Category Archives: Uncategorized

It’s me, the D.O. double gizzle.

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I’m not that good at drinking.

By that, I mean I’m not that good at drinking alcohol. Actually, I’m not that good at drinking anything, but I’m an especially bad boozer. I don’t booze well.

It’s not that I drink too often, or I get too aggressive or too emotional when I do. If anything, I’m not practiced, aggressive, or emotional enough. The real problem is… when I drink… I…

Turn into Snoop Dogg.

Two sips into a glass of Nuvo, and I’m Snoopier than Tha Doggfather himself.

Me last Friday

I start rapping. 

The first night I ever got certifiably crunked, I freestyled for my entire family and my brother-in-law’s family, who I’d never really met before. Fortunately, my sister filmed it and put it on Facebook. Unfortunately, I’m not going to share it here because 1) I don’t know how to download videos off Facebook, and 2) It’s very rather shameful. I will share my best lines, though.

“I found crap on my face. I’m like, am I in outer space? I’m confused. Where’s this dude?”

“You’z a Pokemon. You’z a fool, mon.”

I adopt a limp. 

Upon leaving the bar, I often begin walking with a gangsta lean. I suffer from a bum knee that only ever flares up after a drink or two. It’s a serious ailment, belee dat.

I become obsessed with blunts. 

Not blunts made of the marijuana! What do you think I am, a weed criminal?! I get obsessed with Phillie blunts, a perfectly legal, perfectly awful, cigar.

I became obsessed with Phillie blunts last New Year’s Eve. After getting stuck with a pack of them at a Christmas party Yankee Swap, I thought it’d be a nice gift to bring to my cousin’s New Year’s Eve party.

A few minutes before midnight, and after a few drinks, I decided it was time to get to Phillie blunting. I had no intention of smoking the cigar — I’d barely ever even seen one up close — but I thought it’d be fun to light one. The flame had yet to touch the tip of the cigar before I started dry heaving/convulsing. I thought cigars would taste like Cuban sangwiches or grape leaves or something. I was wrong; they taste like straight lung venom.

They look like hotdogs

Now, I bet you’re thinking, “Snoop is far superior to you! If drinking makes you act like him, then BITCH WHY AIN’T YOU GET SO THROWED EVERYDAY?”

I’ll tell you why I ain’t get so throwed everyday. Even though Snoop Dogg is a much better person than I am, strangers don’t seem to appreciate when I take on the persona of a 41-year-old former Crip.

Cab drivers don’t like when I accuse them of “trippin”.

My peers (other 41-year-old former Crips) don’t like when I introduce myself to them with complicated handshakes.

Bartenders of fancy nightclubs don’t like when I order a gin and juice and then don’t know what kind of juice I want.

And I don’t like the thought of me drinking enough to start acting like this:


Every time a dog pees, I cry

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Last weekend I was in charge of taking out the dog. For the most part, whenever Chico started creep-staring with his monkey eyes, it was my duty to take him outside for a whiz. I’d gear up in the family dog-walking outfit — long coat, stupid hat, flashlight headband — and take the little muttdogger out. And boy, ain’t it a hassle in the assle!

For some reason, taking out dogs is the most difficult of all household chores. It’s different than dog walking — dog walking is voluntary and pleasant. When I feel like walking the dog, I’m happy to strap on a coal miner’s headlight and go for a stroll. When I’m on the couch in a bathrobe, yelling at Jenelle Evans that I seen her with Kieffah, and Chico starts scratching at my eyeballs, dog walking is neither voluntary nor pleasant.

Only people who watch Teen Mom 2 will appreciate this video. 

I was going to do my own impression's of Jenelle's mom, but it came out way too disturbing. Enjoy this lovely picture instead!

I think, in part, it’s Chico’s fault. He’s real picky with his pooping, so a quick trip outside ends up being a 20-minute search for the perfect patch of snow. Plus, sometimes he fake limps, going as far as walking with only three legs. The vet’s checked him out and said he’s fine — he really just pretends to have a bum leg. Do you know how embarrassing that is? Especially if we run into other dogs? It’s like making fun of an amputee! He’s sick!

Look at that devil!

My past experiences are also partly to blame for my hatred of taking out dogs. Just one past experience, really.

It happened when I was 13.

