I refuse to quote Gwen Stefani here

Modern, educated women can be pretty retarded. Sure, we complain about being objectified and all that, but when it comes to the cold, hard state of society, we stupidly assume that our advanced degrees and self-financed iMacs mean that we don’t really have anything to worry about anymore.

I’m not prone to feminist tirades, but I am prone to crying on public transportation, and when that happens it’s worth taking a few minutes to reflect on just what the hell I’m so damn upset about. This morning I went to the DMV for the simple task of obtaining a copy of my car registration. When Kenneth (an eerily calm DMV employee who looks like a regular-sized Peter Dinklage) pulled up the car on the computer, he told me that I could not have a copy of the registration, because the only recorded name on the title was my boyfriend’s. Apparently, Carlos and Sven at Koppel Volkswagen in Queens took my down payment, my credit history, and my name signed in blood, but decided there was no need to submit my name as co-owner for the actual title because obviously Aaron would be the real owner of the car. I would be more inclined to believe I might be mistaken if the same thing hadn’t happened when I bought my first condo with my ex-husband– my obligation to mountainous debt was all over every piece of paper, but when we got the deed, it was hilariously only in his name. Maybe the lawyer got carpel tunnel just as he was about to type my name. Or maybe he went to law school in 1803.

Gentlemen, this is why the ladies freak out for no apparent reason. This is why we get hysterical when Harvard’s president makes the purely academic, hypothetical remark about the tiny possibility that we have less innate scientific ability. Just when we think we can finally let our guard down and frolic through the 21st century, we waste 90 minutes at the DMV to be told we have fewer assets than we thought we did. Not because of malice, or computer error, but because some dude, sometimes even some chick, figured it just wouldn’t matter. This case in itself isn’t a big deal, practically speaking (the bank actually still owns most of the car, after all), but it certainly could have been, if Aaron weren’t a little peach pie.

Anyway, I think I’ve made my point. And now I really, really want some peach pie.

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