How The Unicorn Frappuccino® Just Became a Feminist Issue
On the spectrum of what qualifies as a feminist issue, the Starbucks unicorn frappuccino® is on the low end. But it’s on there, and I’m unemployed, so it deserves writing about.
A brief review of the drink itself:
It changes flavors — ooooh — and is topped with intensely sour sprinkles. The Starbucks where mine came from ran out of the blue drizzle, but the ingredients list shows the purply-pink majority is mango flavored and the blue drizzle is “Sour Blue Powder” mixed with “White Chocolate Mocha Sauce,” so I’d assume the blue drizzles are sour. It’s a “Blended Crème” drink, which means it has zero coffee. Overall, it was a fun drink until I tasted the sprinkles. My mouth is still watering at the unexpected punch that came. It left me feeling like I was just assaulted by a unicorn.
Why it’s a Feminist Issue (Part 1)
When you are a person in the world and aware that reality is a disaster, an extremely cutesy, splurge-oriented beverage rests comfortably on the shelf of Things To Make All This Impending Doom And All Your Regular Life Stressors Feel A Little Less Terrible, right next to rewatching Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt and foot massages.
#TreatYoSelf indulgences are often written off as female-centric things: it’s not manly to acknowledge you’re feeling stressed out and a cup of chamomile tea might help. It’s not even manly to acknowledge you’re feeling (WTAF?). It’s not manly to buy yourself something unless it’s to show off to other dudes how much masculinity you have via said thing. Pumpkin spiced lattes, aka #PSL, have already been aggressively linked to young women who like, uptalk constantly? and like, don’t weatherize their Uggs? but it’s just a coffee drink with sugar and flavoring. How did sugar become a gendered issue? Why is nutmeg not masculine? Do you know how much force it takes to grate a nutmeg? They sell specialized graters just for nutmegs because those bastards are so tough. Toughness is the most masculine thing, dudes! That #PSL life is for you, males!!!
But the unicorn frappuccino® is a problem because it’s cute. It’s fun. It doesn’t send discrete messages to other guys that your dick is bigger than theirs and you’re better at repressing emotions than they are. So, naturally, folks scoff at it. How dare you enjoy something designed specifically for you to enjoy??
The disgust toward the unicorn frappuccino® came in three waves:
1. Mocking its pure, harmless focus on indulgence and fun
2. Baristas groaning about how obnoxious it is to make
3. Mocking its pure, harmless focus on indulgence and fun and pointing to baristas groaning about how obnoxious it is to make as proof that it’s bad.
This trend immediately signals to me that not only should I put aside my hatred of consumerism to buy a unicorn frappuccino® out of spite, but I should revel in it and look to the unicorn frapp® as a symbol of my endeavor to constantly throw in men’s faces the extent of honest joy that comes from being at peace with my existence as a human person who feels feelings.
Why it’s a Feminist Issue (Part 2)
So when I walk into Starbucks, head held high, ready to shamelessly order the drink that’s throwing people who think sugar is gendered into a hissy fit, the deflation that comes from the barista telling me they’re sold out is profound. But not as profound as the sense of injustice that occurred as I discovered something extremely dubious, which I will now detail:
The day the unicorn frappuccino® dropped, I went into the Starbucks by my work to ask if they had it. I was aware that many places were already sold out, and my job is in a hot tourist location right by Central Park, so I figured I’d just ask if they had it. The barista (note: a guy) said no, they’re sold out of both of the flavors needed to make it. I accept this and order another drink anyway (gift card, baby!).
The next day at work, I see my coworker has the much coveted unicorn frappuccino®. My eyes nearly explode out of my face and I start stuttering. I tell her, “I tried to order it yesterday but — Did you get it from that [points a wall where, two buildings away, the Starbucks is located] one??” Yes, she tells me. Maybe they got a new shipment, but the girl said they ran out of the blue drizzle. I should go in and ask again today.
An hour later, my lunch break arrives and I rush out of my work to the Starbucks, excited with the promise of experiencing this necessary indulgence. Another barista — a guy — is working the register. Rather than asking if they have the drink, I outright ask for it. He tells me they’re sold out. My eyes narrow and nearly implode into my face. I’m picking up on something, something very faint but nearly as old as time itself. I leave and update my coworkers (naturally, I’ve kept everyone abreast of the situation).
Two hours later, my manager says to me with a smirk, “I just saw a lady walking down the street with a unicorn frappuccino®.” She watches as I fight the urge to convulse in a fit of disbelief and rage. They didn’t want to give one to me. How does Starbucks know that I’m this much of a loser? They don’t follow me on Twitter!! Do I just give off that vibe? That I don’t deserve nice things??? She laughs and offers to go try and get one. I’ve closed myself off and coldly shrug. “Sure, go ahead.” Having recently watched To Wong Foo Thanks For Everything, Julie Newmar, I could feel myself echoing Sheriff Dullard — err, Dollard: But if you come back..! and you’ve got that drink…! I don’t know what!
Five minutes later, she walks back into the store holding the damn drink. It’s slow enough in the store that I can throw my hands up in the air and say “Are. You. Serious.” a few times without any customers giving me a “wow, she’s so unprofessional” look. I may have started hyperventilating.
My manager tells me that it was a woman working.
And suddenly, it all clicks.
The dude baristas (baristos) did not want to serve me, a female, the unicorn drink, not because they didn’t have the ingredients but because they didn’t want to deal with a human female indulging in harmless joy. The female barista, however, gets it and is willing to make the drink despite not having all the ingredients.
It’s not that the drink is annoying to make — it’s got the same basic creation process as a java chip frappuccino® — but that it’s annoying to deal with customers so ready to purchase something that is overtly marketed on the basis of embracing the concept of and driving force behind #TreatingYoSelf. It’s like being hungover and dealing with a constant stream of chipper coworkers trying to tell you about their weekend, except the hangover is an archaic rejection of symbolic femininity and the chipper coworkers are folks who don’t subscribe to all that nonsense.
In any case, I got the drink and now I’m writing this. So, ya know, get double fucked.
Love,
Me
