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My grandfather (or my uncle, if you read the chapter about my family tree, which is "Introduction - The Family Tree" under the section that begins "How Did I Get Here?") always called me a “little skinny ba$#rd.” Grandpa was known for spouting colorful language, and didn't mind whoever heard him. It was just how he talked. I didn't really know what that word meant (or several of his other utterances) until I was old enough to notice that my Mom would scold Grandpa if he used “bad words” and he knew a lot of them. On the other hand, “skinny” was a word I knew and never thought about it much.
I never had a problem with food growing up. I always ate whatever was put in front of me, and my mother was really not a good cook anyway, although her “Sunday Sauce” and meatballs were legendary. My Dad liked tripe, but I had no clue what that really was, and she only made it for him. But I even seemed to like liver and tongue occasionally, which my Mom cooked for no apparent reason since none of my friends Moms did. Well, at least I ate those odd dishes until I studied biology and I realized what those particular organs did. The thought of a cow having all the impurities in its blood stream being washed through the liver and the idea of the tongue licking any number of god-awful things put me off about them for the rest of my life. Someone grabbed tongue for the “protein” on Next-Level Chef, and I had to change the channel.
I never had a problem with food growing up. I always ate whatever was put in front of me, and my mother was really not a good cook anyway, although her “Sunday Sauce” and meatballs were legendary. My Dad liked tripe, but I had no clue what that really was, and she only made it for him. But I even seemed to like liver and tongue occasionally, which my Mom cooked for no apparent reason since none of my friends Moms did. Well, at least I ate those odd dishes until I studied biology and I realized what those particular organs did. The thought of a cow having all the impurities in its blood stream being washed through the liver and the idea of the tongue licking any number of god-awful things put me off about them for the rest of my life. Someone grabbed tongue for the “protein” on Next-Level Chef, and I had to change the channel.
The difficulty with me and food began after I married into a full, 1,000% red-blooded Italian family, who not only loved food, but they also owned restaurants and catering services. I can recall sitting with all of them at the dinner table, and besides chowing down and discussing what dishes they liked and how to prepare them, they also watched the Food Network 27/4, even while eating. So began my obsession with eating.
When I was pregnant the second time, I had weird cravings…not pickles and ice cream. When I wanted something, it had to be shrimp with lobster sauce and extra-cheese pepperoni pizza, sometimes on the same day. Baby #2 weighed in at nearly nine pounds, and Momma tipped the scales at just a shade under 200. I remember the day that I gave birth, I'd been eating cold pasta out of a bowl washed down with cherry vanilla ice cream. Of course, they always asked what you'd had to eat that day when they admitted you to the hospital. Too embarrassed to say what ridiculous food I'd ingested earlier in the day, I thought about it for a minute. I couldn't tell the nurse what I'd really had, so I came up with cookies and milk. To my slightly warped mind, pasta also were carbs like cookies and ice cream was dairy, so I covered my bases with what I'd actually had.
I guess because I was younger then, I was able to get the extra weight off pretty quickly. I certainly had a lot of exercise chasing around two little ones only 17 months apart. Baby #3 was more of a challenge. She, too, was nearly nine pounds and I almost got to the 190 mark again, but having some trouble with my veins caused me to cut down and slow the blowing up.
It didn't come as off easily the next time, since I now had three kids under four years old and had no energy to even run around after them. So began my various attempts at dieting.
First it was protein shakes. They tasted as awful as Mom's liver and tongue dishes, but I found if I just added a scoop or two of ice cream, I could chug them down. Defeated the purpose.
The next try was being enrolled in a weight loss clinic, which required that you attend meetings twice a week. It wasn't Weight Watchers, which I still attempt even today, and I don't remember what it was called. It was more psychologically oriented; you know, “Examine why you are eating.” Well, that's a no-brainer: I love food. “What can you substitute for self-soothing yourself rather than food?” That one was tough. I decided to try watching TV, but of course, my favorite channel was The Food Network. I became addicted to that while I was dining with my in-laws.
Then something happened that soured me on the clinic.
When I was pregnant the second time, I had weird cravings…not pickles and ice cream. When I wanted something, it had to be shrimp with lobster sauce and extra-cheese pepperoni pizza, sometimes on the same day. Baby #2 weighed in at nearly nine pounds, and Momma tipped the scales at just a shade under 200. I remember the day that I gave birth, I'd been eating cold pasta out of a bowl washed down with cherry vanilla ice cream. Of course, they always asked what you'd had to eat that day when they admitted you to the hospital. Too embarrassed to say what ridiculous food I'd ingested earlier in the day, I thought about it for a minute. I couldn't tell the nurse what I'd really had, so I came up with cookies and milk. To my slightly warped mind, pasta also were carbs like cookies and ice cream was dairy, so I covered my bases with what I'd actually had.
