An Open Letter to My Muffin Top

Dear Muffin Top,

We've known each other quite a while now, and I can't say it's been all bad. You've provided a soft place for a lover or a child to rest his head. You give a little verve to my curve. Hell, I even made a career out of you when I got on the women's body-image platform with the bodyBODY Project.

But now I'm afraid we're through. I've tried negotiating with you. I did the no-carb thing for a month or so, only to catapult off the wagon into a vat of tiny dark chocolates when I noticed that you still weren't going away. I certainly don't want to replace my wardrobe -- it's hard enough as it is to get me out of the fluffy pink soy/bamboo robe I got for Christmas.

I've bested you before, and I thought maybe you'd leave for good. Remember the winter of 1990-91, when we were in Thailand and swam every day for three months in the bluest of waters, and ate only the simple, local, healthy food that was available? Or how about when my ex in Seattle cheated on me, and then moved RIGHT NEXT DOOR and I could see into his kitchen? Heh heh, dropped two sizes on that one!!! Still, you sneaked back, determined. Stubborn willful bitch that you are.

In the last few months, I've tried the flu. I've tried falling in love, I've tried therapy and I've tried the no carb thing, which, frankly, makes anyone a cranky motherfucker. Still, you wait, nourished by the cheese I so adore, the crusty breads and, yes, the occasional muffin for breakfast. (It's called "cake" when you eat it any other time of day, by the way.)

So I offer you a truce. You go away this summer and let me enjoy those two super sexycool bikinis I bought on sale. The first bikinis I've purchased in more than five years! And maybe I'll let you visit during the winter holidays. You can have all the turkey and mashed potatoes and Aunt Ann's pies you can handle. Huh? What do you say?

Should you decide not to accept this offer, I will be forced to do the unthinkable. MasterCleanse. And neither of us want that.

So please, go back to whence you came. I don't even care if you go there. Just go somewhere else. It's for the best.

Love,

Vanessa

Picking My Neighbor

Back in the day when I had oodles of cash lying around, I decided it would be fun to buy the place next door and pick my neighbor. I did, and it was an incredible two-year run. She would bring me flowers occasionally and write sweet cards. I would make a big pot of soup and bring her half.

We shared wine and secrets and conundrums too improbable to describe here. It was a business relationship, for sure, but above all, we became friends. The kind of friends that have been through things together. The kind of friends who trust that yes, the olive green walls will be repainted and the floors will return to splendor after a giddy tiny dog.

In the past two years, she managed to snag an impossibly sweet and handsome French husband, a belly full of baby, and a sprawling fixer-upper in Altadena, and now she's moving on.

Today during my open house, with each person who passed through, I imagined our lives entwined. There will never be another Mia. But I'm trusting the Neighbor Gods enough to send me someone good. Let me know if you know anyone!

Friday Tired

There are all kinds of tired.

• Just got back from great vacation tired.
• Just got back from terrible vacation tired.
• Worked out too long and too hard tired.
• Hanging out with energy vampires tired.
• Extra gravity from sugar low tired.
  
• Professional, personal and civic injustice tired.
  
• Thanksgiving tired.
  
• And so on

But there is a certain specific kind of Friday tired. It comes after day piled upon day piled upon day. It is the 41st-hour exhale, the critical mass of an inbox, gone beyond any kind of cupcake or office frivolity remedy.

It is Friday tired. Tired in your eyes and your bones and your head and your hips.

So tired that I have no energy to write this post, and instead, I will sweep my week's worth of clothes off my bed, which is bigger than a Cadillac, and drop off to a lovely nap.

Getting Married

If you ever want to get out of your head and be totally happy for other people, hang out in the city clerk's office for a morning. I got the call to come at 10 p.m. the night before ...

New York City Clerk's Office, 04.16.09. Her sister looked just like her, and his brother, like him.

New York City Clerk's Office, 04.16.09. Her sister kept fussing with the dress.

New York City Clerk's Office, 04.16.09. Decked out for the big day.

New York City Clerk's Office, 04.16.09.


New York City Clerk's Office, 04.16.09. My brother Ilya and newly legal wife, Gali.

Ilya's son Jonathan, Ilya, Gali, their son Adam, and me. (Forthcoming daughter can be detected under bump in Gali's dress). There is no such thing as a normal family, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

The Best 6 Minutes of Your Evening

Thanks to my new friend Kevin Bronson (yes, THE Kevin Bronson of Buzzbands.la) for turning me on to this. If you are a fan of live music, or even if the closest you've been to a club is at your cousin's penny-ante poker game, bookmark his site.

Tweenbot: People, at their core, are good

In the tradition of GREAT things coming out of my alma mater, an NYU student conducted a social experiment to see if strangers would help a derailed robot get to its destination, the southwest corner of Washington Square Park.

To paraphrase Anne Frank, I do believe that people don't suck as much as we generally think they do.

Free Fridge! Free Money! Vanessa tells KABC how it's done

Citizen Journalists

By the time you are 40licious, you have amassed an amazing collection of people. One of the people I am proudest to have in my circle is the talented Amanda Koster. She's a photographer and a writer and she has no concept of "impossible." She's a world traveler, but with a mission -- help those she encounters along the way. Here she is speaking at Web2.0.

She's blogging about helping orphans in India and I'm blogging about eating a pint of frozen yogurt. I don't even know where to begin on that.

Following Bliss

So this low-carb thing? There really isn't that much FUN low-carb food.

Almonds? Eh. I'm sure I've poisoned myself by now. I've eaten so much cheese the cows are on strike. And nobody would argue that cauliflower -- even braised in butter and hot sauce, liberally peppered and salted -- could be considered delightful in any way.

And that is why, on this sunny spring afternoon after several hours of IT challenges, I just broke my two-week winning streak with a pint of Ben & Jerry's frozen yogurt, and realized just how much FUN that is to eat.

After all, I'm not sure what happens when our heart stops beating. We might go to the big Sample Sale in the Sky. Or we might lie there and rot. So why not enjoy, at least a little?

April Fooled

Haha my April Fool's joke backfired on me. It wasn't that hilarious to begin with, and I'll spare you the details, but it involved some pushed-forward clocks, a man who likes to sleep in, anxiety nightmares about said clocks, and a day full of crankiness from no sleep.

Next year will be better. I should start planning now though.