My life according to Diddy.

As a general rule, I do not let song lyric dictate my actions. I make decisions based on carefully crafted Excel spreadsheets, in which point values are assigned to various pros and cons. In other words, I let the numbers speak for themselves– whichever column has the highest point value is the column that I will select.

To some this might seem arbitrary, but to me it’s the most rigorous form of decision-making one can possibly partake in. Hence my confusion with the results of my latest spreadsheet:”Where I shall live post-graduation.” Overwhelmingly, New York was victorious. Even though I know there is little rush to return to the City; that I have many years to establish a meaningful and sustainable life there.

And yet, despite this realization, I hesitate to invest in another city, an alternative post-college future– particularly one so temporary. The category that, perhaps, is responsible for this result is: City With Personality… and Spunk! (Yes, I use exclamation points in my spreadsheets. Please refrain from judgment.)

Just as I was about to assign values to the various cities I am considering for future employment, I read a blog post about a new rose art installation, set to premiere on Park Avenue on January 25th. Designed by Will Ryman, it will feature a series of 38 displays running from the Upper East Side to the Village. The beauty is undeniable.

Of course, upon reading the article, I called my mother to discuss the next possible weekend I could escape the Wellesley Bubble and return home to bask in the modern art-filled glory that is New York.

Now I know what some of my critics are thinking: there are equally beautiful and thought-provoking art displays in other cities. Art is not a justification for the umbilical cord relationship I have with New York. However, it is but another confounding factor in an already complex process.

My 2nd  (London) and 3rd (Cape Town) choice cities lag significantly behind. I used to think I was unfairly attributing high point values to New York because it was a city I knew well, but having lived in England and thesised on South Africa, I am not convinced that intimacy is to blame.

One Beloved Roommate once attributed my obsession with my hometown to my propensity for fire escapes, particularly those featured prominently in the Heights. And there is truth in that. I am not seeking a piece of property with lots of land or a glamourous urban penthouse. All I want is a humble one bedroom apartment with a prominent rustic fire escape.

However, given my current prospects– an internship in Cape Town, a graduate school acceptance in London, and a job offer in San Antonio, Texas, I may have to reexamine my Excel sheet and redistribute point values. Considering the cost of a fire escape in New York, I will need to earn significant funds to support my city-specific addiction. And currently I have none.

I suspect the next step, as I begin spring semester of my senior year, is to track down a job in the City that Never Sleeps and fulfill the prophecy Diddy has set out in his new song “Coming Home“:

I’m coming home
I’m coming home
Tell the World I’m coming home
Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday
I know my kingdom awaits and they’ve forgiven my mistakes
I’m coming home, I’m coming home
Tell the World that I’m coming

When in Doubt, Hug it Out.

I miss kindergarten. Apparently at age five I was quite a creative little creature of the night (I say night because I had a tendency towards sleepwalking and talking back in the day). My journal entries, should you be privy to them, reflected my inner idealist– who thought she was capable of developing into any inanimate object that she liked. For example, in the entry entitled “What I Am 100% Going To Be When My Mommy Is Not Buying Me Things,” I wrote my biggest aspiration was to become a coffee mug. Yes, an object which collects little drops of caffeinated bliss.

In another entry I wrote about a desire to be a fire escape. I noted how every significant conversation on the island of Manhattan actually transpires on a fire escape, and if I were said escape, I would know all the latest gossip without exerting additional effort. I think this foreshadowed my yenta proclivities.

But the entry, or object, that caught my attention most recently had little to do with my two loves– coffee and schmoozing– and much more to do with my greatest fear– the future. I wrote I wanted to be a time machine so that I could flee the present if it seemed too dreary and avoid the future, should it lack H & H bagels and lox (hey, these were legitimate concerns at age five).

Thoroughly researching the signs from this past weekend’s Rally to Restore Sanity, and I was struck by a sign of similar sentiment:

I think that kindergarten offers many valuable lessons, one of which is how to effectively cope with unfortunate circumstances. Or, in the case of America on Election Day, the possibility of an undesirable Republican-driven future. We may not be able to assume time machine stance, but we do not need to be complacent and accepting of an otherwise unacceptable situation.

This particular rally attendee noted the power of hugs. As the daughter of an affectionate mother, I was raised with one particularly strong belief: When in doubt, hug it out. As I entered my teenage and college years, the proverb evolved and became “Hugs, not drugs.” The message, however, remained the same. Instead of denying an unfavorable circumstance or attempting to numb the sensations associated with it, she wanted me to face my emotions; to explore my inner Yaffale.

Having just applied for Teach for America, I have been considering this very lesson– one, which, if given the opportunity to teach in a challenging inner city school, I will want to impart to my students. And one, that in my senior year tizzy, I have largely ignored. Johnny, the beloved Brit who visited me this Halloween weekend, noted my unusual degree of stress: ”You were never like this in Oxford. I finally get to see the real Yaffa in her element, and well, she is just one big perpetual ball of stress.”

This stress results from a variety of factors.

