Are You Nonconfrontational or Just a Big Fat Wuss?

I took Intro to Psychology in college. In fact, it was one of the few A's I received in my college career. The handy thing about a little bit of knowledge is that you can spout utter BS and sound totally convincing.

In fact, I'm convinced many Americans received A's in Intro to Psychology. Because that would explain all the psychobabble tomfoolery that surrounds me everywhere I go.

My particular beef is with the term, "nonconfrontational." Back in my day, when Sinatra ruled the airwaves, coffee cost a nickel, and you hand-cranked your car, we had another word for nonconfrontational people. We called them cowards.

Think about it. That guy who just faded away instead of breaking up with you. The receptionist who never corrects you when you call her Mary instead of Marie (leaving you to find out her correct name by reading the cake at her going-away party). The friend who always seems to get bad service in restaurants, but never asks to speak to a manager.

These people are all "nonconfrontational." What that really means is that they're torturing themselves long-term to avoid momentary discomfort. These people are being ruled by their fears, avoiding all semblance of speaking up for what they want. They'd much rather stay quiet and leave the guesswork to us.

But, in a way, it's cruel to be nonconfrontational. It's selfish to leave other people guessing because you're not brave enough to say what's on your mind. I do get that speaking your mind can be a difficult thing. We all fear the drawbacks of speaking up. A scene, a shouting match, rejection, being ignord, or, in the case of bad restaurant service, a bit of waiter DNA in your pasta primavera. It often takes me a week or two to stand up for myself, because I worry about framing my concerns in the exact perfect way. Ugh.

The anticipation is always worse than the outcome. Always. So, next time your girlfriend wears that perfume that makes you sneeze, your boss leaves a moldy coffee mug on your desk, or your friend flakes on your birthday, speak up. I mean, really, what's the worst that can happen?

Hipsters of D.C., I Am Not Impressed

Sunday, I went to Crafty Bastards with Roxanne, Dave and Sean. Crafty Bastards, as the hipper-than-thou title suggests, is a CityPaper-sponsored craft fair in Adams Morgan.

Well, theoretically, I was there with Rox, Dave and Sean. But the hordes were so pushy, thick, and intense that we lost track of each other within ten minutes. It was hot, crowded and loud. You had to stand in line to look at any of the craft booths.

And, really, there wasn't much to look at. Hey, look! A hipster silkscreened t-shirt! And another! And another! Throw in a few overpriced handbags and some chunky jewelry, and you've covered the entire fair in just three booths.

I think there are a few things that could have been done better. I think they could have eliminated at least a third of the vendors, as they were all selling the same stuff anyway. This would have given the rest of us a little more room to walk around. There could also have been more refreshment stands, and fewer sport utility strollers (seriously, do you really need a stroller the size of a small car? How big is a baby, really?)

I'll definitely give it a pass next year. Give me Eastern Market anytime - even when it's mobbed, there's enough variety that you don't really mind.

A Field Guide to Not Being Skeevy

Today's Tell Me About It chat is discussing how appropriate it is to approach women, and how to do so without being a total creep.

I think it all comes down to one thing: women are not public property. Men are in no way entitled to a woman's attention, conversation, or phone number.

I generally don't mind being approached. I just say a pleasant thank you and that I'm off the market, and go about my way. There are two situations that absolutely creep me out, though. The first is when a guy just ogles me without ever saying a word to me, and the second is when the guy won't take no for an answer. No matter how many times it works in the movies, persistence is not cute in real life.

So, skeevy guys, let's say you want to reform your woman-repelling, restraining order-attracting ways. Start by taking my advice on how not to be a creep.

First, don't stare at women. Do you like to be stared at? Especially don't stare at women in an enclosed space, such as the Metro. Don't stare at a woman who is traveling by herself at night. It's creepy, and the poor woman is forced to worry about whether you are going to follow her off the train.

If the woman is reading, listening to music, or otherwise engaged, don't talk to her. Assume she would rather be left alone. If she responds to your scintillating words in "uh-huhs" and avoids eye contact with you, she wants you to go away. If she explicitly asks you to leave her alone, leave her alone. Moreover, move. On the Metro, switch cars. Having a guy hang around after you have asked him to go away is really skeevy.

