Olympic Painters, INC

In reality, I'm actually not that funny.
You might think I encounter all sorts of funny situations, and comical problems that give rise to stick figure cartoons.
I don't.

At least, not any more than the average person.

The world is very absurd, and I don't think we take the time to appreciate it's absurdity.

For example, a few days ago my Dr-Boss dropped an armful of random notepads on my desk.
He hates waste, and hates seeing paper go to waste even more. He has some sort of 'recycle' alarm that goes off anytime anyone in the entire hospital tries to throw away notepads.
Which is perfect, since my number one way of communicating with him is to leave notes around the office.

I leave notes on his files, I leave notes on the fax machine, and sometimes I leave notes on my notes, to remind him to look at my notes.

When I'm happy, I leave smiley faces around the office.

But because of his desire to keep my paper reserves high, I end up with a random assortment of note pads covered in strange advertisements.

The following is from a collection of note pads Dr-Boss snagged that appear to have originated from a (supposedly) local company called 'Olympic Painters, Inc'

Things I Can't Do...

There are a lot of things I can't do.
Control animals with my thoughts, for example (not yet, anyway)

Also, my attempts to cross bred a kitten with a puppy have so far been spectacular, and possibly illegal, failures.

So the following represents but a sample of things that, for the life of me, I simply can't do.


1. Put on Makeup

No matter how hard I try, or how careful I am, my ability to put on makeup has not improved much since I was five and managed cover myself and the carpet with my mothers expensive makeup.



2. Dress Myself

My ability to dress myself in a coherent manner hasn't improved much, either.



3. Open Jars



4. Cook

















5. Pay Attention to Anything for more than Two Minutes













6. Hang up on a Telemarketer



Years later...



7. Say 'No'

The Girl who Cried Wolf

Those of you who compulsively follow my activities on facebook (and, lets face it, that's all of you) know that I had the virtual equivalent of a meltdown last night, and emo'd all over the place.
While I'm still cleaning up the black eyeliner and blink 182 generated from my vicious attack of emo-itis, I am doing much better so thank you all for the messages.

It's wonderful to know that, despite my many temper tantrums and pleas for attention and sympathy on facebook (example status: Marcella Cline HAS NO KITTENS SOMEONE FIX THIS RIGHT NOW!!!!!!), I still get flooded with messages asking if I'm ok.

I won't divulge what upset me last night, as it's not important. It was possible someone very close to me was going to have a very difficult time, and that sent me into 'defense' position; where I curl up on the floor sobbing while I chant 'no, no, no, no, no' until someone revives me with chocolate and/or kittens. This is the same position I acquire when I'm told we're out of cereal, or Starbucks has stopped serving Pumpkin Lattes for the year.

But the problem actually solved itself, thank you Universe you total bitch for fucking with us.

I'd thank my good Karma, but really every time I try to do something good I end up getting Karma back in horrible, horrible ways. I've fallen down horrifically and consequently found money on the ground so many times, I'm starting to think that I somehow generate money by hitting the ground.

Everyone who knows me knows I am possibly the most neurotic person in the world. If it exists, I was at one point scared of it.
I'm so neurotic that my anxiety actually raised Freud from the grave to make me into a case study (he eventually went on a killing spree, as zombies are inclined to do, and they've sense put concrete over his coffin to stop this from happening again. It was all over the Austrian news, you probably didn't hear about it).

So when something catastrophic does happen to me, my neuroticism combines with my cowardice, and creates a super powerful strain of hysteria the likes of which most people have never seen.

I'm very American in my melt downs. One of the greatest things about the English is that the guy waiting next to you for the bus could be having a stage 5 mental breakdown and you'd have no idea. But I'm not like that. For those who have seen me go into juivinile hysterics, they are aware that it comes with a special brand of sobbing while talking incoherently, arm flailing, and eventual rolling on the ground in tragic overeaction.
I cry, and I drip from every hole in my head; I quote Slyvia Plath; I scream and whimper.
It is a catoclismic event full of sound and fury and signifying nothing.

So I would like to thank all of my friends for continuesly holding my hand through these emotional earthquakes and still after all these times pretending along with me that the reaction is not at all over the top, and perfectly justifiable considering the store did not have my type of doughnut.

Thank you all, from the bottom of my neurotic, choatic heart.

Adventures at Bumbershoot

Considering how often I talked up the Bumbershoot music festival to my Australian friends, I was suspiciously reluctant to go.
The reason? Besides my inability to grasp even the most simple musical concepts, and thus enjoy a concert for anything other than people watching, I didn't want to shell out forty bucks to walk around and be a victim of 'unintentional' frottage by stoned teenagers.

I get enough uninvited bodies rubbing against me walking around my building, thank-you-very-much-city-of-Seattle-for-putting-a-methadone-clinic-there.

But I couldn't resist a free ticket.

And it just so happened that my wonderful Stephanie not only had a free ticket, she had two; So, one for me and one for (the also wonderful) Kallista.

Kallista and I were so excited, we couldn't wait for Stephanie (who, due to babysitting commitments, would be joining us later).

We decided to head down hours before hand, and check out all the amazing things to do.

So, with me bursting with excitement, and Kallista looking like a fashion queen as always, we raced inside the festival and prepared ourselves for amazingness.





















This seemed like the greatest idea in the world when we thought of it.
Kallista needed a new wardrobe for fall, I needed a trench coat (people had finally forgotten about the matrix, and before some other movie ruined them again I NEEDED ONE).

The only problem was that the only good shopping places around were downtown. Which was a bit of a trek (at least a thirty minute walk). And we were both wearing four inch heeled boots.



It didn't take long before I started to complain.





Kallista lasted much longer.
But boots were not meant for walking long distances, up and down hills.
And even Kallistas pain tolerance was no match for our stupidity.









We finally stumbled back to the festival late for when we had arranged to met Stephanie.
Not that it mattered too much, as Stephanie was still occupied.



















We watched the Israeli jugglers finish their act (the were spectacular), and Stephanie delivered the little sociopath to their waiting arms.
We were finally free to enjoy the festival!

Except for the sudden awareness I had that I hadn't eaten all day, and we had just walked well over a mile.







I couldn't leave the festival just to get food.
But I'd been keeping so healthy for the last few weeks it seemed a shame to throw it all away.

In the end, my body won out, and it demanded I feed it immediately.
Rather than going by taste, I picked the stand with the shortest line.

Big mistake.

It was a pizza stand.



My Hawaiian pizza was little more than a mushy lump of dough covered in greasy cheese and a few pieces of pineapple. There was no meat to be found anywhere on its glistening surface, and for that I was actually thankful.

The whole thing cost six bucks. Without a drink.





Disappointed in my pizza, I left early and came home to feel sorry for myself and drink a bottle of pepto bismol.