I rag constantly on models, actresses, and skinny bitches in general, because, well, they’re skinny…and obviously disciplined (or neurotic, bulimic, or anorexic). But I’ve a newfound respect for them. I’ve come to learn it’s really hard to be a skinny bitch—especially after 40.

I have always been somewhat obsessed with my weight. Not to the point of compulsively dieting or working out, but always mentally obsessing. Because I despise exercise, a quick fix to lose a few pounds would be to just not eat. No biggie, since food doesn’t excite me all that much, and I’m not a stress eater. I much prefer to chew my nails and make other people’s lives miserable when I’m stressed out.

I’ve never had a weight problem per se, but I’ve never been a skinny bitch either. I’m half Italian and half Polish, which explains why excess carbs go straight to my ass. I grew hips at 16 when I went on the Pill and they’ve been with me ever since. I fell in love with my son’s father when he uttered those 3 words I always longed to hear: “You’re too skinny.” He liked thick women with big asses. Who wouldn’t love that in a man?

It wasn’t until my ex up and left me with a 1 year old and I started fantasizing about driving head-on into traffic that I began taking happy pills which packed on the pounds. I didn’t care—better to be fat and (somewhat) happy, rather than thin and batshit crazy. I did manage to eventually lose the 30 pounds I had accumulated from eating bagels drenched in butter, much to the delight of literally everyone around me, including the mailman. You never realize how fat you’ve gotten until you A. See yourself in photos and B. Receive congratulatory comments about how much weight you’ve lost from people whose name you don’t even know.

Weight management is like being bipolar—sometimes you’re up, sometimes you’re down, but there’s always fluctuation. So when I stopped working out regularly once again and began eating crap like salty snack mixes, Almond Joys, and pizza, the pounds crept back on. Here’s the frightening thing though. While I may have always had thighs, hips, and an ass, what I NEVER had before was a stomach. So when all of a sudden I had this fucking muffin top hanging over my waistband, I was horrified. According to my rules of karma, everyone should have 1 area of their body that doesn’t give them a problem no matter how much they eat or drink.

After a few months of whining and feeling sorry for myself, I started working out regularly again. No results. Then I started eating slightly smaller portions. Nothing. I cursed my 46-year-old metabolism, and saw myself turning into this flabby, middle-aged potato-shaped woman with a lot of cats. I became depressed. I napped a lot. I took the Why bother? approach. Summer crept closer and closer, which meant shorts and tank tops. I knew a burka just wouldn’t go over in my neighborhood.

So I finally, finally got my ass in gear and took charge. Made a goal, started getting B-12 shots in my ass for energy, bought some green detox powder that tastes like mowed grass, plus a high-quality meal replacement drink that becomes gluey paste if it sits too long. I started exercising and using little 5-pound weights. But I did not actually start noticing a distinct change in my body until I took drastic measures. What did I have to do? I had to go to Hell and stay there. In fact, I’m still there, because I’m 6 pounds away from my goal.

For the last month, I have been working out every. freaking. day. I have NEVER done that in my life. I drink that green crap for breakfast, a meal replacement for lunch, and have a salad with maybe some tuna in it for dinner. I dish out lasagna and pizza for my son while biting my fist in frustration, but I have not caved yet. I went to a 4th of July party and didn’t drink alcohol or eat dessert. I had guacamole without the chips, and chicken instead of beef.

Sure I may feel great, but are you kidding me? This is no way to live. How do the skinny bitches do it? I mean, yeah, I’ve lost weight, but I had cherry tomatoes for dessert last night when I was craving something sweet. Fucking cherry tomatoes! That’s insane to have to do that all the time. In order to be skinny, you have to omit carbs (the good ones, anyway) which means you can never eat a goddamn sandwich or a burger. Certainly no chips. Or tortillas. No to sugar. And steak. And pasta. And potatoes. And what you do eat has to be in minute amounts. Plus, you have to exercise like 2 hours a day!

