Let me just start by saying that I come from a small Catholic family of eight; six kids and two wardens. A home grown Brady Bunch as it were, except in our family of four boys and two girls, Cindy would need to have a stem on the ol' apple. This would make me Cindy, by the way. That's okay with me. I look hot in a blond wig, and am willing to talk with a lisp when it serves my purpose. For instance, that came in fantastically handy when I was still required to register for the draft as an eighteen-year-old.

Speaking of cross-dressing, that activity segues nicely into my next point. The number one pitfall of coming from a large family can be summed up in one word: hand-me-downs. I thank God every day that all of my brothers were older than me. As my parents were innovatively frugal and prolifically fertile, I have no doubt that if I was a baby boy in a family with five older girls, I would have been the hottest little five-year-old boy in a sun dress.

That being said, our particular family dynamic throws a monkey wrench into the time honored tradition of the inter-family thrift store. You see, the age spread from top to bottom is sixteen years. My closest brother in age, Marty, is seven years older than me. This would mean that by the time hand-me-downs made it to me, they were at least six years out of style. It follows that by the time I was five, I was wearing the stuff that was trendy the year before I was born. This was the best-case scenario, by the way. Remember, these were the days when virtually indestructible Sears Toughskins were all the rage. How could I put an end to this vicious cycle of forced couture? The answer was obvious; make sure it won't fit. It was then and there I made a conscious decision to become sloppy fat. Had I not taken this drastic step, it was quite possible that I would have been wearing my brother Rick's circa 1966 obnoxiously colored, striped bell bottoms to school in 1982. Had it went down like that, the upside would have been that if I waited four or five years, they'd be in fashion again. This approach did not work for all apparel, however. I don't ever recall wearing a pair of showroom new snow boots until I moved out and went to college.

When you are the last of the litter, it is also to be expected that some member of the extended family will always buy you socks, underwear, dental floss, shoe laces, or some other non-fun item for Christmas and birthdays. This is typically a godparent. They were not the jerks you thought they were. Some people would have you believe that the role of a godparent is to bring the child up in a healthy Christian manner should both parents become somehow incapacitated or come to their senses and flee to Mexico, or worse; a non-extradition treaty country. The actual role of the godparent, particularly from the third child on, is to supply said child with staple items including but not limited too: rosaries (if you happen to be catholic), clip-on ties, school supplies, protractors, citrus fruit (to prevent scurvy), ugly shirts, and school-sized Kleenex boxes. The irony here is that I'd give my left earlobe now if I had someone who was expressly committed to making sure I am adequately clothed (at least in the months close to the holidays and my birthday, anyway).

Another fashion trait that set the fruitful and thrifty apart was iron-on patches. I'm not even sure these are sold anymore. In today's breakneck fashion marathon that is adolescence, a kid would never dream of wearing ripped-up clothing unless he had bought it already pre-ripped (or as the retailers like to call it, distressed). Back in the day, if you ripped your jeans, mom would pull out a denim-ish piece of material roughly four inches by eight inches. This material would not match any shade of denim known to man. She would cut the patch to size, heat the iron up to "cotton", and slap that bad boy over the hole. These patches were notorious for not sticking to the jeans for more than three or four weeks. Unfortunately, I believe these were sold for something like thirty-nine cents per gross. If it fell off, mom would simply iron on another patch until you either outgrew the jeans, or presented an unfixable hole. The holy grail of holes was the hole in the crotch of the pants. Due to the natural functionality of this area of the pants and the presence of the seam, it was impossible to get the patch to stick in this area, not that she didn't try. Typically, these patches were made of the same material as the Toughskins and were equally as flexible and forgiving as said Toughskins. She even tried ironing it on from the inside once. To this day, the doctor said it was a miracle I was able to have any kids at all. I found that gravity enhanced persons tend to wear this area of pants down more quickly than our more healthy brethren. Yet another vote in favor of endomorphism.

This necessary fiscal inventiveness extended to other areas of my youth as well. When it came to grocery shopping and cooking for this great mass of humanity, my mom could stretch a buck like warm Silly Putty. I have fond memories of our typical breakfast, especially during the winter. Mom would make a mess of piping hot cocoa served with buttered toast. Besides being incredibly yummilicious, this was quick and inexpensive to make. The splurge would be miniature marshmallows in the cocoa. She'd put the marshmallows in first and then pour the cocoa over them, resulting in gloriously gooey, sweet marshmallow slick on top of the cocoa. This was perfect for dipping the toast into. Yes, in the eat-yourself-out-of-the-clothing plan, mom was an enabler. I also have vague memories of oatmeal and Cream of Wheat, but I choose instead to fondly remember the cocoa.

Bologna and any other cheap lunch meat were also staples at our house. Bologna is surprisingly versatile, by the way. Did you know that bologna fried in butter is actually quite tasty? They seemed to be playing right into my get fat scheme. The fried bologna was also fun to make. You had to cut four slits into it so it didn't curl on you. It came out looking roughly like the West Coast Choppers logo. Mom could also feed eight people on two pounds of hamburger for three months. She could thin out meat with success equal to that of Tony Montana cutting coke in preparation for a Pink Floyd concert. I wouldn't have been surprised to find Styrofoam packing peanuts in the meat loaf. She would have made it tasty, though. My mom is a wicked good cook.

Our Catholicism also influenced the cuisine in our house. The self induced deprivation of Lent stipulated that no meat could be consumed on Fridays. Indeed, my mom can probably remember when the rule was no meat on Friday ever. I've heard it said that this was an effort of the early church to prop up the local fishing industry. Whatever the reason, it influenced several creative meals for our family. It's amazing how many non-meat meals you can come up with if you try. Of course there's all the fish: fried cod, baked perch, tuna salad, oyster soup, clam chowder (sans bacon), catfish, salmon patties, tuna melt, etc. I could go on all day with a list of truly Bubba-esque proportion, but I digress. Some of my all-time favorite combos have their roots here, as well. I fondly recall grilled cheese sandwiches with tomato soup; and fried egg sandwiches with a side of cottage cheese remain hard to beat.

For all my perceived challenges of being a small piece in a big puzzle, though, I never went to bed hungry (quite obviously, if you've met me), and I've always had clothes on my back and a roof over my head. The one thing that was never in short supply at our house was love. Lennon hit that one right on the head; love is all you need.