Made far too many refreshing blended drinks today to think straight. And that is extra caramel! Extra doesn’t mean “open the entire bottle and empty contents into my cup”. Seriously.

For updates from the world of Why don’t women ever say what they really mean? comes this shocker: apparently they do.

When are we allowed to invoke the “n” word in bed? Feministe had it first. Pam’s House Blend and Feministing quickly followed.

Jesus christ. What year is it, again?

In related but depressing news, the otherwise entertaining and engaging new show Eli Stone continues to do stupid things to women. C’mon, people! Must we have the two female leads fight over the male lead? Must we then compound their idiocy by having each of them deny that they are interested in a male colleague, only to later reveal they were just playing coy?! Dammit, universe. [Shakes fist.] Why must women always be about men? For a refreshing non-sexually-tense dynamic between two characters of different genders, see New Amsterdam. Has its faults, but at least Amsterdam and his female partner aren’t shooting googoo eyes at each other while standing over dead bodies. It’s a start.

This, from Good As You, regarding the glorious success of the Gay Agenda: we’re winning, y’all. We’re taking over the schools, just like we always planned. It started with Broadway, then Hollywood, and now we’re in Phase Three: Grassroots-level invasion and indoctrination of The Youth. Full speed ahead!

(I really, really want to be on that email list. How many toaster ovens does a girl have to earn before she gets on the list?)

Finally, Confessions of an Elitist. So help me, I like this article. I keep returning to it. It reeks of privileged old white man, but in the context you can squint and read the tone ironically. You don’t have to squint, really, but I squint because in general I don’t really get off on privileged old white man, but I just happen to enjoy this particular piece. So there.

If you want a cup of water, a cup of ice, seven cups for your seven poodles to destroy on the patio, please tell the kind person ringing you up, so they can place that part of your order (just because it’s free, doesn’t mean it is somehow separate from “your order”) with the rest of it. Please do not tell me that you’re waiting for your ice water while I’m juggling steam pitchers with three different types of dairy, two blenders, a half-opened container of Chai concentrate and a hazardously split bag of Matcha green tea powder. If I have seventeen cups in front of me, and I appear to be concentrating on all of them simultaneously, now is not the time to let me know that you “need” a cup of water, for which you will not be paying, for which we will not be earning labor, and goodness knows you have no intention of tipping me for going out of my way while the seventeen people whose drinks I’m postponing in order to pour your water shoot daggers at me with their caffeine-addicted death rays. (At least some of them will be getting you with said rays too; you should consider ducking.)

The end.

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