the big 5

Thanks to Laoch of Chicago, I took the Big Five test that was posted on his page. I'm a O53-C92-E64-A27-N4 - not that I really needed a test to tell me any of that, I know me.

I must share this with you too because every line is funny.
Choosing your doctor is important.

The Big Five.

The only thing that may be misleading is the 'well-organized' part. My mind is well-organized. Ridiculously organized. You would never associate the two if you looked at my desk though.

My theory is a well-organized mind will eventually lead to a well-organized hiring of a maid.

I do remain calm in a crisis.
That's probably where I'm best suited.
I'm not moved by much.

A couple of times Grant has said that I run at such a high level that in a crisis, I'm just fine. But that's why the every day little mundane things irritate me the most.

Oh my God, like today.

I nearly came out of my own skin when Grant decided to set an old wobbly ladder on uneven ground and go 30 feet up in the air - to paint. I saw him dying a horrid, mutilating death and being splattered all over my driveway.

Me: "GET DOWN FROM THERE!"
Grant: "It's fine"
Me: "It is NOT fine! You're going to die! GET DOWN!"
Grant who is laughing his ass off at this point half way up the ladder: "You do love me..."
Me who is not seeing the humor in the situation: "SHUT UP AND GET DOWN! Oh my God..."
Grant: "It's fine."
Me: "How the hell is this FINE?! I can SEE the right side of the ladder OFF THE GROUND!"

really, it was like trying to reason with a 15 year old boy... you are NOT immortal... you CAN die... [I'm guessing this is where the whole, "You find it easy to express irritation with others." thing comes into play in the Big Five too because I had no issue spewing out the following...]

Grant continuing to laugh while I go into psychotic mode: "You're cute..."
Me: "Are you fucking kidding me?! I'm telling you I can see you die 27 different ways in my head and you think that's cute? Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?! STOP TALKING AND COME DOWN!"
Grant: "I'm going to paint up here. I'm not coming down. IT'S FINE!"
Me: "This is why I stay inside while you're doing this stuff, I CAN'T WATCH IT!"
Grant: "You really are cute..."
Me standing there visualizing shooting him in silence.

See, this, is NOT fine.
THIS makes me a nervous wreck.

Now if I was inside and he was outside screaming his head off because he fell 30 fucking feet and was in pieces all over my driveway because he didn't know better than to be up on a ladder on uneven ground - then I'd be perfectly fine.

Then I would be all calm and soft-spoken and even-toned...

"It's okay. I'm going to call the ambulance. They'll be here in a few minutes. I'll stay with you and make you laugh and think about whatever else is necessary for you to not notice that you're bleeding all over the place and there's brain matter on the freshly painted siding and all is good. It'll be just fine. I'm here. You're alright. I've got you."

I would be saying this all while casually scooping up random body parts so the doctors can reattach them later while using my other hand to try to stop the bleeding from the blood sucking chest wound.

In my head, while convincing you that it's merely a flesh wound and you'll surely be able to retain all your bodily functions and yes, you'll be able to walk again - I'll be making a mental list of where I can find the insurance cards, how much liability I have on the homeowners policy, who I have to call to notify that you're in the hospital, what to bring along to make you more comfortable, a change of clothes to come home in, checking the clock to calculate the efficiency of our EMTs so I can fill out their survey form accurately afterward on their performance, which neighbor I'm going to notify to hose down the driveway and what I'm going to tell the kids and who is going to be with them when we're not there.

Then I'll try to calculate how much time it'll take to lock up the house and the garage and the shed and figure out where you put your cellphone and if the car or anything else is blocking the driveway inhibiting the ambulance and police from moving in faster. I'll make a mental list of any and all medications, the names and doses and when you last ate and what that was.

When this sort of thing is necessary...
I'm your girl!
I'm good for that!

he keeps saying it has something to do with serotonin levels and other things that I haven't bothered to dissect yet...

I still blame kids - even though he's pointed out that my entire life has been filled with other people's crises that I've had to solve or endure.

I don't know.
I don't really care.

All I do know is that if your back is to the wall, I'm a good person to have on your side.

