Nice girls finish last

July 31st, 2007, by The Goddess

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.



Up yours, too, buddy

October 25th, 2006, by The Goddess

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,

I’m so sorry that my needing to make a deft right-hand turn inconvenienced you so. I mean, you had to go down from 45 mph to 35 — I can understand how that ruined your entire morning because you lost SO much time on the highway thanks to me and this pesky need I have to earn my livelihood.

I didn’t grow up to be a fairy princess or novelist or an otherwise kept woman. It wasn’t my dream to work in an office every day of my life. But somehow I don’t think that was your dream, either. So to flip me off for going to my job? Honey, you’re lucky I didn’t slam on the brakes and throw it in reverse — you’re lucky you got to go to YOUR job and not to the damned infirmary after I got done with you.

Thanks for trying to ruin my day. Oh, and eat me.

Love,
Goddess



It’s amazing what passes for ‘good ideas’ around here

September 4th, 2006, by The Goddess

I hate state troopers. I have filed more police reports and PFAs than a girl has a right to, and I’ve been laughed out of the precinct almost every time. But go five miles above the speed limit, and suddenly they think they’ve found a use for themselves. Twirl your dicks around elsewhere, bastards. I ain’t impressed.

You know, it takes a REALLY long time to get anywhere in D.C. when you’re driving the speed limit. You might get clipped or wiped off the road or KILLED if you’re not speeding, but shit, you can’t try to live AND manage to avoid an altercation with the po-po.

Even though I live in the city, I run all my errands in the ‘burbs. So I was in the land of horrible drivers, Maryland, and headed back to D.C., going south on the 270-Spur — a road I’ve traveled THOUSANDS of times and can drive in a comatose state — and I was in the far-right lane when a cop on the far-LEFT shoulder jumps out in the middle of the fucking freeway and waves at me to come over.

(Not the first time I’ve had that happen. They have a death wish.)

Seriously, bumper to goddamned bumper traffic. I was going 65 in a 55 — exemplary behavior on my part. I was going with traffic and was careful not to floor it because I got a ticket there the last time, only going north instead.

I started to try to merge left, but that looked to be a death wish as I had someone in my blind spot.

So I kept going.

About a half-mile up the road, I saw a hole I could have pulled into, but come the fuck on, was I going to BACK UP a half-mile in the shoulder? I think not. I wasn’t gonna jam on my brakes when there were 40 cars behind me. Oh HELL no.

I could see the cop staring at me as I hightailed it away. Um, I wasn’t doing anything wrong, to my knowledge. And you can checkpoint us all you want, but telling someone to merge from the far right to the far left? A recipe for a fucking 10-car pileup.

You know, we have cameras everywhere. And if you use your radar gun to prove I’m speeding, for god’s sakes, mail me the fucking ticket — don’t make me wreck my poor little car and end up in traction so you can humiliate me roadside. You know, that’s a dangerous stretch of road, as it’s where Democracy Boulevard traffic dumps in and then the whole kit ‘n’ kaboodle merges into the Capital Beltway.

I hope to God that he was pointing at someone else, but I doubt it. But I definitely want my day in court, if so. He did grab the guy beside me, but he was a LOT closer to the shoulder than I was. The po-po was like a fucking umpire, pointing everywhere and shouting. I’d assumed there was an accident when I saw him directing traffic. By the time I actually realized that, no, he’s walking out in the middle of the highway for kicks, I was long gone.

I know they want to catch speeders, but buddy, you can’t pull over every car on 495. And pulling out every third car from any lane? Not such a bright fucking idea, either. Especially those in the right (or, SLOW) lane. Why not pull over the idiot who was killing himself to prove he could pass me by damn near clipping my front end in a grand gesture of “Look, I was just behind you and now I’ve cut you off!”?

If you’re not going to protect me, then for God’s sake, don’t piss me off. And do NOT put me in a situation in which I have to choose between jeopardizing myself and/or getting a bigger ticket for failure to comply.

Fuck you, dumbass. See you in court.



One week

April 28th, 2006, by The Goddess

I’ve lived in my beloved new abode for exactly one week. It hasn’t changed much, as I’ve been pretty tired and busy and not very much in the mood for manic unpacking and arranging, but that’s OK. The mad dash to meet deadline is over. As long as I can keep affording the rent on this joint, I have all the time in the world.

Truism: I have driven to work in one week as many miles as I would put on in an average DAY doing the D.C./Maryland/Virginia trifecta. I’ve used a half-tank of gas, whereas I would normally have used a tank and a half. With gas at $3.16 in my ‘hood (yay D.C.), well, you do the math.

Not to mention: eight hours saved, all told, for being able to sit in moderately light traffic and still make it home within 20 minutes of leaving the office.

What have I been doing with my extra time? Working. Blogging. Sitting on the floor and staring at the TV that’s also on the floor. I never promised I was going to save the world with my extra time. ;)

My only complaint is that I have to make a lot of left turns, and some without traffic lights/green arrows. And that there’s one left where I do get an arrow, and it only lets Two Cars Through. Yes, two. When you’re eighth in line, well, it’s a tad frustrating. But there are alternatives, which I never had before insofar as Highway A had to lead to Highway B so I could get to Highway C.

I might be nuts but … I admit to missing the interstate drive. Not for the near-death experiences or the traffic jams or the ridiculous repetitiousness of it all. But it was a scenic drive, one that allowed me to listen to about 20-25 of my favorite MP3s and allow me to get lost in thought for the better part of the drive. I made a lot of phone calls during that odyssey as well — I knew I had an hour to kill and I sure as hell didn’t feel social when I got home.

For the sake of sentimentality, I took these photos during my last commute from work to my apartment in Virginia. It’s too bad they’re from a camera phone, but it’s OK. They’re of I-395 South, heading out of D.C. toward Alexandria.

These were taken while I was driving at the speed of light, so I apologize for the distortion.


View from the HOV lane in Arlington


395 might be treacherous, but it is pretty

What I don’t miss? Alexandria’s plethora of “No Turn on Red” signs. Bugged the fuck out of me. Actually, the only time those brought me joy were when I had someone behind me who didn’t see the sign and who would scream at me to move. I would sit all serenely and shit and watch them go postal. I had to get my kicks somehow — that always did the trick. ;) Lord knows I had my own meltdowns on the Beltway, so it all evened out!



Mailbag

April 18th, 2006, by The Goddess

Dear Memorial Bridge Traffic,

Suck it.

My days of putting up with your shit? Numbered.

I’m leaving you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Don’t try to find me — I love you for your beautiful riverside/monument-laden scenery, but I need a highway that’s going to treat me better. I’m tired of it ALWAYS being a production with you.

Adios and vaya con dios.

Dawn

Before my f’in ROKR punked out in mid-trip, this was the song that came on while I was parked by the Pentagon. Enjoy!