kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Personality

  • Skip Bil-ary: I’m the man for the job.

    It’s official. I’ve decided I have the qualifications to become a candidate for President of the U.S.A.

    What do you think?


    You Are 5: The Investigator


    You’re independent – and a logical analytical thinker.
    You love learning and ideas… and know things no one else does.Bored by small talk, you refuse to participate in boring conversations.
    You are open minded. A visionary. You understand the world and may change it.At Your Best: You are sharp, inventive, and creative. You have the skills to lead the world.    At Your Worst: You are reclusive, weird, and a bit paranoid.

    Your Fixation: Greed

    Your Primary Fear: Being useless or incompetent

    Your Primary Desire: Being competent and needed

    Other Number 5’s: Bill Gates, John Lennon, Kurt Cobain, Bjork, and Stephen Hawking.

    What Number Are You?

    “Know things that no one else does…” Can you even imagine the number of things DubYah knows that we will never, ever know?  Scary.

    “Refuse to participate in boring conversations…”  Like at press conferences with the media persistently ask why…or how… or when…and DubYah grins and blithely states that he said he wasn’t going to answer those questions.  Because he’s just not gonna do it.  He doesn’t have to.

    “Have the skills to lead the world…”  Think about it — his daddy set things up ahead of time.  And then he just hired all of his daddy’s people.  And he made sure no one ever actually saw Cheney.  Ever.  And setting up the whole hanging chad thing was a good touch just to make sure.

    “Being useless or incompetent…”  Who was it that said that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself?  Churchill?  Actually, it was Eleanor Roosevelt.  Okay, so be afraid.  Be very afraid.  Wait.  I already am. (See below)

    “Reclusive, weird, and a bit paranoid…”

  • Observations on ambivalence

    ambivalent (adj.) having mixed feelings or contradictory ideas about something or someone…

    IMG_4061.JPG Yesterday late in the afternoon, I received an email referencing this piece. I’ve read it several times since, and caught myself mulling over aspects of it.

    Politeness. Authority. Acculturation and silence.

    Self-negation.

    But Verlyn Klinkenborg’s piece is about writing, isn’t it? He acknowledges that when “you talk about writing…you always end up talking about life.”

    I know. I see what he sees as he observes and writes. The students, the classroom. The quiet. It’s what gets in the way most often when you’re teaching someone to write and they’re struggling, not understanding that aspect of it all, thinking that it fits neatly into a formula with five double-spaced paragraphs in 12-point helvetica. It’s easier to think of those very concrete things. More safe. There isn’t a commitment, really. Is there?

    Writing comes from life. Everything we’ve said or thought or done is a path from which words come in whichever voice we choose: one of passivity and compliance, or cold detachment.

    Abject humor.

    Writing is not linear. It’s messy. There are no clear cut rules even though most of us had rules thrown at us about what we should or shouldn’t do as writers. We were asked to complete lifeless narratives or produce dull regurgitations of information on gross national product and chief exports — if we were asked to write at all. We received letter grades for our efforts, in pen at the top of the paper where everyone could see it, and when you turned the paper over, could feel the embossment, and think about the teacher putting it there. IMG_4056.JPG

    It’s safe to expect students to write about those things. Nothing personal will arise. There will be no worries about whether one piece on “Where You Went On Your Summer Vacation” will differ from the next. You don’t have to have confidence in anything like that because you just write it.

    Unless you didn’t go anywhere on your summer vacation.

    Or lacked the confidence to realize that it didn’t mean your summer vacation was insignificant compared to that of others. That lying in golden, waist high grass to watch clouds drift, or listening to pebbles clack hollowly against one other in a ditch as the water from lawn sprinklers carries them along may not be considered worthy of being written about.

    That the teacher might look at your paper and think, “I knew there was something not quite right about this girl…Who must her parents be?”

    We’re pigeon holed almost from the beginning to behave and think and act in particular ways. To speak in a specific fashion. To dress ourselves just so. To do and to be what others expect.

    First at home, and then at school. Especially when others are watching.

    There could be a high correlation between the seeming lack of confidence exhibited by students repressed by societal norms and the degree to which they let loose, get rowdy, and party hearty when they’re not being watched.

    IMG_4061.JPG Or being controlled.

    Eventually, they escape if they really want to.

