it’s a man’s world.

I mean, look at her arms and thighs. Clearly, I’m going to need to channel some of this rage and take it out on some weight machines. Image source: bodystrut.bigcartel.com

I found something to write about, Internet! Phew, I was getting worried I was going to have to tell you guys all about my bladder infection I think I got from too much swimming (which has cleared up, thanks to water and cranberry juice, and thank god for that too because I can’t afford to see a doctor on my insurance plan right now).

My other option for a good writing topic was that now that summer is here, I find I’m not on Twitter as much these days, Facebook a little more (because it’s private and I guess I just feel safer there because my friends and family are there). Plus, because of the stalking and the up and down nature of the Internet, I think I’m slightly disillusioned. Or I’m just a completely different person than I was this time last year. But I’m also trying to read books more, and write. And be out in Nature, getting fresh air. And be present for my daughter.

Totally boring stuff Twitter doesn’t appear to care much about, unless I want to throw in some cleavage shots to go along with it. Which I’m not necessarily opposed to doing, except I don’t have much cleavage. All my sexy is right up here in my brain. Which isn’t as attractive to look at, unless you’re a brain surgeon I suppose.

But I digress.

So I was lazily scrolling through Facebook this morning and a friend of mine who’s traveling internationally this summer posted a shocking thing that I (not a world traveler…YET) did not know: she has to cross a border alone with her young daughter at one point in her travels, and to do so she has to have her husband’s permission IN WRITING. Because her child has her husband’s last name and she never took it. Holy…goddammit, Humanity!!! This is 2016, not 1916. She’s traveling through Western hemisphere countries, not Saudi Arabia. This is 1st world culture, not…you see where I’m going with this?

A birth certificate will not suffice. It has to be in writing, with detailed itinerary of where she’s going and why, her husband has to sign off on it, and it has to be notarized. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! omg, you guys. You guys! My inner feminist is boiling, seething mad about this. Who in Congress do I need to write to to let them have some of this feminine rage. Elizabeth Warren. She’d give a crap, I bet. And then all the Trump fans would get on Twitter and talk about her looks and stuff to shout her down so no one can hear what she’s saying.

Before I continue my rant, let me do note that I understand the Whys behind it: because there’s a small handful of asswipes in the world who feel perfectly justified kidnapping children for themselves for whatever reasons, the rest of us now have to suffer. Happens all the time, I get it.**

But I was reading some of the comments below her post, and THOSE were making me too mad, also. One lady wrote about a friend of hers who was coming back to the US from Peru a few years ago with her daughter – both US citizens, same last name, not allowed to leave the country until her husband gave permission, in writing. WHAT?? So what happens if you’re divorced because your husband is the asswipe? Guess your kid can’t travel internationally with you until s/he is of age. That’s stupid. I suspect this was enacted by people who create rules like those abortion laws down in backass Mississippi and Louisiana passed by people who will never ever have to grow or expel a human through their bodies and certainly not at risk of their own lives. Stuff like this is what makes me see red, absolute red. DON’T tell me where I can go, when, why, how, or with whom. Do NOT. And don’t try to “reason” with me by saying stupid crap like, “Well, if you’d just taken your husband’s last name when you married…” What?? As if someone having their husband’s last name will prevent a kidnapping.


Humans, you perplex and confound me so often. Just…make sense. Can we just do things that make sense, consistently? It’s all I want from you at this point. My bar is so low for you now, I can’t even. Just. Make. Sense.

All right. That’s it. I’m done. I’ll try to find a good time this summer to let Miss M know we can’t travel to Italy for real pizza without her dad’s permission. (This should go over well, as her father has asked for me to control her pizza intake from now on.)


**Full disclosure: I’m just knee jerk reacting right now. I haven’t researched this topic, and so hopefully there’s a way around getting an asswipe ex-husband to sign off on international travels. (I do NOT have an asswipe ex-husband, so this will not be a problem for me. He wouldn’t be happy about a pizza-laden trip to Italy, but he’d sign off just so Miss M could experience Italy.) (I’m just annoyed whenever I hear about a woman having to obtain a man’s permission for anything. That is NOT acceptable, people of Earth. NOT acceptable.)

Sing it, James. (I wish they’d let a woman sing this song, though.)