I had just gotten home from a long day of the 8th grade. I was pretty stressed out from having to wear jeans all day, so I changed into some ripped boxer shorts, grabbed a snack, and turned on the TV. I was about halfway through a bowl of shredded mozzarella cheese and an episode of Jett Jackson when our then-family-dog, Halle, started a-whimpering. Girl needed to pee.

Even though it was the middle of winter, I threw on a gross old barn coat over my boxers, my favorite pair of backless slippers, and headed outside with Halle. It was below freezing, but I felt fine. So fine, in fact, that when Halle walked across the driveway, into the yard, and up onto the two feet of crusty snow, I followed along. It was like walking on water, except even cooler because it was fragile ice instead!

Fun fact: I've had these slippers since 3rd grade. They've fit me perfectly every year since then. They're tied with 9 other objects on my "Top 10 Favorite Object List."

I walked about five steps before da inevitable happened: my right foot crashed through the ice and into the snow, cutting my bare leg on the way down. Not wanting to keep it there for long, I tried lifting it out. Unfortunately, while doing that, my other foot crashed through the ice, too.

In the confusion of having very cold, very hurty feet and legs, I dropped Halle’s leash. Apparently a dog leash is less heavy than a chubby 8th grader, because it slid across the ice and down the little hill in our front yard and (kind of) wrapped itself around a tree.

I guess slippers are less heavy than chubby 8th graders, too; the next two steps I took resulted in the loss of both slippers. I had no pants, no leash, and no shoes. All I had were some bloody feets and a steady stream of drive-by spectators. And some tears… had a a fair amount of tears, too.

BRB. Chico needs to whizzle.

Living at home ain’t that bad

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Here is a list of reasons why I haven’t updated in over a month:

1. Teen Mom 2 (Chelsea’s mom looks like Kathy Griffin.)

2. Love & Hip Hop (Fabolous a dog.)

3. T.I. and Tiny: The Family Hustle (Do they have a son named “Da Money”?)

4. The Big Bang Theory (I want a friend like Sheldon.)

5. Chef Roble & Co. (That African mixologist is only dating you for camera time, Jasmine.)

6. Love Games (Sydney think she ghetto fabulous Katy Perry. Trick please.)

7. Toddlers and Tiaras (A dolla make me holla, honey boo boo child.)

8. Hoarders (Clean up, sickos.)

9. Intervention (Clean up, sickos.)

10. Dexter (Spoiler alert: THAT SHIT CRAY.)

11. Storage Wars (Jarrod and Brandi need to step their unit-picking game up.)

12. Dance Moms (Why wouldn’t you want to be like Maddie? I want to be like Maddie!)

13. I moved home to Maine.

14. I got a full-time job.

15. This precious child:

His name's Tyson, but I call him Da Money

Actually, I really did move home and get a full-time job — but, including the three and a half hour drive from Connecticut to Maine, the entire move took less than five hours, and I only started my new job on Tuesday. Other than hanging out with my favorite nephew, all I’ve done for the past month is watch TV. It’s just so fun! And easy!

Sadly, though, the funness and easiness of doing nothing but televisioning has come to an end. Look at me — I’m an adult now! I’m a college graduate! I have a real job! I moved back in with my parents! I sleep in the same twin-sized bed I sleep-puked Chinese food on in kindergarten! I made it!

It fits me nicely!

Even though moving in with my parents may not sound very cool, I really am excited. There’s a lot of benefits that come with living in Maine’s golden town.

1. I live fa free.

2. I eat fa free.

3. I’m kind of close to ski mountains, which makes skiing down mountains much easier.

4. I live across the street from a fine nighttime establishment — the type of bar where everyone knows your name, and daughters fist fight their fathers, and patrons crash cars into the house across the street once every few years. Here’s the only Google review of the place:

5. In the summer of 2003, when I was away from home for a few days, my oldest sister surprised me by re-decorating my room. She painted the walls baby blue, pasted dragonflies on my desk (which she also painted baby blue), and stuck random pieces of flowery paper on the walls. I’ve always been very feminine and sweet, so it’s nice to have a room that reflects my personality so well.

Mowing the lawn in my leather jacket -- such a lady!

6. We have a nice wood stove in our kitchen, ideal for bottom warming and the like. Turns out, it’s also ideal for bottom burning. (By the way, khakis are not ideal for wearing with burned butts. They don’t hide butt burn ooze very well, and that can be embarrassing if you wear them to school.)

