Wrestling the Hulk: My Life Against the Ropes Page 2

  Sundays at Grandma’s

  I loved our family Italian Sunday dinners. They were always feasts. Food and fun! All my cousins, aunts, and uncles!

  On the weekends we would pile into our station wagon and head over to my grandma’s little ranch-style house early to begin cooking. I learned a lot from watching my mom and grandma cook. Who knew I was going to marry a three-hundred-pound wrestler with the appetite of three men? Trust me, I eventually put everything I learned in the kitchen as a young girl to use cooking for my hubby. I had to make a lot of food and make it fast!

  Nobody in my family was shy about eating. Grandma made sure there was always enough for everyone. And at our dinner table everything was homemade and real (except maybe Grandma’s dye job). We would get fresh eggs from her chickens and tomatoes from her garden. The pasta was also made from scratch.

  When it comes to Italian food, my mom has always had a motto: if you cook it, they will come. And, boy, was she right! Besides our immediate family—which was fairly large—there seemed to be a constant revolving door bringing people in and out of Grandma’s house, including the priest, Father Fitzpatrick, from the local parish. Another one of my mother’s celebrity clients from her interior design business was Dick Van Patten of Eight Is Enough fame. He heard about these traditional Sunday dinners and wanted to come join us for the festivities. Dick became a die-hard fan of my mom and grandmother’s cooking. He joined us many times, bringing his wife and two sons. He had a great sense of humor and was a genuinely down-to-earth man. Wow, did they love the homemade wine and playing bocce in Grandma’s front yard! It was like having a touch of Italy in the San Fernando Valley. Even Dick began to spread the good word about the good food served.

  One time, when my mom was working at Dick’s house, Farrah Fawcett happened to be visiting him. He started raving about my grandmother’s cooking, and Farrah immediately became intrigued. She was amazed that our family did this big Sunday dinner on every weekend, without fail.

  “Gail, why haven’t you invited me?” Farrah asked.

  Why didn’t I invite Farrah Fawcett to my mother’s for dinner? Mom wondered, shocked. Probably because, at the time, Farrah was the resident angel on Charlie’s Angels and one of the most famous actresses in the world.

  “Would you like to join us for dinner some Sunday?” Mom asked.

  “Of course, I’d like to come over this coming Sunday,” she responded, enthusiastically.

  Mom went home and told my grandmother that on this particular Sunday we would need to make a meal fit for a queen—or an angel, that is. Mom said to her, “We’re going to have a few extra people over this Sunday. In fact, a big star is coming over for dinner.”

  “How big? How many eggs do I need to put in the pasta?” answered Grandma. To Grandma, a “big” movie star meant a large movie star, like Clint Eastwood or John Wayne. When she made the homemade pasta, the recipe called for one egg per person.

  My family considered Farrah to be Hollywood royalty. We wanted to make it a special day for her, but when she arrived at our home on that Sunday afternoon, we quickly realized that the red carpet treatment was the last thing that she wanted. Farrah didn’t seem impressed with herself and was eager to learn about us when we all sat down at the dinner table. Quickly, Farrah became like one of the family, with her southern grace. The glamorous star we watched every week on national TV showed a warmth of personality that took everyone by surprise. Farrah possessed a special innocence and loved the sense of family she got from sitting around and laughing with us. It just confirmed that no matter how famous someone is, everyone needs a sense of home. My family took pride in offering that to her and others who came to our house to eat.

  I’m four years older than my brother and sister, so I always helped with the dinners when we were growing up. We rarely went out to eat. We would be lucky if we got a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken on the weekends. Later on in life, my mother was really good about teaching my sister and me how to cook. I was always interested in learning her recipes and little tricks. I was a little overweight as a preteen and my father would sit at the other end of the table and say jokingly, “Okay, Linda, which leg are you going to put that in?” or he’d ask me how much bigger I wanted my feet to get. He could be a pretty funny guy, too! My siblings and I would laugh at dinner, sometimes making our drinks explode out of our noses!

