Caterwauling

In ever-so-surprising news, our heroine got pulled over for speeding on her way to work. Shocker. It was 9:25 a.m. and I had to be in for 9:30. Not that the cops cared. Assholes.

I am getting really fucking tired of getting pulled over for simply stupid speeds — doing 49 in a 35? Seriously?

I wasn’t even paying attention, truth be told. I was busy looking at all the gas stations’ prices and trying to figure out where I could fill up my tank for the cheapest amount. ($4.23 a gallon is unacceptable. Sorry. I was looking for something more along the lines of $4.15 or, I dunno, FREE.) And then I saw this bright yellow vest because the fucking cops around here WALK INTO THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING HIGHWAY.

So, since I almost killed him — and, truth be told, I almost caused an accident several blocks earlier because I decided to take a different route to work (go figure) after I had nearly passed the exit — I was compliant. Bitter, but compliant.

Apparently Little Miss has a number of speeding tickets on file. Sure, I’ve paid ‘em all, but still, apparently I am a reckless driver. So, he “only” charged me $80.

So, see, I imagine most people get a ticket and then behave for the remainder of their drive. Oh, no. Not me. I was good and pissed off and had to figure out a way out of the fucking ditch that they made me pull into.

So, of course, I did that at about 40 mph. Then I pealed out into traffic as fast as I could, to beat the bus that was barreling my way. Then I tailgated someone, passed someone else without using turn signals and flat out floored it.

I do feel bad that I was tailgating one of my friends into our parking lot at work. Hey, she got a new car — I didn’t recognize her!

So, basically, I own my $80 in moving violations today.

I was wondering with one of my friends why I got pulled over in the middle of the month, when it’s usually the end of the month that all the cops are out in full force. She suggested that my cop is on vacation at the end of the month and had to meet his quota early.

Seriously, cops. Go fight some real crimes and leave me and my gas pedal out of it. Eighty bucks is a tank and a half of gas that I can’t buy, so thanks a lot!

Dear Montgomery County Safe Speed,

Fuck you. Did you hear me? Fuck you. I don’t think you got that, so let me say it more clearly: FUCK YOU!!!!

Screw you and your cameras. I’m spreading my knees and you fuckers can eat me. And I’m not even going to wash mah coochie for a week before you do it.

Love,

Goddess

ARGH.

I had to go to Baltimore three times in October. I got a speeding ticket on two of those three days.

But GENIUS here, well, didn’t realize that she received two separate tickets. Why? Because I was clocked in the SAME PLACE at the SAME SPEED. The third day, I took a different route, so that’s why I didn’t get three tickets.

But it gets better. I didn’t have the money to pay for the (what I thought was one) ticket, so I got slapped with a late fee. Guess what? I GOT SLAPPED WITH TWO LATE FEES.

I seriously hate the state of Maryland with the fire of a thousand suns right now.

Happy fucking Christmas to you, too, bastards.

The D.C. metro region had its first snowfall yesterday. *hairball*

Just two weeks ago, I was gazing out my office window and marveling at all the pretty colors of the leaves that were still on the trees. Yesterday? Those leaves had a layer of white powdery shit on them. Odd to see snow before the leaves have died off.

Anyway, it took two attempts to get to work. I cleaned off the cars, headed to the Interstate, and sat. I turned around at the first opportunity, parked it and did some work. Within a half-hour, I walked outside and the cars were even more covered in snow than they were the first time. *headslam*

I would like to extend a special middle finger or two to the state of Maryland for the drivers it chooses to license. It’s either “ride our breaks for 10 miles because something wet is coming out of the sky” or “I’m way more important than you; let me wipe you off the road and make the scaredy-cat drivers even MORE nervous.”

I’m somewhere in the middle, hence why I think THAT finger is appropriate to wave at everyone.

The other thing I hate about winter, outside of Maryland, is the fact that my house is cold. I took this place because the windows looked so sturdy. They ain’t. So I come home, go to my bedroom and get under my deliciously warm IKEA comforter that is supposed to be the warmest blanket you can buy there. Although I need a new duvet cover and sheets to match, I’m currently in 400-TC so my bed is comfy-cozy.

