you going to have a family?’ or ‘you’d be a great mom!’ or ‘why don’t you just (fill in the blank)’, they don’t know what the fuck I’m going through or what the fuck I am thinking or feeling…  People have no filter, and the thing is, this whole process was so emotionally draining that I couldn’t even talk about it.  My own family would want to know what was going on, and I didn’t want to have conversations.  I just wanted to fast forward time, be able to say that I had adopted a child, and live a happy life.  I didn’t want any ones opinions, or ideas, or comments.

So let’s fast forward a bit.  We left the agency, walking away from a shit ton of time/money/emotions/hope, and started to work with DCF.  Over the last ten weeks, we have taken classes to become foster/adoptive parents.  We finally found a place with amazing social workers, a group of people who were like minded and looking to do the same things we were, and hope.  That whole ‘Things happen for a reason” saying, was very clear to us in many ways.  In fact, over time, we have slowly told some people that we were doing this.  Some of Mike’s customers would share their own stories about adoption or fostering.  The more we talked about it, the more we realized that so many people that we know, have been touched or affected by fostering or adoption in some way.

We slowly started to gather some things we would need for a child to live in our home.   We have some clothing for boys and girls from newborn to age 5… just a few things, but more than what they will have when they come to us.  Toys and books are starting to fill some shelves, and a rocking chair is waiting. People have been incredibly generous, and they fill our arms and cars (LITERALLY!) with stuff!  It’s been a pretty eye opening experience to see that there are still some really good, generous people in the world.  We are so grateful.

Last month, we finally finished our classes, and graduated as approved foster/adoptive parents.

So, here’s the announcement:  We are officially going to be fostering (and hopefully someday, adopting) children!  We are looking forward to being able to give a happy, and safe home to a child in need, for as long as it may be.  If we become a forever home, we will be forever happy and grateful… but knowing we will be a comfortable place for a child to land, during a time of incredible need for them, we know we will feel like we have made a difference.

Moral of the story:  You never know what someone is going through, so don’t assume anything, ever.  Years and years have gone by, and many people have had no clue what we have been going through.  We are incredibly excited, and scared, and nervous, and thankful, and grateful… and we know we are in for the ride of our lives.  On the same note, I have become a healthier ME, and I am no longer diabetic.  Yes, I could possibly carry a child on my own.  No, I’m not ready for that.  Please… don’t ask people things like that.  It’s an incredibly sensitive, and emotional topic for many people.  I shouldn’t ever have to explain, and basically prove, why I don’t want to carry a child right now.  This was our choice.  This was our path… and we couldn’t be more excited, for whatever it brings!  Everything Happens For A Reason…


Photo Cred goes to Cassandra Marcucci Photography!  Thanks, girl!  You’re the best!

Sassy Pants

*Writer’s note:  I started writing this over a month ago… and finally finished today.  You’re welcome.

Five minutes… I had been in the boxing gym for five minutes, before the blonde firecracker called me ‘Sassy Pants’.

Five minutes after that, she walked into my arm as it went down, while doing a jumping jack when warming up.

So far, things were going exactly how I thought they would, at Kickboxing.

It’s my 5th week, and I am starting to get used to the abuse that kickboxing has on my body.  I still dread going, and during my ride over to the boxing gym, I question why the fuck I ever signed up in the first place.  Although, when it’s over, I am proud of myself for surviving.

I have learned that if I show up maybe five minutes late, that I don’t have to do the entire grueling warm up session.  It literally kills me.  Fucking lunges, side running, jumping jacks, burpees… everything about it sucks, and if you can believe it, I let everyone know JUST HOW MUCH I HATE IT.  Anyways, I have shown up just a little late to the remainder of the classes, just so I have enough energy to make it through the actual kickboxing, and not die in the first 5 minutes with warm up.  Seems to be working for me.

Firecracker will show everyone how to do a combination of moves with the bag, and then she will go around to everyone to make sure they are doing it correctly.  She has picked up on my sick sense of humor, and when she gets to me, she usually says something like, ‘Kick him in the knees!  Elbow his face! Knee to the groin!’ followed by something like ‘Hurt the fucking bastard!’.  I like her.  I like her a lot.

(Fast Forward)

All twelve sessions of torture have been completed, and I found myself, asking about prices for a new session, during my last 5 minutes of my last class.  In my head, I wondered why I was asking.  Did I really want to pay to subject myself to this torture again?!  The answer was, ‘not really’, but in all honesty, this was a really great work out, and I know that I was helping myself by being there.

It’s been three weeks since Kickboxing ended, and I never did sign up for more torture.  In fact, I also haven’t done what I told everyone I would do instead, which was go to a yoga class on Thursday nights.  Instead, I have sat on my ass.  Literally, just sat on my couch giving myself every excuse as to why it was OK that I wasn’t working out.  This isn’t going well.