  Mom was always good about making more than enough food for everybody. She would make sure to feed the men! She told me that you always want to have something cooking when people come over because the smell of food on the stove draws them in. It made a house a home. I always did that in my marriage to Terry, whether it was coffee brewing, a cake baking, or chili simmering on the stove. It would bring people together. (Quick tip: Brown an onion!)

  During all of those Sunday dinners at Grandma’s every week, I didn’t realize what kind of impact they would have on me later in life and how I would end up entertaining the same way as an adult. When I was a kid, my grandmother could feed an army of people, while still laughing and having fun doing it. And everybody was always welcome. Family, friends, friends of friends, neighbors—she never turned anyone away. That influence made its way into my life.

  Being married to a wrestler, I found that the kitchen was the hub of our home. I was always cooking for the fellas. Even though Terry and I didn’t come from money and he eventually became really famous, we had this yearning to remain grounded and welcome all kinds of guests into our home. People weren’t going to a big celebrity’s house; they were just going to Terry and Linda’s house. And guests knew that if they came over to our house, it would be a feast with beer and wine, kids, and tons of food. It was always a good time.

  These recipes are from my mom, Aunt Rosie, Grandma Ciccarelli, and Aunt Judy. I’ll always remember all the delicious Sunday dinners with my family!

  PASTA SAUCE

  2 pounds pork bones (neck bones or farmers’ ribs)

  olive oil

  3 cloves garlic, minced

  1 gallon tomato sauce

  3 tablespoons chopped parsley

  Brown the neck bones in olive oil; add the garlic and cook for one minute. Add the tomato sauce and parsley. Cover and simmer for about 2 hours. Add salt and pepper to taste.

  When sauce is done, you can add parmesan cheese for additional flavor.

  GRANDMA CICCARELLI’S BISCOTTI

  Makes 2 dozen

  6 eggs

  2 cups sugar

  ½ cup vegetable oil

  3 tablespoons extract (any flavor you like)

  4½ cups all-purpose flour

  1 tablespoon baking powder

  ¼ teaspoon salt

  2 cups chocolate chips

  1 cup dried cranberries

  1½ cups chopped walnuts

  powdered cocoa or cinnamon (to taste)

  Preheat oven to 350 degrees. In a large bowl, beat together the eggs, sugar, oil, and extract. Once mixed together, add the flour, baking powder, and salt. Mix together. Then add the chocolate chips, cranberries, and walnuts as well as the spice (cinnamon or cocoa). Knead it together.

  On two nonstick cookie sheets, form the dough into four large logs (two logs per tray). Bake 25 minutes at 350 degrees. Remove from the oven and immediately cut each log horizontally into thirds. Lift each section and place onto a cutting board. Cut each section into one-inch slices and place the individual slices back onto the cookie sheet on their sides. Put them back into the oven for 10 to 15 minutes (or until slightly brown). Take the cookie sheets out and let cool. Serve warm or at room temperature.

  Valley Girls Like to Party

  Growing up, I felt like a geek. I was terrible at sports. I was the typical kid who nobody picked to be on their team. I’d basically sit on the bench and eat lunch all by myself.

  Although I didn’t have many friends in class, I did have a few who lived on my block. Immediately after doing our homework, we’d go outside and play until dark. We’d play dress up, dodge ba
ll, pogo stick, and Chinese jump rope. We’d ride bikes. We’d chill out in someone’s tree house. Now that I look back, those are the things that kids are missing out on today—good, clean, wholesome fun.

  As a kid, I had long, blond hair, and I didn’t bother to take care of it. I was a tan, outdoorsy girl. I didn’t wear any makeup. I went to school, did my homework, and helped my mom around the house. I loved to swim and ride my bike. I only had a couple of girlfriends and spent a lot of time babysitting my younger siblings. I didn’t have much of a social life outside of my neighborhood.