Anyway, the problem is that I turn on the TV and promptly fall asleep the second I get warm. Which means I’ve missed all kinds of good TV this week. Then again, the programs that knocked me out the soonest have been “October Road” and “Private Practice.” So, is it the bed that lulls me into a coma, or shitty shows?

Either way, those are two shows whose writers can STAY on strike!!!

In a world where I’m hard-pressed to name a single female millionaire who didn’t inherit her fortune from her daddy, the WaPo article on “Salary, Gender and the Social Cost of Haggling” (via Tiff) reminds me that we will work until we fall into our graves, and we could have at least afforded to live better, if only we asked.

Although differences in starting salaries are usually modest, small differences can have big effects down the road. If a 22-year-old man and a 22-year-old woman are offered $25,000 for their first job, for example, and one of them negotiates the amount up to $30,000, then over the next 28 years, the negotiator would make $361,171 more, assuming they both got 3 percent raises each year. And this is without taking into account the fact that the negotiators don’t just get better starting pay; they also win bigger raises over the course of their careers.

The overarching messages of the article, though, is that women who negotiate more are viewed less favorably than men who demand a bump in pay. Meaning, *gasp* people won’t think we’re still NICE if we want to be paid what we view is a fair price.

One thing I’ve seen with all the dating-service surfing is that men my age tend to be in a higher income bracket. Now, of course, I don’t know what they really do for a living, and in this Internet age, they could have multiple streams of income. But when they’re younger than me and making more, well, I just hope they’re lying.

But especially after having been without a job for awhile, I tend to be more of a “What? You’re not firing me? Awesome. I’ll take whatever.” But then I also know to never ask what anyone else is making because I’d probably go nuts if someone who worked fewer hours and produced less quality stuff would get compensated better because they’re supposedly part of the swinging dicks club.

Chew on this:

Women working full time earn about 77 percent of the salaries of men working full time, (Carnegie Mellon’s Linda C.) Babcock said. That figure does not take differing professions and educational levels into account, but when those and other factors are controlled for, women who work full time and have never taken time off to have children earn about 11 percent less than men with equivalent education and experience.

Yarr.

I vaguely remember meeting her at a cocktail party or a fund-raising event. I knew I liked her for a reason.

Anyway. I only did salary negotiations once in my life. And I was labeled a pain in the ass. (I believe that was the formal title.) I was SO underpaid, even for the industry, and they pretty much earmarked me as a problem child from that moment going forward. Meanwhile, I was professional about it, did my research, dressed up for the discussions, etc. And got screwed with my panties on, thankyouverymuch. I had some amount of victory, as I did get $2,000 more than they were planning on parting with. But I walked out feeling like everyone wanted a thank-you gift, like it had come out of their personal pocketbooks.

I had an informal discussion about my salary demands going forward at a different job, and while I thought I was shooting for the moon with my initial request (given how poorly I’d been compensated till then), the joke was that, “Hey, that’s ALL she wants? OK, then!”

So girls, strap on a set and ask them for more money, just like they would have no problem asking you to come in earlier, stay later and work weekends. So what if they don’t like you? You’re not in this to make friends; you’re not in this to simply make ends (try to) meet. “They” say not to make your life all about your work, but that IS what determines what level of comfort you can afford.

It’s days like today that remind me why the feminist movement is still necessary in this country.

I was driving to work today, as I am apt to do on these things they like to call workdays, and from the interstate, I make a right-hand turn into Ye Humble Employment Establishment’s compound.

So as always, I flip on the blinker in advance of my turn, to signal to the asshole in the black Range Rover to kindly quit riding my ass so that I can slow the fuck down and not kill any pedestrians who might be walking where I need to be driving. I make my turn, look in the rearview …

… and Asshole FLIPS ME OFF!!!

Seriously.

So, if I may. *clears throat*

Dear Fuckhead,

Love,
Goddess