1. I lack a time machine so when faced with impending graduate school, fellowship, and job applications, I have no escape. I cannot return to my second grade tea party or third grade sleepover. I must do the requisite work to achieve any rewarding outcome.

2. I lack a caffeine IV, which I am convinced is the only real solution to my problems. A constant supply of energy is just what this proverbial mountain climber needs.

3. I lack continual exposure to British students, who somehow manage to find the fine line between work and play, and apply said line to their collegiate lifestyles. Basically, I need Johnny to take up residence in my dorm, if I am to rediscover a balance ever again.

These factors, aside, I realized as Johnny described what he thought was the real me versus the playful, tiramisu cocktail-loving Oxford me that I was not pleased with his assessment. I still loved girly cocktails, but as Johnny noted, I never drank them anymore. I particularly loved party planning, a favorite English past time for me, but as of yet, I had not planned a single Wellesley event. In many ways, I had failed to Bring Oxford to Wellesley, a resolution of the Jewish New Year I had set for myself a few months prior.

And so loyal Green Straw readers, today I turn over a new leaf. I embark on the Rally to Restore Yaffa’s Sanity. If I can’t jet set into the past, I may just have to face my fears and frighten a few unsuspecting Wellesley women with some emotionally-driven hugs. The future may be uncertain, but at least, as of today, there are Starbucks Red Cups and wonderful friends to share the joy of their contents with. Cue Christmas music here.

Serenades in the Spanish ghetto and other tales of spontaneous end-of-the-summer activity

Ok, well maybe the trip to the barrio was not so spur of the moment. In fact, it was quite carefully planned and less interactive than the title might indicate.

Cooper– the aforementioned Stern rockstar– and I decided to celebrate the end of my internship by taking a trip to Broadway and playing the role of obnoxiously overly enthusiastic tourists experiencing the theater for the first time. We even took the requisite photo in front of the stage:

When New Yorkers play out-of-towners.

We opted for In the Heights, a tale of three store fronts in the ever popular Latino quarter of Manhattan– Washington Heights, which as some of you may remember, was also my humble abode this summer. Complete with the requisite corner store bodega and rusty red fire escapes, as well as continuous song and salsa, the show– and the neighborhood in which it was set–lived up to my every expectation.

It also reminded me that I could easily settle amidst the Dominicans, Puerto Ricans, and Mexicans, and not feel ethnically awkward. I admire their soul, their passion, and their natural ability to move their hips in an oh so rhythmic fashion. The Heights is the one part of New York, where despite my pastiness and high school level Spanish, I feel so completely at home and at ease.

Of particular importance: It’s a neighborhood in Manhattan where money is not the object or end goal. Instead family is a priority and coffee is a necessity. Even though I spent only a few short weeks in the Heights, I felt a significant loss when departing. The people, the familiar faces that rode the A train with me each morning soon became a distant memory, and I could do little except plot my inevitable return post-grad– with the Beloved Roommate, of course.

Now despite the fact that I currently find myself amidst dorm room furniture and assorted first-year t-shirts (remind me why our class color is yellow, and not my preferred black), I take comfort in knowing I have found a place. Perhaps not a permanent residency, but an area of the magical City I call home, where I can see my life unfolding, as I plunge further in the 20-somethings.

How Many Wellesley Women Does it Take to Make a Bed?

I am finally home in New York, and for a limited time only, house-sitting in Washington Heights. Feel free to insert all the “In The Heights” references your musically-loving minds can think of. While you consider the implications of two white women living in the heart of Dominican land, I will entertain you with a tale of failed domesticity.

Torie, my roommate, and I are two Wellesley women, who last night were assigned one simple mission: make two queen sized beds. Now if this had been 1950s, we would have been well-equipped with the requisite housekeeping skill set. We would have taken home economics in high school and etiquette classes in college, both of which could have trained us in basic household maintenance.

However, it is 2010, and neither Torie nor I had ever been given the task of covering such a large surface with both a fitted and unfitted sheet. Thus far we had depended on the good will of our maids, a.k.a. our mothers. Hence, when faced with the above challenge, the following transpired: We stared blankly at the first bare bed for a moment or two, unsure of where to begin, and then giving G-d a small wink, attempted to place the unfitted sheet on the bed. We failed. The corners did not align, and we were forced to regroup. After approximately 15 minutes, the first bed was made, but from the looks of the sides of the mattress, where two sheets hung limply, we had not so much succeeded as settled for a small defeat.

The second bed, though made with greater alacrity and efficiency, certainly did not resemble the interior of a five-star hotel. In fact, it had a distinct Motel 6 vibe, reminiscent of a night to be forgotten and never spoken of again. Our conclusion, after two failed attempts at  housekeeping– we are destined to be career women, and in the non-janitorial sense of the phrase.

Now I must return to my office of employment, a key part of the aforementioned destiny, and continue my piece on the price of counterfeit drugs in the developing world. Insert fascinated face here.

I leave you with an image that captures the essence of my new humble abode:

It's about fire escapes.

P.S. The answer is dependent on the age of the Wellesley woman. Pre-1960 graduate, one. Post-1960 graduate, at least three who have seen a version of  ”The Stepford Wives.”