  As I headed into the ninth grade at Chaminade Catholic Prep School, I decided to try out for the cheerleading squad. I thought that maybe this would help jump-start my social life. Well, I didn’t end up making it. I was devastated. I immediately went from an unpopular chick, to an unpopular chick who didn’t make the cheerleading squad. Then, I learned a very important lesson: it’s never over until it’s over. Soon after, I got a call from the cheerleading coach saying that one of the girls on the squad was moving and I was the next in line to shake her pom-poms. Just like that, I was a junior varsity cheerleader!

  Almost overnight, my whole life changed. People who never knew my name were now passing me in the hallway saying “Hi, Linda!” Pep rallies, football games, basketball games, school fund-raisers—you name it, I was cheering at it. I was always full of energy. The quarterback asked me out. In fact, I had every football player on the team looking to score a touchdown with me. Who knew that all I had to do was put on a cheerleading uniform to go from geek to chic.

  I think the life lessons I learned as a cheerleader were important. Cheerleading gave me confidence. I became more outgoing. I learned how to laugh. Most important, I learned how to network with other girls instead of being jealous of them. This has served me well in life. Like the old saying, “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

  Just when my social life seemed to be on cruise control, my parents pulled the emergency brake. By the end of eleventh grade, tuition went up at my private school, and my mom informed me that they couldn’t afford it any longer. I would now have to attend a public school. What?! I thought, stunned. Right before my senior year? It took me so many years to fit into a school with seven hundred kids. Now I had to start all over again in a public school with twenty-five hundred . . . whoa!

  My first day of public school in the Valley was shocking! I walked into the bathroom of Chatsworth High before class and girls were smoking cigarettes. I even smelled pot. This was a far cry from what I had been exposed to at my prior rules-oriented Catholic school. But I soon thought this school was a cakewalk compared to Catholic school. It was like one big party! You could dress and wear your hair just like you wanted. I didn’t have to wear a school uniform, and I decided that this was going to be a blast! I welcomed the change of wearing bright colors, short skirts, and platform shoes. Wanana! Surfers rule!

  In one of my classes, I met a girl named Gina who would quickly become my running mate. Gina and I were like two peas in a pod . . . or, rather, two Valley girls in the valley. We were like clones. We both had long blond hair and green eyes, we were the same exact height, and we dressed alike. We loved to listen to the same music. We even spoke the same: “Like, oh my God, gag me with a spoon!” (Yeah, Valley girls actually said stuff like that.) We also both liked cutting class and watching the cute surfers in Malibu instead of going to fourth period. It didn’t take long for me to forget all the rules!

  On the weekends during high school, we’d go out at night to twenty-one and older dance clubs. Gina had a fake ID, and I scored one, too. Mine was from my friend’s sister who didn’t look anything like me, and her name was Leslie. One night, I walked into a club and when the bouncer looked at my ID, I think he knew it wasn’t me in the photo. “Leslie, do you mind signing our guest book?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said. Then, I signed it as Linda.

  “Okay, Linda,” he said looking down at the book. “I thought your name was Leslie?”

  “Ah . . . yeah, well, sometimes people call me Linda and other times Leslie,” I responded nervously, trying to win him over with my Pepsodent smile.

  “By the way,” the bouncer said, “I really love the name necklace you’re wearing that says ‘Linda’ on it.”

  Busted! I totally forgot about my necklace. That was really stupid.

  Back then, I was certainly developing into a young woman. I grew up with a beautiful mother, which made an impression on me and my style forever. When my mom would go out with my dad, she would get dressed up just like a movie star. She looked hot! If you thought the ’80s had big hair, the ’60s had even bigger hair. And my mom was the queen of the big hair! I learned a lot by watching my mother get ready. She would put on black eyeliner to create cat eyes. Then, she’d apply some fiery red lipstick and put on a cute little dress. Look out! To this day I try to make an impact with my style as well.