    Klinkenborg concludes by stating that when “a young woman suddenly [understands] the power of her perceptions, ready to look at the world unapologetically — I realize how much has been lost because of the culture of polite, self-negating silence in which they were raised.”

    Lost as writers, or lost as humans with life to experience?

    I’m still ambivalent…

  • Still waters

    I’ve caught myself mentioning that I’m calm, or that I’ve nothing to get worked up about these days. That days of unrelenting stress and palpable anxiety are over. For the most part, it’s true, because most of my catalysts have been removed. But I know myself too well. It’s all there. Waiting. Sometimes, I feel that I carry around what has seriously angered me in life, and it surfaces unexpectedly with little provocation.

    A couple of days ago, I jumped in the car to go to the grocery store to pick up a few things. I didn’t really want to go and know I can easily talk myself out of anything on Earth if given a moment, so glanced at my face in the mirror, put on a few dabs of makeup that wouldn’t fool a two-year-old, and was off.

    It’s only a five minute drive if I don’t hit the traffic lights, and downhill most of the way. But the road is heavily used, winding through compact residential areas, and has the usual 25-35 mph speed limit. Invariably, someone at some point on this very short drive will be in an enormous hurry. It never fails. And that day, the woman had to have been on her way to a fire.

    I could tell, because the image of her steel grey Jeep Cherokee grew in my rearview mirror quickly. The routine goes something like this: speed right up to the next person’s bumper and then slam on your brakes to exhibit frustration with any car that has the audacity to be in the way.

    The person in front of me was doing more than the posted speed limit, and I was right behind, keeping pace. I was, however, also aware of the distance between her rear bumper and my car, and it was a safe distance. Not the three and a half car lengths that I should have been for our speed, but two and three quarters, and safe.

    Unfortunately, the lovely brunette driving the Cherokee behind me didn’t agree. After all but pushing me downhill, and riding my bumper so closely that she could have wrapped her pouty peach lips around my exhaust pipe, she demonstrably parked her left elbow on her door frame, and pushed her head into her palm. Thoroughly. Disgusted. And could I please notice this in my mirror so, like, she could be on her way.

    I’ve often wondered about this particular brand of young female driver, and what their IQ is. Perhaps she wasn’t quite sure about how traffic works. That the car in front of her can’t travel more quickly than the car in front of it. I know it’s a difficult concept to wrap a brain around, but still. Or perhaps her rules are different than mine. I was to have shown some sort of Mean Chick solidarity by riding the bumper of the car in front of me. Show her my indignation. Sure, that would work. Uh, no.

    At some point, the road split into two lanes at a traffic light that had just turned red. I chose to get in the left lane as I’d soon need to make a turn into the store. The Jeep Princess behind me chose to go to the right, ironically behind the woman who had been in front of me. As she pulled up alongside me, I could feel the anger rising up, surprising me with its intensity. My passenger side window was already rolling down, almost involuntarily, and I saw her head turning to look at me in that classic “you moron” move. So predictable.

    I screamed at her through the window before it was down, catching a flicker of surprise on her face. “You stupid b*tch! It’s a little difficult to go as fast as you need me to go with another car in front of me. Sh*t! Perhaps she wasn’t used to getting a reaction out of anyone quite like this. My heart was pounding, and I was amazed at the anger I felt.

    Her defensive and barely discernible smirk just about did me in. What must it be like to feel so entitled, so important, so completely and utterly self-absorbed that the world is at your beck and call. I wanted to jump out of my car and rip her eyeballs out. Mess up her hair. Smear her lipstick. But only for a second. My heart was pounding.

    As the light turned green, I noticed that she was stuck behind the woman who had been in front of me, but her persistence had an interesting effect on the car in front of her. It sped up, and she would soon pass me. At least she had the intelligence to not look at me again as she passed, her elbow perched once again in the window, blocking her face from view. But I caught a glimpse of a smile as she passed and when there was just enough space to get by, pull in front of my car, and speed away.

    As I made my left turn, I could see that she had been forced to make a stop at the next red light, but I felt no vindication because I was still wrapped up in my reaction to the whole thing.

    Where had that anger come from? I’d like to think it’s because tailgating is extremely dangerous and that I’d like to live a very long time and don’t appreciate people who drive like jerks. But I believe it’s much less logical than that.

    I’ve never cared for those who behave so arrogantly that others are expected to bow in their path. They expect. They take advantage. They are brash, and humiliate. They mock, and taunt. And they travel in packs. They cause harm and use and abuse others with no regard for anything but themselves. And then they move on, trashing everything and everyone in their wake.