I applaud all you skinny bitches, because it’s damn hard to stay skinny. The will power and discipline needed is enormous and commendable. I think it was Julia Roberts who once said that in order to be thin you have to say no a lot when it comes to food. Yeesh.

So Brava to all the skinny bitches out there! I’ve decided I don’t want to join your masochistic club (the dues and obligations are way too high), so I’ll be admiring you from afar, instead.

How many of you are skinny bitches? And how in the hell do you stay that way?



photo by lululemon athletica

WHAT IS A WORKOUT? by George Allen

A workout is 25 percent perspiration

and 75 percent determination.

Stated another way, it is one part physical exertion

and three parts self-discipline.

Doing it is easy once you get started.

A workout makes you better today than you were yesterday.

It strengthens the body, relaxes the mind,

and toughens the spirit.

When you workout regularly, your problems diminish

and your confidence grows.

A workout is a personal triumph over laziness and


It is the badge of a winner—the mark of an organized

goal-oriented person

who has taken charge of his, or her, destiny.

A workout is a wise use of time

and an investment in excellence.

It is a way of preparing for life’s challenges

and proving to yourself

that you have what it takes to do what is necessary.

A workout is a key that helps unlock the door

to opportunity and success.

Hidden within each of us is an extraordinary force.

Physical and mental fitness are the triggers that can release it.

A workout is a form of rebirth.

When you finish a good workout, you don’t simply feel better,



I pulled these inspirational words out of a folder of papers I hadn’t looked at in years, because I figured I needed a big swift kick in the ass when it comes to exercising—remember why it’s so great for you, blah blah blah. It’s now taped prominently where I can see it, in the hope that it will remind me that no progress can be made in my fatness unless I MOVE.

I got on this cookie rampage around the holidays and come end of January, it still hadn’t stopped. Sugar for me is like cocaine; I ingest a little, but then I want more. And more. And more. And I can’t stop eating it, until it’s time to get into a bathing suit, and then I’m like…Oh crap!

So I told myself: “Self, you need to get your sugar cravings under control before you’re forced to shop for Delta Burke Clothing.”

Self said, “Uh, I don’t think so. Hey, can you grab me a chocolate-covered granola bar. You’re closer.”

“No really,” I said. “I’m not kidding around. You’re like this insatiable monster that can’t get enough.”

“Yeah, and…?”

“Well, none of your clothes fit anymore.”

Self thought about it for a moment. “That might be a problem, I suppose.”

“Not only that, but you’re turning 45!”


“You don’t want to be fat for your birthday, do you?”

“Depends. Will there be cake? And if so, will I be allowed to eat it?”

It was a losing battle, so I knew drastic measures had to be taken. I came up with the brilliant idea to do the Master Cleanse—nothing but lemon juice/maple syrup/red pepper in water for 10 days. I decided to do it my way though. I still drank coffee with heavy cream, (no way in hell was I going to experience food AND caffeine withdrawals) and I ate a few veggies, and a bit of fruit. The first day was no problemo. The third day was hell and a hot flash—and not because I was hungry, but because I couldn’t think straight; it was what I imagine encephalitis to feel like. And I had the kind of headache that felt like 20 woodpeckers jackhammering my forehead. And I went to bed at 8:30 after getting up at almost noon.

This morning I decided that not eating truly madly deeply sucks, and I’d rather stay toxic than go through a freaking headache like that again, as well as perpetual brain inertia. But it did get my sweets craving under control, and the entire miserable ordeal showed me that if I want to eat then I have to exercise. Because it really doesn’t matter how thin I am if my mind can’t form coherent sentences and I end up passing out from lack of food in front of a moving bus.


Photo by isfullofcrap

Okay, in all fairness, I’m not fat, as in “The Biggest Loser” fat. But I’m fatter than I care to be. I hate to exercise. I have always hated to exercise. I grew up in Brooklyn, NY. There were no grassy fields to play soccer or baseball. The closest park was paved entirely in cement, and had monkey bars without any protective padding underneath in case you fell. No child frolicked through this park; teenagers went there to smoke pot and spit.

