Dear Sassy,

As you may be well aware, I currently live with two Republicans. Despite my commitment to the principles of political science, I foolishly did not ask my roommates’ political affiliations before agreeing to reside in the same apartment as them.

However, since making this unfortunate discovery, I have made every effort to engage them in serious political debate and to convince them of their foolery. Thus far, I have not entirely succeeded, but I do believe that come next year— when we inevitably part ways— they will have switched party allegiances. 

In the midst of this discovery and subsequent rowdy political discourse, though, I seem to have lost a little bit of loonie leftie heart. In fact, on two separate occasions over the last week, two individuals— who I believe know we quite well— have asked if I am an elephant lover. And, no, they did not ask me this question on the Upper East Side, which as we know is where those who speak the Bachmann monologues reside.

In each instance, when I inquired about their mistaken assignment of political ideology, they responded, “You just seemed to be able to argue the other side so well… [we] assumed you were a follower.” And my response, “Well that’s why I’d make an excellent lawyer. I can argue both sides convincingly.” They nodded, and one of them, an attorney at my office, even offered to write me a law school recommendation.

But seriously, Sassy, it frightens me that people might think I think Bachmann is change we can believe in.

Excited for your imminent arrival.

xoxo,

Savvy

Dear Sassy,

My ovary-whirling appears to be in overdrive. Every single time I see a child, I start planning the birth of my first child (who will be female, if I have anything to say about it). And while I’ve always had a bit of a maternal instinct, it has suddenly become more pronounced.

It all started with Weber, my one year old boyfriend, with whom I spend every Saturday night. We burp together, eat pumpkin and ricotta gnocchi together, and dance around to ABBA music together. I even refer to him as “my child” every so often. 

But then I expanded my babysitting horizons and began spending time with Kai, a seven year old half-Vietnamese, half-Italian, with a notable love of tofu and kale lasagna. We play with Legos together, read Harry Potter together, and attempt to create our own Pop Art together. And Kai, the son of a music producer, appreciating his new babysitter and her shared love of tofu and kale lasagna, recently took it upon himself to recommend said babysitter to his father’s client.

Now while I cannot reveal the identity of said client, I will give you one hint. He may or may not have embarrassed a young Taylor Swift at the VMAs a few years back. He may or may not also have two adorable kids— technically his girlfriend’s— who he has entrusted in my care while he promotes his new album with the husband of Beyonce.

And I most definitely am falling in love with them. In fact, I am reconsidering adopting my Mongolian baby. I think I might prefer to adopt two African American kids and raise them as Upper West Side Jews, who play in the park beside our brownstone and have tea parties at Alice’s.

Of course, this is all a long-winded way of saying I regret not working in child care for as long as you have, Sassy. You were onto something back in the day, and well, you were right: kids are little rays of sunshine, and I need a little more light in my life.

xoxo,

Savvy

Dear Savvy, 

Lately I’ve been wondering if it is the fate of all recent college graduates to suddenly feel very, very old, or if it’s just my particular situation. 

It’s gotten a little better since I’m no longer living with my grandparents. A month ago, I was watching Jeopardy practically every night — to the point where I could usually recognize the contestant who’d won the previous game, and could almost always figure out the stupid little puns of the category titles. When I started to shout the answers out, I knew it was a bad sign. 

Now that I’ve moved to live with my aunt and uncle, things are looking a little less senior citizen-like, though my hour and a half long commute does mean that I’m going to bed significantly earlier than I did while I was still a sprightly young college student. However, when I visited the library the other day (I’m in constant need of reading material, thanks to all the time I spend on the T), my cousin laughed and said something along the lines of “the library? That’s a bit elderly, don’t you think?” 

Is this true, Savvy? Do people really think of the library as a haven for old biddies now? Please tell me this isn’t the case, before I lose all faith in humanity. 

Now that I’ve offered you my desperate plea, I’m off to see the newest Winnie the Pooh movie, just to prove how young I am. And I absolutely promise I will not make any comparisons whatsoever to the Pooh movies from back in my day. 

Love,

Sassy

Dear Sassy,

I have a confession to make: I believe in fairy godmothers. And not just in the Cinderella sense. As an equal opportunist, I believe fairy godmothers come in all shapes, sizes, and ethnicities. In this particular case, my godmother took the form of a Wandering Asian Gnome.

Whilst I showered on the morning of my 22nd birthday, said Asian godmother snuck out to the local Soho Starbucks (notably the inspiration of my first letter to you) and purchased my standard: Venti whole milk sugar free vanilla latte. Only she purchased an accompanying Starbucks tumbler with it. Who knew godmothers were concerned with environmental sustainability?

Well, when yours truly emerged from her morning shower, she immediately sensed a scent surprisingly not all that prominent in her apartment— coffee. Standing beside a box of Magnolia’s cupcakes was a warm latte ready to be consumed. And standing beside said latte was an Asian godmother waiting to be thanked.

