A male coworker and I got to the coffee pot at the same time, and he did the gentlemanly hand gesture and said, “After you.”
I enjoy being a woman.
Yes, I’m terrible feminist, but really, if getting to the legal, addictive stimulants first is the only way I know how to use my feminine wiles, that seems relatively harmless.
Holy shit. As if I didn’t love Emily McDowell enough before.
When she and I get the “BFF” necklace, she can pick her half first. This newfound ladycrush is THAT big a deal.
Clicking the photo, or right here, will link to an amazing blog post by an amazing lady.
Insomnia has informed me that today is officially the 29th, so let’s get this going and support the fine folks who keep my ladybits in good working order. #PinkOut #StandWithPP
I hear a lot of jokes about “girl code,” usually in regard to dating a friend’s ex or something.
Let me give you an example of the REAL girl code:
My doctor, a woman about my age, prescribed an antibiotic for the sinus infection that’s been beating my ass (seriously, please come tear my face off, and also bring pie). Without me asking, she said, “I’m also calling in a script for Diflucan. If you don’t need it, don’t fill it, but I don’t want you to have to bother calling us back and asking for it.”
I go pick up the antibiotic, along with a bottle of acidophilus. I tell the female pharmacist I’m not filling the Diflucan right now, that I’ll just leave that on standby for a rainy day in my vagina. She nods, notices the acidophilus, and tells me unprompted that cranberry extract supplements also help her prevent The Evil that Shall Not Be Named.
That’s your girl code. Good work, Girl Nation. My pH balanced lady garden thanks you.
The oddest things make me feel sexy.
I’m wearing a shirt with llamas on it, but the back of it is scoop-cut lower than shirts I’m used to, and my hair is clipped up, so I have my neck and, like, five inches of back/shoulder exposed, with an occasional peek of bra strap, but I totally feel like I could make men do my bidding.
My llama bidding.
Shut up, don’t judge.
With a forthcoming show about women working at Newsweek in the ’70s, I’m even MORE excited to be getting Amazon Prime today for a mere $67.
a) This is basically how I imagine myself looking and sounding when I sing this song in my car. (Delusions of WHAT, now?)
b) I am going to need that dress, like, IMMEDIATELY. Damn, girl — HIPS. Let’s be BFFs and share clothes. I would wear the similar hell out of that.
c) Now that they’re divorcing, can I also bang Blake Shelton?
#TBT #TGIT #TBTGIT
UNF.
Carry on.
Welcoming the first day of fall with my traditional offering. 
Quotable friend, re: all the bullshit thinking therapists make you do: “Therapy thoughts seem like they’re probably pretty rough. But you’re having them for a good reason. They’re like the kale of thoughts.”
Get this: I have to make a list of positive things about myself. Attributes, accomplishments, etc. I probably can’t list my breasts, and here’s the kicker — I can’t ask other people. What the shit? How am I supposed to get self-esteem from myself? That seems counterintuitive.
(Video contains language not at all safe for work.)
Smug Singleton 