I can’t tell you how many notes I forged from my mother to get out of gym class. In my senior year of high school, at our graduation luncheon, every classmate was presented with a certificate of where they’d be in ten years.  Mine said I’d be promoting my book called 1 in 365—How to stay in shape while only exercising one day a year.

My way of staying thin throughout my twenties was to just not eat. I wasn’t anorexic by any means, because I was hypoglycemic and would pass out if I didn’t consume protein. I just didn’t eat that much. Food never really excited me. Eating is one big time-consuming drag, as is the preparation and clean-up of it, so if I could just pop a pill to get all my nutrition instead, that would suit me fine.

I’m not a stress eater, either. Stress drives me to drink coffee, drink alcohol, or yell. If I’m really emotionally unhinged, I’ll actually lose my appetite. This has served me well regarding weight management. Don’t get me wrong—I was NEVER bone thin. I was born with fleshy hips, thighs, and an ass, all made larger over the years by the fake estrogen in the Pill.

My best friend from high school, who was obsessed with her weight and super-skinny, would always lament over how fat she was because she couldn’t get down to a size two. I wasn’t even a size two when I was two. Her, and women like her, I want to smack. Seriously. Because if they’re unable to squeeze any flab, and yet are still complaining about how fat they are, what does that make me? Clinically obese?

Speaking of…that’s what my dear dad called me when I got up to an unfathomable 160 pounds five years ago. He had the gall to pull out his medical encyclopedia and tell me my BMI was so over the limit, that I was…yes, OBESE. Boy, with a father like that, who needs an abusive spouse? I’ll mention the fact that I put on weight after my son’s father left me suddenly after my son turned one. Enter Prozac, then Zoloft, then Effexor to keep me from driving off a cliff into the ocean, and you have a prescription for fatness.

I’m not sure why antidepressants make people gain weight. Is it because they’re not depressed anymore, so they regain their appetite? Is it a cruel joke played by the pharmaceutical companies that make them? (Ha! You cannot be both happy AND thin!) Are they so zonked out, they don’t care how fat they’re getting? (Whoa, I’m becoming as large as a whale. Eh, it’s all good.) Retention of water, in the amount of Lake Michigan?

What I do know is the older I get, the more my not eating solution from my younger days doesn’t work. In my twenties and thirties, I used to be able to watch what I ate for a few days and feel somewhat svelte again, but when I hit age 41, I finally bit the bullet and realized I needed to exercise. It was tortuous, but I penciled it in like a doctor’s appointment every other day. I lost the weight, tightened up the flab, and was able to go swimming without wearing a muumuu.

I kept this up for two years until this winter reared its ugly head, and I became depressed, tired, and unmotivated. “I’ll work out the next day” or “the next day,” and pretty soon almost twenty pounds came sprinting back, suctioning themselves to various parts of my body. I stared at myself in the mirror the other day and felt like crying. “Dammit, now I have to start all over again!” I whined.

My mother and I would have wicked arguments while I was growing up when she would try and tell me that the first step toward weight loss was Acceptance: Looking in the mirror and loving what you see, regardless of what you feel you need to change. And I’d look at her like she had two heads, squeeze a big chunk of inner thigh blubber and scream, “How can I love myself when I look like a fat cow?!”

Plus-size models may embrace their heftiness, because well, they’re getting paid to. But when I sit down and two rolls of stomach fat accompany me, I feel like moving to Hawaii so I never have to wear another waistband again.

I can’t afford to move to Hawaii, and I can’t afford a new wardrobe. I’ve tried eliminating food, except for the 3000 calories of heavy whipping cream I use daily in my coffee. I refuse to embrace my unwelcome fatness (unless it’s in my breasts, which, of course it never is). So that leaves me with only one thing left to do…

Sigh. Does typing count as exercise?