7. My parents like watching TV, too. And American Idol auditions just started!

Don’t shower with the door open. Especially at an office

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My sister Meg and her boyfriend Isaac have been kind enough to let me live with them and they cute baby, Tyson. For the past two and a half weeks, they’ve given me shelter and Greek yogurt and unlimited access to season 6 of Dexter. The only thing they haven’t given me is privacy.

Not like they’re all up in my bidnass or anything, goodness nah. They’ve not only given me my own bedroom – the biggest one I’ve ever had, even – but it came with a door and a lock and a comfortable bed and a huge TV and cable and everything. If I wanted, I could chill in my pimp room and act private all day. At least, I could be private from Meg and Isaac and Tyson. I just can’t be private from the neighbors. Sees, it’s a new crib and I ain’t got no curtains yet.

Luckily, having no curtains isn’t that big of a deal. If I don’t want my neighbors to see me in da buff, I can always change in the bathroom, or the closet, or behind the wardrobe. And since curtains are easy enough to come by, I could even hop on down to Walmart and buy myself a set. (Do curtains come in sets?)

When it comes to getting ready and purchasing household necessities, though, I’m a lazy little arseholio. Therefore, I usually don’t bother to hide myself from the bare windows, and I have no plans to do so in the future. I figure, if my mom’s 7o-year-old employee man has already seen me naked, at their office, a few peeping neighbors ain’t no thang.

How my mom’s 70-year-old employee man saw me naked

Last summer (maybe it was in the fall, but now that I’m done with school everything feels like summer), a real trick of a hurricane hit the U.S. Her name was Irene, and she really wasn’t that tricktastic, but she did knock out the power in my hometown for a while. It wasn’t even out for 24 hours, actually, but since my mom’s work has a shower in the basement and I get stanky quick, I went to her office to defunkify myself.

Since my mom had showered before me, she gave me a few tips.

Mom: Bathroom light’s broked. Leave the door to the hallway open, no one goes down there anyway. Maybe even leave the shower curtain open, too. And remember, it’s a shower. You’ll want to be very naked for it.

Always obedient, I did everything my mother said. I left the door to the hallway open, and the shower curtain to the bathroom open. And I got very naked. For fun, I threw my clothes, underpants included, all over the room. And then, it was time to shower.

Apparently, it was also time for the elderly fellow from the shipping department, Joe, and the UPS dude to make their monthly visit to the basement. About three minutes into my shower, I started hearing banging down the hallway. At the same time I figured out there were people in the basement – about five seconds after hearing the banging – two shadows passed in front of the open bathroom door. I’d tried to shut the curtain, but my next encounter with Joe let me know I didn’t do it in time.

Joe: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? SHUT THE DOOR NEXT TIME YOU SHOWER HERE, YOU SICKO.

I was less naked and more unhappy than i appear here

After hearing Joe, who’s usually real jokey, sassinate me for showering in the open, a lack of bedroom curtains doesn’t seem that bad.

The time a janitor almost killed me

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Sometimes I’m a paranoid lady. About normal things, like unemployment and salmonella and armpits; and about some not normal things, like imaginary murderers and full-on-rapists. And when I’m paranoid about make-believe bad guys, it usually turns out badly.

For example, last Thursday night, sometime after the turkey feast had turned to turkey farts, my mom made me take the fambly dog, Chico, for a walk. We’d had Thanksgiving dinner at my sister/brother-in-law’s house, and they live in a real neighborhood — you know, blocks and sidewalks and stuff — but still, ’twas night! Past 6 o’clock, at least! Street lamps or not, I don’t care, it was dark as a mufugga out there. And everyone knows the freaks come out at night.

Even Whodini can tell you that

Chico as my witness, there was a freak out there that night. About seven minutes into the walk, I noticed a car following us. Well, I noticed a car parked on the street with its lights on, so I decided it was following us. Worried they’d kidnap my dog and 22-year-old, 6-foot me, I started speed walking and robot arming. Thirty seconds later, when I saw it was parked in the same spot with its lights still on, I realized speed walking wasn’t enough. Even though I was almost back to the house, I screamed “GO!” to Chico, spread my fingers wide for extra Allie speed, and started sprinting. And then I looked to my right and saw that all of my sister’s neighbors from next door were outside and watching me.