While someone is crying and/or mourning over something, my mind is trying to figure out: how I keep you out of jail, or from losing your house, or who to call to keep your kid alive, or how to keep you from going bankrupt - and all the tiny little details that will come back and bite you later if you don't think of them now.

and yes, I'm aware that the grammatical structure of the above sentence is totally fucked...

I'm less likely to put my arm around you and try to comfort you that way.
I won't be the one next to you crying with you.
I'll be the one trying to figure out how to make whomever did you wrong, cry.

I may, however, also be the one that gets you drunk so you can cope and I have time to sort your shit out.

I'm more likely to be the one to make sure your house is secure and taken care of and you have all the numbers for all the right people you need to contact and assure you that...

"It's okay - we'll figure it out. Go get some sleep and let me think about this. I'll be right here and I promise you that you're safe and sound and Heaven help the person who picks tonight to try to break into your house...because I'll be...right...here..."

If that is what is needed; I'm your girl.
That is true.
There are countless affidavits I could get to that effect too.

Actually, just writing that is making me all on-guard, alert and in protective mode...

I'm not good for calling if you want to have a girl-fest, sit on the couch with ice cream and watch chick flicks and sob over the day to day stuff in life. I know my limits.

Feel free to give me a call if you just found out that your husband is cheating on you with his secretary, you're on the verge of having a mental meltdown, you've just been given a horrid diagnosis or someone is laying face down in a pool of their own blood in your kitchen.

Then I'm like the Wolf in Pulp Fiction.
You know, something like:

The Wolf: You're... Jimmie, right? This is your house?
Jimmie: Sure is.
The Wolf: I'm Winston Wolfe. I solve problems.
Jimmie: Good, we got one.
The Wolf: So I heard. May I come in?

The Wolf: You must be Jules, which would make you Vincent. Let's get down to brass tacks, gentlemen. If I was informed correctly, the clock is ticking, is that right, Jimmie?
Jimmie: Uh, one hundred percent.
The Wolf: Your wife... Bonnie comes home at 9:30 in the AM, is that right?
Jimmie: Uh-huh.
The Wolf: I was led to believe that if she comes home and finds us here, she'd wouldn't appreciate it none too much?
Jimmie: [laughing] She wouldn't at that.
The Wolf: That gives us exactly... forty minutes to get the fuck out of Dodge. Which, if you do what I say when I say it, should be plenty. Now, you've got a corpse in a car, minus a head, in a garage. Take me to it.

The Wolf: Now boys, listen up. We're going to a place called Monster Joe's Truck and Tow. I'll drive the tainted car. Jules, you ride with me. Vincent, you follow in my Acura. We run across the path of any John Q. Laws, nobody does a fucking thing unless I do it first. What did I just say?
Jules: Don't do shit unless.
The Wolf: Unless what?
Jules: Unless you do it first.
The Wolf: Spoken like a true prodigy. How about you, Lash LaRue? You think you can keep your spurs from jinglin' and janglin'?
Vincent: Look, Mr. Wolf, my gun went off, I don't know why, and now you're helping us out of the situation. I'm cool with it, all right?
The Wolf: Fair enough. Now I drive real fucking fast, so keep up. I get my car back any differently than when I gave it, Monster Joe's gonna be disposing of two bodies.

The Wolf: Jimmie, lead the way. Boys, get to work.
Vincent: A please would be nice.
The Wolf: Come again?
Vincent: I said a please would be nice.
The Wolf: Get it straight buster - I'm not here to say please, I'm here to tell you what to do and if self-preservation is an instinct you possess you'd better fucking do it and do it quick. I'm here to help - if my help's not appreciated then lotsa luck, gentlemen.
Jules: No, Mr. Wolf, it ain't like that, your help is definitely appreciated.
Vincent: I don't mean any disrespect, I just don't like people barking orders at me.
The Wolf: If I'm curt with you it's because time is a factor. I think fast, I talk fast and I need you guys to act fast if you wanna get out of this. So, pretty please... with sugar on top. Clean the fucking car.

The moral of this story:
Don't ask me to clean your house or cook you dinner and we're good.

A well-organized mind will eventually lead to a well-organized listing of local restaurants as well...