I grew up wanting to be a model. I worshipped the uber-divas
of my time: Naomi, Christie, Linda, Cindy – no last names needed. As any girl
who’s ever wanted to be a model knows, she must procure the perfect size 0

I came out of the birth canal with hips. Hips that became
even more padded when I went on the Pill as a teenager. (Damn estrogen!) While
I may have been considered thin, I was never skinny. You know the skinny I’m
talking about – no boobs, protruding hipbones, flat stomach, can see daylight
between the thighs. The kind of body that makes men worry they’ll break you if
they lay on you, but women say, “Damn girl, look at you! I hate you. What’s
your secret?”

It didn’t matter that I come from Italian and Polish
ancestry, where having a “child-bearing” body is supposed to be a compliment. I
wanted that unattainable skinny boy’s body that is only possessed by 2 % of the
female population. I never got it, of course. The closest I came was one summer
of modeling school, when I subsisted daily on raw veggies, two lattes, and the ubiquitous
protein powder used by models to stay thin – cocaine.

Barely pushing 5’5”, the only country I was invited to model in was Japan, so I gave up that dream
to pursue a more self-esteem-building profession – acting. Instead of illegal
drugs, I kept myself thin in a much healthier manner. I drank coffee all day to
keep from eating.

To say I have always been somewhat obsessed with my body image
is like saying Kim K. is a bit of a publicity whore.  I have always maintained my weight, even
throughout my pregnancy, because well, I was too damn vain to become fat.

Then came the happy pills…Zoloft, Prozac and Effexor, in
that order, to ensure I didn’t wind up in the psych ward after my ex walked out
on me and our one-year-old son. Take the anxiety and depression I already felt
over being a new mom, pour in 2/3 cup of abandonment, mix with a ¼ cup of
unemployment; top it off with no help whatsoever, add a dash of poverty
sprinkles, and you wind up with one enormous shitcake.

Low serotonin levels usually trigger a craving for carbohydrates.
Here I was, receiving steady doses of the happy hormone, serotonin, and for the
first time in my life all I craved were carbs – specifically in the form of a
cinnamon raison bagel dripping with butter, and dunked in tea. I had one for
breakfast and one for dinner. Each and every day for approximately two years.

One day my sister and I were watching a video taken from her
birthday party. There was a woman in the background wearing a strapless dress.
She should not be wearing that dress with her back fat, I thought, and look at
those flabby arms and – “HOLY CRAP, THAT’S ME!”

That was my A-ha moment. It’s true what everyone says. You
don’t realize the full extent of your fatness until you see a picture of
yourself. I must have packed on a good forty pounds, and the sad part was I
didn’t give a flying freak. I was on meds. Who cared if I was fat? At least I
wasn’t psycho.

Surprisingly, a lot of people cared. Friends and family
actually had the audacity to comment on my extra poundage. They’d say things
like, “Remember when you used to be so thin?” To me, that’s the equivalent of
telling someone who’s been laid off, “Remember when you used to be employed?”
Uh, yeah.

As if I don’t realize I can’t button my jeans anymore. “Gee,
they must have shrunk in the wash.”

My “every woman should be a size 4 or else they’re worthless”
father tried to intimidate me out of my fatness. “Do you know you’re considered
clinically obese?” he demanded, and then proceeded to whip out his medical encyclopedia
to prove his clinical observation.  Any other daughter may have thought, How
sweet. Dad’s concerned about my extra weight affecting my health. Knowing my
father however, made me realize his cutting comments had more to do with his
unrealistic standards of perfection, and the fact that I hadn’t attained them.

“How dare you become clinically
obese and make me look like a failure as a father!”

It was the prospect of getting naked with someone again that
finally propelled my fat ass into gear. If the world were filled solely with women,
I’d probably be 300 lbs. and swimming in a vat of melted chocolate layered with
whipped cream. But I had gotten to the point, after six long years, where I wanted
to have sex again. I knew that if I didn’t get myself back into shape I’d be
doomed to a life of missionary sex with the lights off.

I lost the weight; this time by working out. I may not have
the body I did when I was twenty, but I’m doing okay for forty-three. With or
without anyone’s approval.