    Clearly, this isn’t just about a woman in a car who was tailgating.

    And no, I’m not calm.

  • Personality, seeds, and perception

    I’ve looked at, drooled over, inhaled, and yes, eaten enough cinnamon rolls and sticky buns to last about a week or so forever. My self-indulgence in the foodblog world this past weekend was well worth it. Food makes my world go ’round, which means I’m ready to go on this first Monday in October. No, I’m not going to talk about the US Supreme Court or what they have on their docket. At least, not today. But I have been waiting to talk about James Watson who just may be a new hero of mine. You don’t know who James Watson is? Or is it that perhaps you just aren’t interested in who my heroes are? No matter, because it’s inevitable that I’ll explain it all anyway.

    Sven Geier DNA FractalDNA Fractal courtesy of Sven Geier

    Dr. Watson (no relation to Sherlock) was interviewed by a staff member of our local paper recently, and as much as interviews are something I don’t relish reading unless I’m extremely interested in the person being interviewed, Dr. Watson caught my attention to the extent that I may need to consider purchasing his new book, Avoid Boring People: Lessons From a Life in Science. I do know that part of the credit for his responses, which have had me thinking about them days later, goes to the writer. If you don’t ask a good question, you won’t get a good answer, right?

    The reason Dr. Watson’s responses appeal to me is because he just “lays it on the table:” it’s brevity at its best and something that I’m a complete stranger to. His obvious knowledge about DNA provides for interesting opinions about genome sequencing, such as, “if you know somebody’s behavior is linked to their genes, you’re less likely to get angry, and more likely to help.” I’ve had some time to think about that — especially when I consider all the children with whom I’ve worked — including my own.

    But how much do I know about whether an adult who is less than tolerable in public is simply rude, enjoys drawing negative attention to him or herself, is under the influence of alcohol or narcotics, or has a personality disorder? I may have less than pleasant thoughts about the person, but unless I’m being confronted, or feel threatened, I’ll observe, not engage. Life is just too unpredictable now. And if confronted, my reaction would be one more of embarrassment over attention being drawn to myself. Or fear. Understanding wouldn’t come close to factoring into my reaction in that scenario. Fight or flight? Yes.

    With respect to the question of nature or nurture, Dr. Watson believes that our “personality is [our] genes. And [our]personality is key.” But…(and you know what point I’m going to make, don’t you?) …in much the same way that a seed is nurtured by a series of factors that influence its growth and viability, humans and animals can also thrive, or suffer from factors in their environment.

    Yes, the personality is the seed, but we are so heavily influenced by those around us. By their ideas, opinions, attitudes, mannerisms, passions…or the lack. It seems to me that influence can be like unwanted hurricane force winds, relentlessly pushing and at times, violent. At other times, like a day without even the hint of a breeze. The response to either of those situations will depend on the one who is affected.

    IMG_3268

    That is what is key. We are often treated as being the same: women, men, children, students, workers — not individuals. We are too often packaged to make it easier for someone else to deal with us. That’s where all the problems begin, because people forget that it isn’t always about themselves: their anger, their frustration, their disappointment, their preference. What about the person on the other end of it all? If you’re a parent, it’s about your children. If you’re a teacher, it’s about your students. And if you’re a worker, it’s about your work, or your customers. It’s. Not. About. You.

    Well, unless you have a personal blog. Then it’s always about you. It’s your information — often synthesized from myriad sources — about what you’re interested in, about what matters. To. You. Yours. Does that mean it is or isn’t a reflection of your personality?

    I recently had an acquaintance tell me that she doesn’t read my blog because it isn’t “really me.” Perception is an odd thing, isn’t it?

    Sorry. Odd flow of thoughts today. Welcome to my personality. The one I have to put up with.

    So if you’re completely bored now, and want to understand more than you already may what a big nerd I am, then play the game at Nobel Prize. It says I “managed to get 281 points out of 1150.” Whatever. If you’re really bored, you can try out some of the other games they list. I think I fed Pavlov’s dog to death, unfortunately. Overfeeding is my solution to everything in life. Poor dog.

    I guess there aren’t any scientists amongst my ancestors or more recent relatives.

    Dreamers, yes. And swingers of birches.

    Well, except short hair scientists.

    That would be me.