And, OK, rejection sucks. Nobody enjoys being rejected, and I agree that it's unfair that men do most of the approaching in our society. I imagine it's really tiring and deflates the ego. But if you're getting rejected over and over, it's probably because you're creepy.

But see it from her side. Maybe she just doesn't think you're all that cute. Or she finds her book more interesting. Or, maybe, she just feels like having some quiet time to herself. (Again, women aren't public property, and we have the right to be left in peace.) Or, you've done something to offend her.

And what are those offensive things? Directing all conversation toward the boobs. Commenting on chest, behind, or really any body part. Asking really intrusive personal questions. Examining her stomach at length, then asking repeatedly if she works out (this one really happened to me). Next time, try a simple, "Hi. How are you?" Polite, restrained, gives her a way out ("Fine, thanks, but I don't feel like chatting.")

And, last, but definitely not least, NEVER tell a woman to smile. We hate the Smile Guys. Women aren't public property. Men have no right to intrude on our personal space by commanding us to smile. We have no obligation to be smiley or ornamental or pretty. Women are just as entitled to bad moods and bad days as men are.

In fact, at last summer's National Convention of Non-Hideous Women, we passed a unanimous resolution to find all Smile Guys and stab them in the eyeballs with our eyebrow tweezers. So don't say I didn't warn you.

Should I Be A Mite More Anonymous?

Most, if not all, of the blogosphere is anonymous. I have decidedly mixed feelings about this.

My web address is my name, and most people who know me realize I have a blog. I work on the assumption that opinions don't count if you lack the nerve to put your name on them. Anonymity is a refuge for those who lack the courage of their convictions. It's graffiti on the wall.

But the potential drawbacks are tremendous. And I can totally understand and sympahtize with why other people have anonymous blogs. I am at risk for all sorts of unpleasant things. The risk that concerns me most is stalking or other harassment. But, since my traffic is pretty low, I haven't had to worry about that so far.

The second drawback of stamping my name on this thing is that I occasionally tick people off. Aside from the Great State Department Shutdown of '06, my blogging has offended fans of the German Ambassador's wife, 7th Heaven, and insecure men everywhere.

The final drawback concerns me the least. In this Age of the Interweb, potential employers can turn up absurd amounts of personal information in a single swoop. I find this unsettling. I also find it unsettling that I could lose out on a job because of this fairly innocuous blog. So many bloggers feel they have to stay anonymous to protect their livelihoods. Provided the blogger keeps mum about his or her job, who really cares? Why should the employer even care?

But this last drawback is fine by me. I figure if an employer is stodgy or intrusive enough to deny me for a job simply because I have a blog, then I probably don't want to work there anyway. I like my life as it is, and am disinclined to change myself to appease the suits.

So why am I all alone out here? Why are there so many anonymous blogs out there? I'd especially like to hear from people with anonymous blogs. Is it fear of stalking? Fear of retribution from employers? Or, and this one scares me, so you can say whatever you want without consequences?

The Ancient Chinese Art of All That's Wrong With Me

This month's domino included an article about feng shui (as in, the Chinese art of rearranging your furniture to achieve bliss). The article included a chart of the corners of the home, and what each one represents. I made the mistake of matching the chart to a floor plan of my apartment. So now I have ancient Chinese reasons for all that's wrong with my life. In list form, here we go:

1. Knowledge: The kitchen. OK, I know how to cook. That's knowledge. This is working out well so far.
2. Friendship: Right about where the TV is. Mainly I use the TV to play Grand Theft Auto and Karaoke Revolution with friends, so far so good. Until we get to...
3. Money: the bar, which has a fairly extensive liquor collection. OK, so the Chinese have told me why I'm always broke and a bit of a lush. I have booze in my money corner! I can deal.
4. Reputation: The balcony. My friend Jason was over for dinner last night, and we tried to figure out how a balcony corresponds to reputation. His ideas centered around flashing people, mine, well, I didn't have any ideas. So reputation was kind of a wash.
5. Marriage: This corner features a whole lot of clutter (see Corner of Conundrum post), including the box of stuff my ex dropped off. Spooky. My views on marriage are a bit cluttered and complicated, so I guess that works.
6. Children and Creativity: The bed. That's really scary. I feel like I ought to invest in some quadruple-strength industrial birth control and shoot my ovaries full of radiation.
7. Career: The bathroom. I am seriously not kidding. Insert your own "career in the toilet" joke here. Though the added perk is that visitors to my home, instead of going to the restroom, can visit the "career corner."

