Random feminist rant

So, lately we've made a few visits to the car repair shop, because we were starting to feel like we didn't get out enough, and what better place to party than good ol' Goodyear? They have--get this--vending machines. Now, if you don't think that's any fun, you haven't been trapped in a waiting room with two squirmy children for long enough.

Anyhoo, these vending machine explorations do not come cheaply. Shove enough toys (brought from home, of course) inside one of those and you could easily end up dropping a few hundred before long. Candy is getting more and more expensive these days. Must be inflation.

So I put a little more on the good ol' plastic than I usually do. Funny how metal and plastic don't mix, isn't it? And I started to get awfully close to my credit limit.

Now, before you all gasp in horror at my Big-Time Spending Habits, let me assure you of something: My credit limit is low.Photo source

Really low.

Low as in I can only return stuff on it because a positive balance is too high. Low as in sometimes my pocket burns when my credit card gets too close to Satan. Low as in limbo star.

I've called before to try to fix this problem. Why won't they increase my limit? Because my income is too low.

Being a (mostly) SAHM means, of course, that I don't bring in the bacon. Or the pork or the beef, but then I'm not a red meat eater anyway. The credit card powers-that-be worry their silly little financial heads that I won't have the means to pay them back, should my debts reach four digits.
Photo source
Guess what, financial heads? My ham (sorry, honey, you know I can't help the puns) of a husband might be the one who's issued a W-2 from his employer, but guess who controls most of the spending? That's right, me. I happen to have a wedding ring, and in most parts of the world (we're not sure about Mozambique), that means we are entitled to pool our money. Joint bank accounts, joint tax returns, etc. The checks have both our names on them. And if silly little SAHM barefoot (but not pregnant) me overspends, it has exactly the same effect as it would if Mr. Manly W-2 Bacon Man of the House did the same. We'd be equally broke.

So I told them about how I'm, you know, married, and live in the same house and share not just three squirmy vending machine-raiding children, but also a mortgage, a bank account (at their bank), and a whole lotta random junk.


They had a solution for this most annoying problem. Get him to co-sign, they said. That's right, get Mr. Crispy with a Side of Eggs (and all this time I thought bacon was the side dish) to say he'll take care of you and pay for you and maybe even tie your shoes for you while he's at it.

I don't think so.

He's not vouching for me, a woman ten months his senior, because he sits in a cubicle all day. Just because he's a tech geek does not mean he can budget or clip coupons better than me.

I guess I could take my business elsewhere. Show them who doesn't wear the pantsuit in this family. Get a credit card somewhere else--I get enough offers in the mail. But I don't want to pay their interest rates, and I don't want to give in.

So I'll suffer and bite my nails to see if my credit card still goes through when it comes dangerously close to its limit. Groceries? Who needs them?

I can always buy snacks at the vending machine.