See? A bad ending! And that’s actually the least terrible of all the times my irrational paranoia/bitchassness has funked me over. Here’s an even worse one.

In 1998, there was a real bad ice storm in Maine. Everyone lost power and school was cancelled for two weeks. For warmth, my family had to bring all of our mattresses into the living room and make a super bed to share. We had to toast bagels on gas heaters. It was, by far, the best two weeks of my life.

During the day my sisters and I would go into my mom’s work. Her office still had power, so we’d go in and watch rented movies in the conference room, and get our nails painted by the crazy nail lady in the same building, and climb the shelves in the shipping department. It was awesome.

The only un-awesome part was that her work shared a bathroom with the rest of the building. To get to the bathroom, you had to walk down a long-ish hallway, take a left, and walk a foot. It might not sound like that big a deal, but it is when there’s wormy janitors creeping around.

One time, after leaving the bathroom, I heard a bunch of clanging keys. I don’t think I even turned around to see what it was — I just assumed it was janitor with bad intentions. So, when I turned the corner into the long hallway, I started sprinting. I was pumping my little  9-year-old legs like crazy — had my Allie speed fingers spread and everything. Sure, I hadn’t seen a janitor, and I certainly hadn’t seen a janitor who looked like he tryna steal me, but I knew one was there. And I knew he wasn’t far behind.

Knowing that — that he wasn’t far behind — I wanted to see just how far away he was. Still sprinting forward, I turned my head around to see where he was. He wasn’t there. A glass door was, though — only it was in front of me. Boy did I hit the shiz outta dat.

And not just “Oh boy I hit the shiz outta dat and bumped my noggin,” either. It was “Oh boy I hit the shiz outta dat and why’m I on the ground? Where’d all this glass come from? Why are there people running towards me? Am I crying?”

Actually, I wasn’t crying — I was totally fine. Apparently I could’ve died pretty easily, though. The door was supposed to make like James Frey and break into a million harmless little pieces; instead, it broke into four to five huge impaling-loving shards. They all missed me and I didn’t have so much as a scratch. Minus a bruise on my knee which I lovingly call my permabruise, cause the bastard’s still there.

Dramatization. The white stuff on my nose is lotion, btdubs

Also, one time I was home alone and convinced myself there was an impostor of my neighbor sneaking around. I ran into a wall and lost feeling in a part of the same knee. I call it a black hole, because that’s what it was.

I like it because it let's me time travel

The Day of Thirty and Five Fifteens

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Growing up, Thanksgiving was always a pretty normal holiday at my fambly’s household. Pies would bake, dinner rolls would burn, my dad would spill boiling turkey juice on his bare feet, and I, despite having never gone to a single church service in my life, would force my family to bow their heads in silence as I led a weirdo prayer about God and arrowheads. Nothing too notetwerthy.

In fact, my most memorable Thanksgiving didn’t even happen on Thanksgiving. It happened a few days later, on what I call “The Day of Thirty and Five Fifteens.”

The Day of Thirty and Five Fifteens

In 2008, my cousins Ira and Holly hosted Thanksgiving, and they did a right fine jarb. There were all the makings of a good Thanksgiving: family, babies, turkey, and sturdy crackers. We talked and played and laughed and did all the things you’re supposed to do on a national holiday. It was fun! Everything was great!

And the greatness continued the next day. My cousin Petey and I woke up early Friday morning for our first ski trip of the season. We left the house around 6 a.m. and drove the two hours to Sunday River. We suited up in our suits, chairlifted up the mountain, and skied down one trail. Then we smiled and high-fived each other and clapped. Then we packed up and drove the two hours back home.

Thang was, I wasn’t feeling so hot.

Actually, I felt the opposite of so hot; I felt craptastic. Craptastic enough that on the drive home, we had to pull over at a gas station so I could run in and break my 10-year puke-free streak. You know what’s unfun? Throwing up in a public bathroom. You know that’s especially unfun? Destroying the one thing you’re proud of, like a 10-year no-vomit record.

