My name is Vanessa. I’m 35 years old. I hated my name growing up and in the... read more



My name is Vanessa. I’m 35 years old. I hated my name growing up and in the 6th grade I insisted everyone call me Tammy. No one did. I can beat my dad at backgammon even though he tries to cheat. I subscribe to the belief that no one should ever eat anything larger than their own head. I can’t believe Brett Favre plays for the Vikings.

The farthest I have ever traveled is Mexico. The farthest I have ever run is 10 miles. I hate catfish. I legitimately have a short story published. It’s crap. I don’t even own a copy of it. I can make all kinds of fancy FoodTV–like dishes. I cannot make garlic bread without burning it.

My mom cursed me by wishing upon me that I have a child exactly like me. She’s now five. My daughter, not my mom. On the subject of my mom, it seems I’ve turned into her. I bake, knit, make homemade jam and really like the way lemon Pledge smells.

I have a 142 IQ and a lifetime goal of completing the New York Times Crossword puzzle. I painted the inside of my own house. It looks really bad. I write creative non-fiction. That means I write about my life but make myself much funnier.

I have “testified” in front of House and Senate committees. I’ve never seen a single episode of Grey’s Anatomy. Old men think I am the cutest thing in the world. I think the first job I ever wanted was being Gilda Radner. I know my butt doesn’t look big in these pants.

I was the 4th grade hula hoop champion. As far as I can tell from our company family picnic last year, I am the only person in my company with the cajones or ability to hula hoop in front of others. I can even hula two hoops at one time.

I have a subscription to the New Yorker and never read it. I can speak enough Spanish to get me out of trouble or into trouble, depending on my mood.