Dearest Wendy, Gertrude Fitzpootrick stole yet another one of my figgy puddings from the communal pantry. I know it was her because she’s always up in that icebox eating my shit. How do I get back at this gluttonous wench? Hungrily, Sue Ellen
My advice would be to stop eating, period. How can you even think about food when we don’t have the right to vote? You may enjoy figgy puddings once the 19th amendment is ratified (so, in about 40 years).
Dearest Wendy, For the upcoming Suffragette Sit-Down Soirée, I bought a light blue mutton sleeve blouse. My friend Edwina just bought the same exact light blue mutton sleeve blouse. There can’t be two bitches in the same blue mutton sleeve blouse. What should I do? Not sliving, Georgina
Georgie, given that you already have the face of a horse, the grace of a cow, and the disposition of a sheep, I would suggest you let Edwina win. Mutton sleeves have always been unbecoming on you.
Dearest Wendy, My gentleman caller, Henry Vanderbilt IV, is frustrated with me because I did not agree to “let him hit it from the back,” or even from the front. How am I supposed to uphold my virtue while keeping my suitor from straying? Anxiously, Annabeth
Normally, I would tell a young woman to guard her virginity with her life — it’s your most valuable asset (besides yer tits). However, Henry is a Vanderbilt, and you, Annabeth, are from Staten Island. I literally don’t even know how you got here. You should let Henry hit as soon as possible, lest you lose him to one of those Mount Holyoke harlots. Remember, ladies, when generational wealth is involved, let him manifest his destiny.
Dearest Wendy, Although I have my fair share of suitors, and my dance card is full every night, my heart yearns for the touch of my roommate. I fear I may be homosexually inclined. What am I to do, Wendy? Yours, Anonymous
Mildred, I saw you writing this by candlelight yestereve. You literally sleep with a lock of Professor MacBush’s hair that you snipped during a lecture last semester. Your gay proclivities are the least of your concerns, go touch grass. P.S. Please return my cashmere stockings. I have had to go a whole month without toasty calves.
Dearest Wendy, After my cotillion date (the one I’m promised to) was announced, my dear friend Peggy Winchesterwoodlingtonshire acted in a flirtatious manner in front of him. She claims it was not out of malice, but rather, the result of a few too many glasses from the Tau Zeta Epsilon society’s sherry wine jug. What should I do? Somberly, Martha Vineyard
Word on the avenue is that Peggy Winchesterwoodlingtonshire has contracted chlamydia. If Peggy is truly the philandering drunkard trollop that we all suspect her to be, you should know in a few days time from the itch in your hoo-ha.
Dearest Wendy, I’m a junior yet not married, what is wrong with me? Signed, Anonymous
Susan, you are the only unmarried girl in our year, and I can confidently say that it is due to the singular pubic hair protruding from your beauty mark. Borrow some tweezers and you will see your problems fixed immediately. (It may also be due to your political and career-driven ambitions, which are also quite off putting. Consider a career in homemaking.)