Rancic - Going off script: how I survived a crazy childhood, cancer, and Clooneys 32 on-screen rejections

I was born a celebrity. It was the summer of 1974, a Saturday morning in Naples, Italy, where my father, Eduardo DePandi, was a master tailor and my mother, Anna, was a housewife. My brother, Pasquale, was seven years old and already anointed king of the world, much to the outrage of my five-year-old sister, Monica. I was two weeks overdue, but my mother kept that to herself, determined as she was just to go about her business until I decided to make my entrance, whenever that happened to be. Whats an extra three or four months in the womb, right? Mama DePandi was never one to complain, even when she was swollen like an Oompa Loompa and stuck in our cramped third-floor walkup apartment with no air-conditioning in the torpid August heat.

On Italys southern coast, summer weekends are always hot and unhurried, generation after generation following the same rhythm, and the same rituals. Come Saturday morning, the men and children traditionally head to the beach while the women stay behind to fix a huge picnic feast, which they then lug down to the shore, appearing en masse like an advancing army at lunchtime.

When my mothers water broke on the beach the morning of my birth, Im told that she just kept serving her famous frittata. Then, without a word, she suddenly got up and discreetly walked into the sea, hoping to swim off the labor pains. No one had ever seen Anna DePandi go into the water during lunch before. My father hurried in after her.

Anna, whats going on? Babbo called out.

Nothing, nothing, she insisted, as if she were suddenly an Olympic medalist preparing to do a few warm-up miles before casually swimming across the sea to Tunisia.

Are you in labor? my father demanded.

No, she insisted, turning back to the beach and not bothering to mention the contractions. Lets eat. Italians invented comfort food, and our thinking is that theres nothing a few hundred carbs cant cure.

Mama kept up the pretense that nothing was wrong as long as she could, but I was hell-bent on joining the party, and the picnic came to a screeching halt as her contractions worsened. I was very nearly born in traffic on the way to the clinic, where a midwife waited to deliver me, contrary to my sisters account of highly skilled dolphins doing so at sea (a story I fervently believed until I was something like twelve). Maybe the dolphins would have been less shocked than the humans by my size: thirteen pounds! If I hadnt been her third baby, my poor mother may not have survived, considering that she didnt have the luxury of an epidural and got nothing more than the equivalent of a single Advil to kill the pain. Not only was I huge, but I came out with a full head of dark hair, too. I basically arrived as a toddler.

I was named after my mother and her older brother, my Uncle Giulio. As a child, I took the lack of a middle name as an open invitation to find my own. I gravitated toward stripper names. Roxy was a recurring favorite. At birth, though, everyone just called me Pacchiana, which loosely translated to large peasant woman with a red moon face. Neighbors lined up out the door waiting their turn to come see the giant baby when my parents brought me home, and my mother proudly passed me around for closer inspection. Its hard to picture this scene now in a Purellified world where we dont even dare touch a shopping cart at a grocery store without sanitizing it first, but Mamas approach to building up her newborns immune system was more along the lines of Oh, sure, hold her, sneeze on her, set her on the floor if your arms get tired But no one ever did. I was the neighborhood star, and it seemed like no one would ever get enough of me and my chubby cheeks.

Sadly, that initial wave of public interest and adoration lasted for only eighteen months. By then, the only part of me still freakishly large were my feet, which were crammed into big, black orthopedic shoes. Pictures of me back then show this poor, sweet little girl sitting there with her dainty pierced earrings and froufrou dress, with her face nearly obscured by the black clodhoppers sticking out in front of her like skis. Its not like I was expecting red-soled baby Louboutins, but seriously? Not long ago, I came across one of my old baby photos. I kicked into Fashion Police mode and interrogated my mother about this footwear horror, demanding some answers: Were they trying to hide evidence that they were secretly binding my feet in hopes I wouldnt grow into the size ten I became before I even hit puberty? Did Mama have some torrid fling with a clown when the circus came through town, and was I their secret love child? Mama waved off my indignation, trying to pretend there was nothing unusual about dressing an infant in old man oxfords. I still dont buy it. But clearly I was traumatized by it: trying to overcompensate for my large baby hooves no doubt drove me to become the shoe whore I am today.

My fickle local fan base reappeared once my full head of dark baby hair turned into golden corn silk; I was once again a huge hit. A blond kid in southern Italy is very rare. Like, traffic-stopping rare. Vespas are pretty much the only thing with a motor that can navigate the narrow streets of old Naples, and boys and young men would roar around piled three to a scooter. Sometimes they would stop to gape at me and my golden hair while I was on the stoop playing with my doll, and my maternal grandfather, Antonio, would come charging out. You get away from her! Dont even look at her! I was the apple of Nonnos eye. He adored me, and the feeling was mutual. My very first memory is of standing next to him, while hes talking to people about how pretty I am, how special, that I am his angel. My grandfather was also my first fashion icon. He was really tall and elegant, and wore a top hat. He just put himself together so beautifully, and carried himself with such pride, even though he was a simple man who worked at a train station food cart. Nonno was my first heartbreak, too. He died suddenly at the age of seventy-five; I was nine years old when I kissed him good-bye forever.