Shaking his fist at me n mah stank smells

When we finally got back to my house, after a ride of rolled down windows (by that I mean I farted a whole lot), I learned my mom and sister were sick, too. Apparently, we’d all caught the same bug our baby cousins had had a few days earlier. It sucked, but after a day of rest, a few bowls of chicken noodle soup, and some soda on the side, I was fine. Fine, at least, until the Day of Thirty and Five Fifteens, which happened after I’d returned to college.

Since the day I threw up in a gas station bathroom, I’d been perfectly healthy. Saturday, Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday all passed without incident. So, as I’m sure you’d understand, I didn’t expect Wednesday to be any different. And so, as I’m sure you’d also understand, when I burped a burp smelling of sulphur, rotten eggs, and human poop, I blamed it on the Golden Grahams I’d eaten for breakfast and headed to Writing for Mass Media class.

About four burps into class, my friend Owen whispered sweetly in my ear.

Owen: Daaaayummm. Smell dat? Someone keeps farting in this bitch.

Me: I… I think it’s me. Me burps. I think it’s me burps!

Owen: No, fool! Can’t you smell it? It’s a fart. The smelliest fart smell I’ve ever smelled. It smells so bad it’s scary.

Me: Um… I really think it might be me. I feel a burp coming. Here, let me do it straight in your face so you can tell for sure.

(I burp in his face.)

Owen: Oh my God. It is you. Do it again, it’s incredible. P.S. YA SICK.

And Owen was right — I was sick. Really sick. By 5 p.m., my belly had doubled in size with gas and angry stanks. My appetite was fine, though, so for dinner I ate a cheeseburger, fries, chocolate cake, and a Coke. As a result, my belly quadrupled in size by 6 p.m. and I was stankier and more uncomfortable than ever.

Which is unfortunate, because 6 p.m. was also the time of the college radio meeting — my first meeting as promotions director. Know what promotions directors have to do at college radio meetings? Speak. In front of tens of people!

What I did at that meeting doesn’t even count as public speaking. I could tell you about how I was completely hunched over, or how all I did was grunt, or how I couldn’t help but leak a few fartburps. All you really need to know, though, is that my pants were unzipped and unbuttoned. The whole time.

Then, when it was over, I went back to my dorm and pooped 30 times and let out five 15-second farts.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Why you shouldn’t let me watch your cats/your home/anything you care about

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My aunt Patsy, who lives in Florida, visited my family in RI a month or two ago. She spent most of her two days with us drinking wine, talking freaky about Tiki Barber and Spongebob, and hinting she’d like me to babysit her cats when she and my uncle Bob traveled to Ireland in November.

Patsy: Oh it’d be great if you’d babysit the kids when we go to Ireland. I’m so worried about my cat children. Niece of mine, I sure would appreciate it, niece.

Me: Aw heeeeeell nah. NEVA DAT!

Actually, I didn’t said, “NEVA DAT,” but I sure was thinking it. Nothing sounded less fun than going to Florida for more than a week, by myself, to scoop kitty litter and serve gelatinous, fishy stanking food to a couple of cats I’d never met. Still, I didn’t want to be a biz to Patsy, so I just didn’t respond whenever she brought the subject up. She’d ask if I’d watch her cats, I’d distract her with a picture of Tiki. She never got an answer out of me.

I later learned that Patsy named her black cat "Tiki." They have a special relationship.

About a month after Patsy visited, she e-mailed my mom to ask, again, if I’d watch her cats when she and her husband went to Ireland. This time, I gave it a little more thought. While the weather at home was getting shizzy, Florida would still be warm. I’d be kinda close to Miami, maybe I’d run into Rick Ross and he’d explain how to correctly use the phrase “NEVA DAT.” Plus, Patsy spelled my name “Ally” in the e-mail to my mom; she might not know me, but I was going to make damn sure her “kids” did. I accepted.

I got to her house in Fort Lauderdale last Monday. I was greeted with pee on the bed, two litter boxes filled to the brim with cat business, and random nuggets of throw up and poop around the house. After nearly 12 hours of traveling, I spent the next 60 minutes cleaning up cat nasties.

And I’ve since spent the past week cleaning up cat nasties. As I mentioned in my last post, Patsy’s cats, Tiki and Eli, are disgusting assholes. They’re mean, they’re poopy, and they’re demanding. They’re like dumb babies, except evil and barely cute. And they made me miss the birth of a real baby — a smart and nice and super adorable one — my nephew Tyson.