In Praise of...Praise?

The Gen Y invasion of the workplace has been written about until even I'm sick of it. Apparently, kids today love iPods, won't pay their dues, and sass their managers.

At some point in the last couple of years, an important axis tilt occurred. I used to be one of the youngest people in any given office, now, I am usually one of the oldest. My town has surrendered to the twentysomethings. The average D.C. office looks like Logan's Run, minus the shiny futuristic jumpsuits. Everyone my own age has apparently given up and moved elsewhere.

So what does this mean in my day-to-day life? Mostly, that I receive fawning praise for the smallest of accomplishments. A colleague my own age or older will respond to a completed task with, "well done," "good work," or the always-appropriate "thank you." However, younger colleagues will respond to a completed task with something akin to unbridled joy. No matter how menial the task, I will be treated as if I rescued a tiny furry little kitten out of a burning tree, falling and breaking all four limbs in the process. I have had to forcibly block people from patting me on the head.

I'm all for praise and appreciation, but too much of it is overkill. It's also demeaning. Bouncing with joy because someone typed a letter without major mishap implies that the person who did so is incapable of doing anything more than typing letters.

Is this a generational divide? Do these endlessly studied, coddled, and indulged young professionals respond to everything with the same inflated levels of praise to which they've become accustomed? Or is excessive praise a byproduct of professional inexperience? Or, most likely, am I just a bitter old crank?

A-Womp-Bam-BOOM!

I was in the presence of greatness last night. And greatness is ornery and crazy. I saw Little Richard perform live at a free concert near my office.

He talked a good deal more than he sang, but that was okay. Among the subjects about which he shared his wisdom: leg pains, an offer of speedy reimbursement for anyone who would destroy the camera of the guy who kept trying to film him, and that it's better for ladies to be big than small, because, "The dog buries bones, y'know." This comment punctuated an effort to have the "biggest, fattest black lady, the biggest, fattest white lady, and the biggest, fattest Mexi lady," to join him on stage and dance to "Old Time Rock n' Roll." He requested that they dance so much they "break the stage." Requests were punctuated with a lightning-fast "shut up!" to hecklers and would-be comedians.

Aw. I cannot wait until I am 75 years old and can say whatever I want, whenever I want. I want to be old and ornery and crazy.

As for the music, he's still got it. He put on a great show, opening with "Good Golly, Miss Molly." It was loud, intense, and almost terrifying. He even threw in a country song, just to keep us on our toes.

The opening act, The Jewels, was a whole lot of fun. The Jewels are a local girl group who have been performing together for more than 40 years. They even came out in girl group-style matching outfits (though, as a nod to their age, the outfits were tasteful jackets and slacks, rather than sparkly little minidresses). The Jewels shared a series of classics, and even got the audience to jump in on "Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?" These ladies were having the time of their lives.

I only wish the crowd had been as cool as the performers. A few folks were really into it, danced, sang along, and were there to have the best Thursday night they'd had in years. But they were outweighed by the people with no sense of show etiquette. Late arrivals muscled and elbowed their way to the front and blocked the views of others with self-entitled impunity. One clearly drunk man shouted that he was there to "see the little f----t play piano." Because using that word worked out great for Isaiah, y'know. Also, Little Richard isn't gay. He just likes his jackets extra sparkly. Also, he isn't little, he's 5'10". (Thank you, IMDB!)

Worst and weirdest of all was the older guy standing behind me. He was really very white, yet wearing a giant Afro wig (I've seen fauxhawks before, but never a faux-fro). Man, that guy did not stop talking for over two hours. And, really, when someone talks that much they rarely have anything to say.

Another guy shoved his way up next to me, and repeatedly held up his cell phone camera to take a photo of Little Richard. Once is fine, it's nice to have a photo of an event. But you do not need to wave your arm in my face a dozen times. I eventually got ornery and told him to back off and please stop blocking my view, and...he did. He vanished completely. It was awesome.

So, Little Richard, thank you. I'm not old just yet, but thanks for showing me how effective it is to be ornery. Also, for all you bitchy little would-be bad boys of rock'n'roll (looking at you, Pete Doherty and Ryan Adams), take a good hard look at Little Richard. You'll never be as bad as he is or half as stylish, so kindly stop trying.