The truth is, I have to find something to do, because I ended my gym membership.  Relax… I didn’t quit the Franz, I quit the gym.  Really for no other reason than I was paying more than any other members there, and I had belonged for over seven years.  I only did cardio when I went there, because Franz kicked my ass, else where.  There really wasn’t a point to keeping the membership.  In my head, I had Franz two days a week, kickboxing one day a week, and I would walk or find some other movement to fill in the rest.  Yet, since Kickboxing ended, I haven’t done shit.

I went to my Massage therapist yesterday.  If you remember, he also owns a Yoga Studio, and graciously gave me a one-on-one lesson about 6 months ago.  That was the LAST time I told everyone that I would do yoga.   When I left my appointment with him, I told him to have a great weekend, and he responded with, ‘Oh no! I’ll see you on Thursday night for yoga… remember?’
…Right.  I remember.

So basically, what I am trying to say is, check in with me next week, and make sure that I made it to Yoga on Thursday night.  Ok?

P.S.  I miss my firecracker.
P.P.S.  I hate burpees.






Melting Gumby.

Oil Spill.

These are some of the things that my body has been compared to, most recently.  I’m not even mad.  It’s kind of amusing.   In fact, I liked ‘Melting Gumby’ so much, I started to say it about myself!  It’s a funny thing when you can make fun of yourself.  I want to be serious, and say that I look so good, and I look sexy (I’d NEVER say this)… or whatever, but I don’t.  Instead, I go along with what the hilarious people in my life are saying, because to be honest, they are funny and creative comparisons to my body.

I’m not saying that my body is all that bad.  I won’t lie… when people compliment me on my arms, I am so damn proud.  And you know what? I should be!  I’ve worked so hard!  I have done so much work, swearing, life threatening, and whimpering to get to this point.  Yet, it STILL doesn’t stop me from making fun of myself.   I’d like to say that I don’t mind that I have all this extra skin, and I will tell you (and everyone else) that it’s my ‘battle wounds’; but in all reality, it kind of sucks.  The skin is something that won’t really ever go away.  It might tighten up a little bit, but for the most part, it’s all mine, forever (or until I save enough money to have it taken care of).

I think the best part about this whole story that I have spewed out, is that not many other people notice these flaws.  No one is walking up to me and saying, ‘Damn girl, look at your arms!! If only you didn’t have those cute little batwings hanging off the bottom of them…’  No.  They just say, ‘DAMN GIRL, LOOK AT YOUR ARMS!’.  And I modestly say thank you, and that I have worked hard for them.

On that note, this is what happened the other day at the gym.  OH, by the way… Franz and I are at ANOTHER NEW GYM.  This one is much closer to home, which is great.  It’s basically in a warehouse, and it’s a torture chamber of hell for me.  Franz, on the other hand, was giddy with excitement to have a new space, new torture devices, and new people around us.  Does this sound familiar?  We’ve been through this a couple times.  When he’s giddy, I know that my work out is about to suck super bad.

Anyways, I am at the ‘new’ gym.  It’s upper body day, and Franz has me doing rows using a kettle bell, while leaning onto a block.  Conversation went like this:

F: ‘Here.  Do 4 sets of 8 reps.’
Me: ‘Are you kidding me?  How fucking heavy is this??’ (while picking up the kettle bell)
F: ‘……..uhhmm.  I don’t know.  Just pick it up!! (pause and slight thought)  I just picked the green one!’
Me: ”I just picked the green one‘ WHAT THE HELL FRANZ!!  It’s 57 pounds!!’
F:  ‘Eight reps’.

I did my set, struggled to get to 8 on each arm, and then before my next set, Franz changed out the kettle bell.  I’m 99% sure he knew it was too heavy, but he will say that it was because I was complaining too much, or that my rows were ‘ugly’.

Next up, four sets of 10 push ups, touching my chest to a pad.  I’m not sure why, but they seemed a lot harder than normal, but I pushed my weak ass body through it.  When I sat up, heaving, having worked out for a whopping 8.5 minutes at this point, a woman who was training with her trainer on a machine close by said, ‘I’m totally impressed.  You’re so strong!’

Franz jumped on me like peanut butter on jelly.  ‘OOOOOHHHHH!!  Don’t let that go to your head!  Now you’re going to tell everyone about this…’
‘Damn right I am!  I worked hard for it!’, I replied.

Fast forward to the end of my session with my BFFL Franz.  He has me hold a 75 pound plate weight in each hand, and walk from one end of the track, to the other, four times.  The first time I get to the far end, I take a break, and the same woman is there watching me.  Franz formally introduces himself as a new trainer, as I’m over here struggling to breath.  A minute goes by and I heave the weights up again, and off I go.

On my second trip down the track, the woman says, ‘Seriously… you’re SO strong!!’.  Inside I was giddy with excitement.  Yes, I am!! I’m so strong!! I am proud, too!  Yet, what came out of my mouth was nothing less than …well, very Ally-like.
‘That’s because he likes to murder me when he sees me…..’, motioning to Franz.

Ladies and gentlemen, I have made my first impression at yet another new gym.

Love always, Melting Gumby