Also by James Villas
Dancing in the Low Country
Hungry for Happiness
Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.
HUNGRY for HAPPINESS
JAMES VILLAS
KENSINGTON BOOKS
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
CONTENTS
1. THE CURSE
2. SASSY SAL
3. KNEE-HIGH TO A GRASSHOPPER
4. BLOWBAGS
5. CHEAP DATE
6. HANKY-PANKY
7. THE BOY FROM WACO
8. WHOLE HOG
9. GOAT ROPERS
10. BLUEBIRD
11. A DUCK PEEPING AT THUNDER
12. GUMBO
13. BEARS AND BATS
14. TRASH
15. ANIMAL COPS
16. BIG HAIR GLAMOUR
17. HUMMINGBIRD CAKE
18. JESUS, TAKE THE WHEEL
19. SUGAR DADDY
20. QUEEN FOR A DAY
21. SKUNK EGGS
22. MAN IN THE MOON
23. FADED FLOWERS
24. CANINE BEREAVEMENT
25. FIRE POWER
26. BEDROOM BOOTS
27. WICKED WAYS
28. MEAT LOAF MADNESS
29. CHILIROO
30. RAGING BULL
31. WILDCAT KICKBOXING
32. BUBBLES
A READING GROUP GUIDE
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1
THE CURSE
I reckon I do love my mama, but I gotta say sometimes she can be the most spiteful human being on earth when she pitches one of her hissies. You know, a real bitch. I mean, what I could use at this point in my life are just a few kind words of encouragement from my own mother, and what do I get but the same ridicule she’s been dishing out ever since I decided to have the surgery—and before. I figure any other mother would be proud of a daughter who’s determined to improve herself and overcome what I can only call a family curse. I also figure Mama’s just envious of anyone who gets sick and tired of looking like a tub of lard and has the guts to finally do something about it.
Yeah, I used to be fat and make no bones about it. None of this wishy-washy crap about being full-figured and curvy and having a weight disorder. I’m talking about fat, disgusting fat—pure and simple. Like five foot four and 280 pounds. Hell, I was fat my whole goddamn life till I took the bull by the horns. I ate when I was happy. I ate when I was sad. I ate when I was disappointed or scared. If there was any reason to eat, I found it. And diets? You name it, I tried it. Weight Watchers. South Beach. Atkins. Nutrisystem. Tubular pasta. Even a stupid sugar-water diet I read about in Reader’s Digest. Fat pills? Whatta joke! Also tried a MultiFlex for two months I ordered on the Internet, then weeks of purging, then some stupid support group, then heaven knows how much counseling and therapy. Nothing worked, and I hated myself, and all Mama could say was “Loretta, you’re nuts,” or “Sugar, why can’t you just accept the way the Good Lord made you?” or “Loretta, nobody’s ever gonna mistake you for a bathing beauty”—awful things like that.
Fat. As I say, it’s always been like a plague on my whole family. Maybe it’s partly genetic, but the truth is, we all love food more than life itself, and, myself, I love to cook and fool around with food and watch the Food Network almost as much as I love eating and blowing the sax and finding good homes for our animals. Guess I learned to cook mostly from Mama, but show me something like Helen Corbett’s Cookbook and I can spend days just reading it, and gettin’ ideas, and fixin’ dozens of great dishes. Of course I’m best at Southern and Tex-Mex, but when I wanna do real fancy foreign things like beef burgundy and chicken cacciatore, I couldn’t do without my messed-up copy of Joy of Cooking that Mama once gave me for my birthday. And I wonder why I could never lose weight.
Anyway, my sweet daddy died of a heart attack when he was only forty-eight. Mama’s up there at about 250 and has diabetes and hypoglycemia and obstructive sleep apnea. And my older sister Gladys, who’s a year older than me and married with a fat husband and four chubby children…well, Gladys is only thirty-seven and has already had one knee replaced, and she’s still about Mama’s size. I’ve begged and begged Mama and Gladys both to bite the bullet the way I finally did, but they’re both scared as chickens. Just terrified of the idea of having their stomachs banded—banded gastroplasty they call it. I told Mama she wouldn’t be around many more years to bake biscuits and put up preserves if she didn’t get over to the bariatric clinic, but then she gets on her high horse again and says things like, “It’s not natural fooling around with your body like that, young lady, and you could end up paying a price worse than death.” I do something like pat my tummy and hips and say, “But, Mama, look at me now. Just look at me and see how much healthier and happier I am.” And she just makes that mean face the way she does when she disapproves of something and says, “Loretta, child, I liked you a lot better when you had more flesh and sometimes wonder who you really think you are.”
Well, goddammit, if Mama and Gladys want to eat themselves into an early grave and spend the rest of their lives waddling around Houston like stuffed ducks, I’m out the door and can’t keep worrying about them. Not after all the crap I’ve been through this past year and a half. Down from 280 to 162 and still have a good 30 pounds to go. It’s been hell, though, I can tell you. Five-hour operation, gallbladder removed, a silicone ring cinched around my stomach so I have only a small pouch, hair falling out the first couple of months, thyroid problems, and now I’d probably upchuck if I ate more than an ounce or so of chicken Parmesan or fries or salami wrap or trail mix or lots of other things I’ve always loved. And this don’t even count all the body contouring, and the expense, and the frustration of being around my wonderful cheese biscuits and chocolate-pecan balls and jelly treats the bank sometimes pays me good money to make for one of their fancy shindigs. What I do now is keep these little chocolaty candies called Nips with me at all times and suck on one if I have hunger pangs.
It’s been no fun and takes lots of mental adjustment, that’s for sure, but it does me good to remember what it was like before. Size 30 and Lane Bryant and Avenue. Gasping for breath when I picked up even a beagle at the shelter. Couldn’t cross my legs to tie my shoes. Heart palpitations and sky-high cholesterol. Festered open sores inside my thighs. Saxophone balanced way up on my boobs when I played a gig at Ziggy’s, and audiences calling me Bubbles. Even climbing the stairs at home on my hands and knees. And if I fell down, whoooa…! One time, the small metal step stool in the kitchen just collapsed when I was fixin’ to make some divinity fudge and reached up in the cabinet for some brown sugar. Had to lay there in the middle of the friggin’ floor till Lyman got home and called the neighbors to help me up. Nobody can imagine the humiliation.
Worst, I guess, was the binge eating. Let me at a Dunkin’ Donuts, say, and it was nothing for me to knock off maybe