  I never had naturally big breasts growing up (at that time I was just a size B). Having babies and nursing them changed everything. After I was done breast-feeding Brooke, my boobs looked like two zucchinis! And, as if you couldn’t tell, I had my boobs done. It was the age of Pamela Anderson, and big boobs were a huge fad. Then, after breast-feeding Nick, I decided to have them done again for the same reason. Eventually, the scar tissue in one of my implants got hard, so I needed to do them yet again. You see, girls, you never know what you’re in for! My mother tells me to get them reduced, but I never heard a guy complain that they were too big. So I’m leaving them as is. (Quick tip: Don’t fix it if it’s not broken!)

  I realized at Chatsworth that I actually had a pretty good set of legs on me, probably from cheerleading at Chaminade for three years. You would have never noticed my legs under the plaid skirt of the Catholic school uniform. Going to Chatsworth High and showing off my muscular tan legs with the miniskirts with the cute shoes was really fun. I was digging it and noticed it was getting the attention of the boys.

  A tall, handsome PE coach who worked at my brother and sister’s school definitely caught my eye. He had nice legs, bulging biceps, long, brown surfer hair, and a thick mustache. Actually, come to think of it, he looked more like a ’70s porn star than a PE teacher. But I know what I like!

  When I would pick up my brother and sister at school, he would usually greet me by coming over to my car window. We chatted for a bit and pretty soon he asked me out on a date. Sure he was a bit older, but he was really hot! We went out a few times and eventually we went back to his apartment. After he did some convincing, we ended up in bed. Was the sex good or bad? I had no clue. Was his big or small? I had no idea. I was a virgin. When it was all said and done and he rolled off me, I noticed that something was missing.

  “Where’s the condom?” I asked, looking down at his uncovered member.

  “I don’t know,” he replied, confused.

  “What do you mean, ‘you don’t know’?! You were the one wearing it!”

  I began freaking out. Even though it was my first time having sex, I didn’t think a condom could just fly off! Or could it? I jumped up and frantically searched the bed, the floor, and under the bed. There was no condom in sight. Then, it hit me. “Oh my God. Maybe it’s in here,” I said, pulling it out from you know where.

  I’m screwed, I thought. Just my luck, the first time I go and have sex I’ll probably get pregnant.

  I sweated bullets every day for the next three weeks until my period came. Phew! I quickly realized that no sexual protection is foolproof. Eventually, I got over the condom crisis, and between the surfers in Malibu, the hot guys on the dance floor, and the PE teacher I still saw every now and then, my life had definitely changed.

  Chapter Two

  Two Blondes Walk into a Bar . . .

  GRADUATION DAY CAME. FINALLY! I HAD HAD SENIORITIS since the eleventh grade, and now it was finally over. My girlfriend Gina and I sat in the bleachers wearing powder-blue caps and gowns waiting for our names to be called.
When we got our scrolls, Gina’s was signed, but mine had a note to see the principal about summer school.

  I had failed a government course miserably and that prevented me from getting a diploma. Learning about how the House of Representatives and the Senate function seemed überboring to me. Hitting the beach with my girlfriends seemed so much more productive.

  While my friends headed off to the beach first thing in the morning, I headed to summer school. From Monday through Friday for two months straight, I sat in a portable classroom trailer with a broken air conditioner studying our government. It’s a wonder that I ever voted after that!

  Even though I hadn’t graduated from high school at that point, I did graduate from beauty school and set my sights in that direction. I eventually made it through summer school, took my final exams, and finally passed government. It was clear that college wasn’t going to be my thing and I was fine with that. Surprisingly, my mom and dad were fine with it, too. I think they believed that I would be successful in any way that I applied myself. I was a chip off the old block. I had my dad’s work ethic and logic and my mother’s creativity. I was a ball of fire and a people person who always spoke my mind. I never sat back. As a kid I always wanted to know why and couldn’t easily be pacified. Even though I was a geek in grade school, I still had a mind of my own and marched to the beat of my own drum. Also, being around girls cheerleading made me realize that I actually had a personality and I was funny. People liked to hang around me and I had friends who liked me for me, and this was shocking because I had so few friends early on.