I’m not able to talk about money. I prefer to spend it. My very first “real” interview after arriving in the States, I practically hushed my interviewer when she mentioned money. As if she was insulting me by even bringing it up. As if money muddied the real reason I wanted the job—my passion for answering phones. Lucky for me she was a mother, and after she hired me she took me aside and gave me a good clip in the ear.
It might be my Irish upbringing. We have no grace when it comes to money. No sense either. An offer to pay for your own pint/cup of tea in Ireland will be most violently met with “would you put that money away and don’t be embarrassing me." You’re cheap if you don’t fight so you must force a crisp twenty at your friend and at the cashier (who will roll her eyes at this much rehearsed scene):
Act I. I insist, you say. No, no, no, my treat, says your friend, Moneybags. Really now, I’ve got it, you say, throwing him the white of your eye. Two bony elbows hold you at bay while Moneybags makes a quick show of putting his ten in the cashier’s hand and closing her pudgy fingers over it. He has paid for your tea.
Act II. You ball up your twenty, viciously stuff it in his trouser pocket, and say “you’re an awful man.” With a disgusted shake of the head, he’ll dig out the offensive ball of money, slap it into your inside pocket, and zip up your jacket for emphasis. One final surge to pay, punctuated with a downright refusal to drink, and he’ll take your money. Now you can get back to talking about global warming.
I work hard for the money. A few weeks ago I decided to approach my boss, after a disappointing end-of-year increase. This was truly a first for me. I’ve never questioned more money before, just taken it and run. But it’s also the first year I’ve realized they’re not doing me a favor by letting me show up every day. I’ve always felt somewhat undeserving, because, well, I’m a mom, in a predominantly non-mom environment. I don’t wear white socks and sneakers but I do work nine to five. My boozing involves my husband, not my boss. My schmoozing is for my kids’ coaches and teachers, the real power players in my life. But the beauty of coming into my thirties is that I’ve also come to my senses. I know my worth. I’ve got my foot to the pedal nine to five. And they’re lucky to have me.
In researching a talk-strategy I read “Women Don’t Ask: Negotiation and the Gender Divide” by authors Linda Babcock and Sara Laschever. I was horrified to discover that women’s salary expectations are up to 32% lower than the expectations of men for the same job. Even more disturbing is their finding that women often don’t even bother to ask for more.
Interview excerpts from Marcela: “I would never ask for [a bonus]. If it wasn't freely given, I wouldn't ask for it. I might gripe about it at home, but that would be the extent of it,” and Becky: “When I go into a negotiation...I think about maintaining that relationship before I think about my own [needs] really” fueled my determination to break my silence.
I prepped for my “talk.” Dinnertime conversations and food-stained drafts about what I bring to the table. Hours of Rocky anthems. Daily show-me-the-money mirror sessions. Restless nights visualizing my boss in his white Hanes, Goldtoe socks, and shiny black shoes. Ready and amped up, I initiated the talk.
But in truth our “talk” was nothing short of a song and dance.
He set the tone with Kanye’s “Gold-digger.” I stared him down with classic Willie Nelson “If You’ve Got the Money I’ve Got the Time.” He rose up out of his chair with Prince “Money Don’t Matter Tonight.” That shook me a bit. I recovered with Jet “Put Your Money Where Your Mouth Is.” He struggled a sappy “Can’t Buy Me Love.” I whipped out my air guitar and rocked ACDC “Money Talks.” He tossed ACDC back at me with “What Do You Do For Money Honey”? Disco Donna answered “She Works Hard for the Money,” but he summoned the Notorious B.I.G. (may he R.I.P.) for a powerful “Mo’ money, Mo’ problems” and who can argue with the dead? Frustrated, I shook my moneymaker with Destiny’s Child “Bills, Bills, Bills!” and I thought I heard Ol' Dirty Bastard’s "Got Your Money" (I readied Shania’s “Ka-ching”) but instead he ended our song and dance with a plain and Simply Red “Money’s Too Tight to Mention.”