I guess because I was younger then, I was able to get the extra weight off pretty quickly. I certainly had a lot of exercise chasing around two little ones only 17 months apart. Baby #3 was more of a challenge. She, too, was nearly nine pounds and I almost got to the 190 mark again, but having some trouble with my veins caused me to cut down and slow the blowing up.
It didn't come as off easily the next time, since I now had three kids under four years old and had no energy to even run around after them. So began my various attempts at dieting.
First it was protein shakes. They tasted as awful as Mom's liver and tongue dishes, but I found if I just added a scoop or two of ice cream, I could chug them down. Defeated the purpose.
The next try was being enrolled in a weight loss clinic, which required that you attend meetings twice a week. It wasn't Weight Watchers, which I still attempt even today, and I don't remember what it was called. It was more psychologically oriented; you know, “Examine why you are eating.” Well, that's a no-brainer: I love food. “What can you substitute for self-soothing yourself rather than food?” That one was tough. I decided to try watching TV, but of course, my favorite channel was The Food Network. I became addicted to that while I was dining with my in-laws.
Then something happened that soured me on the clinic.
We were required to begin every “meeting” by taking a piece of paper and writing down something that you'd done for yourself that week and handing it to the moderator. We were seated in those modular chairs that molded your butt, as per pictured above. The woman next to me, whom I did not know…actually, I didn't know anyone … attempted to leave her chair to hand in her note. She was completely wedged into it. She didn't even try to extricate herself (as I would have) but instead, waddled across the room with the chair still attached to her generous bottom and then somehow waddled backwards and just set it down, still attached. I started to giggle. Then I realized that people were looking at me, and not the woman who had the chair problem. I quickly waved my hand over my face like I was warding off a cough and excused myself from the room.
I never went back.
Motivation to lose weight has always been difficult. After all, how many times can you tell yourself that even though you need to purchase articles of clothing from a plus-size shop, you still have a ways to go before you are at the end of their size chart? And now you needed to go to the plus-plus size shop?
One day, I had the TV on in the kitchen (and for once, it was not on the Food Network) and I heard the sportscaster talking about how much some NFL players weighed. I realized that I was carrying more pounds than Phil Sims, who was then the Quarterback for the NY Giants. I picked up the phone, called my good friend the travel agent, and asked her to find me a Fat Farm, with only women, and I had to get there by Saturday.
She found me one in Vermont (I lived in NJ at the time) and even though it was winter, I took off to the Green Mountains excited to see if I could jump-start my metabolism again.
I arrived there late in the afternoon and having been sitting in the car for four or five hours, I decided to bundle up and go for a walk when I got there. It was a beautiful area, and it was snowing lightly, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I'd not meant any of the other residents when I checked in and was told I'd meet the others at dinner.
I came into the dining room and was greeted by about ten women who were in varying states of their own fatitude. I joined them, and we chatted a bit, then one of the women said to me, “Excuse me, but you look fantastic! How long have you been here at the farm?” My weird sense of humor took hold of me and I looked at my watch. Without even thinking about it, I blurted out, “Oh, about three hours?”
I am still an Olympic champion of Yo-yo dieting, but now that I'm into my mid-70's, I give myself a break about my appearance. My heart leaps with joy when I see someone post on Facebook or Instagram, “Life is too short. EAT the cake.” And, I do.
And the pizza.
And the cookies.
And the burgers.
And once in a while, a salad?
I never went back.
Motivation to lose weight has always been difficult. After all, how many times can you tell yourself that even though you need to purchase articles of clothing from a plus-size shop, you still have a ways to go before you are at the end of their size chart? And now you needed to go to the plus-plus size shop?
One day, I had the TV on in the kitchen (and for once, it was not on the Food Network) and I heard the sportscaster talking about how much some NFL players weighed. I realized that I was carrying more pounds than Phil Sims, who was then the Quarterback for the NY Giants. I picked up the phone, called my good friend the travel agent, and asked her to find me a Fat Farm, with only women, and I had to get there by Saturday.
She found me one in Vermont (I lived in NJ at the time) and even though it was winter, I took off to the Green Mountains excited to see if I could jump-start my metabolism again.
I arrived there late in the afternoon and having been sitting in the car for four or five hours, I decided to bundle up and go for a walk when I got there. It was a beautiful area, and it was snowing lightly, which I thoroughly enjoyed. I'd not meant any of the other residents when I checked in and was told I'd meet the others at dinner.
I came into the dining room and was greeted by about ten women who were in varying states of their own fatitude. I joined them, and we chatted a bit, then one of the women said to me, “Excuse me, but you look fantastic! How long have you been here at the farm?” My weird sense of humor took hold of me and I looked at my watch. Without even thinking about it, I blurted out, “Oh, about three hours?”
I am still an Olympic champion of Yo-yo dieting, but now that I'm into my mid-70's, I give myself a break about my appearance. My heart leaps with joy when I see someone post on Facebook or Instagram, “Life is too short. EAT the cake.” And, I do.
And the pizza.
And the cookies.
And the burgers.
And once in a while, a salad?