Can't wait to meet this little dude

And Patsy’s not even paying me well for my cat services! Besides the flight, she left me $80 for food/gas for nine days — about $8/day, an opened bag of Whoppers and Milk Duds, and two gifts she described as “crap I’ll throw away if you don’t take 🙂 — keep if you want!”

For a love of America and patriotism

I can tell she put a lot of thought into this gift

One good thing about my trip is my aunt and uncle don’t live together during the week. Patsy lives in Fort Lauderdale, while my uncle has a condo in the Keys. He left me directions and a set of keys to his place, and I decided to go there last Friday. I packed up an overnight bag, left the bastards some extra cat food, grabbed a fluffy white towel out of Patsy’s secret stash (she left out two threadbare ones fa me), and went down to the Keys.

My mood improved as soon as I got there. My uncle’s place was bright and clean and had a bombass ocean view. The beach was a five minute walk away, the pool was right across the parking lot, and there was even a bike I could use! I was deliriously happy.

No, furreal, I was delirious with happiness. At least that’s how I justify the dumbassness of what I did next.

When I walked into the kitchen, I noticed a handwritten note on the counter. On it, there were detailed instructions on how to water the plants. The two big potted plants got 2/3 a large container of water, the small one got 1/2 a large container, and the fern in the sink got a “good soaking” from the faucet. At the bottom of the note, it said “Plants watered Nov. 3 – Bill.”

I assumed that meant my uncle Bill wanted the plants watered on November 3rd. So, when I looked at my watch and saw it was already November 4th, I got to watering right away. As I filled up container after container of water, I thought about the note a little bit more. Bill didn’t even know for sure that I was going to come here — what if I never did, and his plants died of lack of water? Would that be my fault? He’d never mentioned it! Imagine if I’d accidentally killed them!

I didn’t give it any more thought; at least, not until I finished watering, walked to the bathroom to change, and stepped into a huge puddle. When I looked for the source of the water, I saw it was running out from the edge of one of the big potted plants. It was overflowing out the butt.

In fact, it turns out every plant I watered was overflowing out the butt. Water was all over the counter, all over the floor, all over everything. Somehow, the overflowing water from the fern plant even clogged the sink. Within ten minutes of being at my uncle Bill’s, every surface of his perfect little condo was underwater.

Starting with the counter, I grabbed paper towels to soak up what I could. At the same time, I picked up my uncle’s note to re-read the instructions — had I given them too much water? I hadn’t, I’d done all the right amounts… but a day before, so had Bill. If you remember from earlier, my uncle’s name is actually Bob. I realized “Bill” wasn’t my uncle, but someone my uncle Bob had asked to come over to water his plants; the “Hi Bill” at the top confirmed it. So, not only had I dumped a shizload of water all over my uncle’s condo, but I’d overwatered and probably murdered all of his plants, too.

Knowing I’d effed up pretty seriously, I wanted to fix it as quick as I could. I started looking in the closets for something to sop up the water on the floor with — dish towels, regular towels, whatever — but I couldn’t find anything. Other than a few hotel-style-folded, fancy towels in the bathroom, there was nothing. I grabbed the white towel I’d brought from my aunt’s and threw it down to soak up the floor water. Then, I got to ladling the water out of the clogged sink and into one of Bob’s frozen beer mugs. When I was done with that, I grabbed the soaking towel and draped it over the porch railing to dry.

Apparently, the air in the Keys is made out of pure dirt. When I took Patsy’s towel off the railing, it was filthy, and not from the floor. I meant to take a picture of it before I washed it, but I forgot. It’s okay though, cause this is what it came out of the washer looking like:

A little dirty

A lot dirty. I ain't care -- you can tell by my cute face

Now I need some advice — throw the towel away or try to explain?

Also, pee in the kitty litter box before I leave so my aunt has to clean it out, or not?

JK JK NEVA DAT!

…maybe?

I used to like cats

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I’m in Florida until Tuesday babysitting my aunt’s cats. Did you know cats are disgusting creatures? They pee on beds and track poop around the house and smell just awful. They steal turkey sandwiches and hiss at ladies when ladies do nice things for them. They make ladies miss the birth of their first nephew, too — an extra bastardly move.

They also rape arms.

They sometimes trip mothers, too.