I must admit, I was speechless. In my wildest dreams I never suspected that my fairy godmother would descend on my 22nd birthday, or that I would discover that one of my closest college friends was in fact my fairy godmother. Regardless, I am grateful for the birthday surprise, which not so surprisingly, was brought to me courtesy of the letter Starbucks.

xoxo,

Savvy

Dear Savvy, 

Last weekend, I received an email from the singer Matt Nathanson, who you might also remember as the guy who sang that song when Mark and Lexie broke up for the umpteenth time on Grey’s Anatomy. In that email, which was unfortunately addressed to all of his mailing list and not just to me personally, he revealed that to celebrate the release of his new record he would be having a show in Boston on June 24th and that tickets would be only $5! Immediately, of course, I bolted from my bed to find my cell phone and call the Awesomest Sophomore to tell her we had plans for the following Friday. Halfway down the stairs I froze, realizing that June 24th was already a very important date, because I had tickets to see Sleep No More with you! Though I was a bit disappointed, I realized that Matt Nathanson would surely be playing another show in Boston at some point, and reminded myself how excited I was to be reunited with my other half. 

Similarly, today at work I found out about a reading that J. Courtney Sullivan is holding on Thursday. You might remember her as the woman who perfectly captured our college experience in the book Commencement. When my coworker asked if I wanted to go along, I felt a twinge of regret as I explained that, unfortunately, I would be boarding a bus bound for NYC at the exact time the reading was scheduled to begin. Then I paused and realized that I had just said I was boarding a bus to New York City tomorrow, and my sadness immediately changed to delight.

All this is basically to say that it’s been a bipolar few weeks around these Boston parts, but I absolutely cannot wait to see you tomorrow. 

Till then, 

Sassy

Dear Sassy,

A wise and likely unemployed college graduate once said, “Desperate times call for desperate measures.” And, well, tonight was one instance of said time. As you know, I have moved into my Nolita fairytale apartment. However, there are certain notably absent pieces of furniture— basically the entire living room set.

While I do not mind conducting all electronic business from the comfort my own bed, I do believe that there are several advantages to owning a couch. For example, when you visit (next week!), you would ideally have a comfortable love seat to call your temporary bed. 

In order to make a reasonable purchase, though, my roommate and I needed to know the exact measurements of the space we intend to call our living room. Without a tape measure or remotely ruler-like stick, I suggested we resort to alternative measurements methods.

As you will soon notice, I keep a glass jar containing Splenda packets on my kitchen counter. Employing them as a form of artificial, carcinogenic sweetener, I deem them a necessity in my daily cups of coffee.

Tonight I decided that they could serve an alternative purpose. Having googled the approximate length of a Splenda packet (1.8 inches, if you’re curious), I lined up several hundred Splenda packets on my future living room floor. This allowed me to determine with a degree of certainty the most accurate measurements, which will come in handy tomorrow night when the critical couch purchase is made.

Basically, dear, I demonstrated that I am not a victim of functional fixedness, a psychological term that denotes someone who is only capable of using an item for its intended purpose. You should be proud. I certainly am.

xoxo,

Savvy

Dear Sassy,

I believe it is only fitting to tell you that this letter is being composed in the air-conditioned confines of our humble abode, Starbucks. And while I did not intend to schlep my laptop through the streets of Nolita in search of the closest Starbucks, I believe the schlep was well worth the following encounter.

Upon entering Starbucks, which is technically in Soho, a considerably more wealthy and hipster part of downtown, I ordered my usual and searched for the closest available outlet. After snapping a few twigs (also known as models) in half, I secured perfect placement: next to the window. 

However, before I could bask in the glory of my twig-snapping ways, a young man approached, sat down, and said, “It’s so nice to meet you in person. You are much shorter in real life than in your photo.” Confused and far from flattered, I stared quizzically.

He persisted, “It’s ok, Liz, I still think you are pretty. And I am glad you chose Starbucks as a meeting ground. As I indicated in our email exchange, I am an avid coffee drinker.”

I paused to collect my thoughts and then replied, “Um, I think you have mistaken me for another person. While Liz is often my Starbucks pseudonym, my real name is Yaffa. And I am only in Starbucks right now because my apartment hasn’t yet been wired for internet.”

He then proceeded to apologize profusely and buy me an additional cup of coffee, a token he said of his “sincere remorse.” Needless to say, I am more fearful of online dating than ever before. 

xoxo,

Savvy

Dear Savvy, 

Remember last summer? It was magical. We spent it in a city that made sense, a city designed logically, a city where even the most directionally-challenged girl among us (in other words, yours truly) could wander freely and reach her destination with little to no hassle. Now that I’ve refreshed your memory, please remind me why I don’t live there now. 

I spent almost an hour wandering around today, knowing that I was within minutes of my workplace but unable to actually get there. And why was this the case, you might ask? It should have been simple enough: walk down Market Street and take a right onto Canal Street, said the directions. Except that Canal Street actually ran parallel to Market Street, which was for some inexplicable reason labeled Friend Street. All I know is that street is definitely not a friend of mine. 

Speaking of “friendly” entities, I was heckled as much in a single day in one neighborhood of Boston — most of it spent inside — as I was while I spent an entire summer cavorting around Manhattan in its entirety. 

It pains me to admit this, but I’m actually starting to think that your city is less insane than mine. 

Love, 

Sassy