Sometimes we like to take pictures with buckets.

That one is at Michael’s. I am wearing my Forks High School Spartans T-shirt. It is one of my favorite shirts. I got it in Las Vegas.

This is a French bucket, from the French Bistro near the house. Actually, it is not nearby at all. It takes like an hour to walk there. They have, in addition to tiny tabletop buckets, french fries in duck fat which sound gross but are very good, and instead of paintings, they have empty frames on the walls, which is just awful. The restaurant is called The Burned Goat or something like that. Also, coincidentally, I am pretty sure they got this bucket at Michael’s.

Above is the iconic Lolrus image.

I like literal titles for blog posts. Have you noticed?

I’ve been working on my urban garden.

Here is a view towards Park Blvd of my wealth of geraniums and petunias and whatnot.

I will be filling in the gaps with alternating colors. Probably pink.

I found the poinsettia in the trash in the alley. That probably sounds nasty, and I guess it is. But the poinsettia was at the TOP of the trash, so I wasn’t worried about cooties or whatever. And it would just DIE in the landfill, whereas, in my urban garden, it will THRIVE.

Moving on, here are my paintbrushes. I was working on a seascape.

This is what I sent for Mother’s day.

Reusable bag from independent bookstore? Check.
Organic, aphid-infested plants? Check.
Wooden spoon? Check.
Bottle of tonic water? Check.

After I planted the catnip seeds WEEKS HENCE*, I decided to turn the giant planter thing in front of the building into a BOWER OF EDENIC SPLENDOUR. So the other morning AS EOS DANCED THROUGH THE SKY KICKING UP HER FLAMING SKIRTS OF GOLD, when I ventured out to the local grocery store- which happens to be a natural foods store- I picked up these tragic rejects of plants for free. Well, basically for free. They either didn’t charge me for the plants or for the dry, hard, gluten-free muffin. No, I’m just kidding. I’m pretty sure the muffin had gluten.

Of course, living as we do in a tiny apartment, we do not have what you might term gardening tools. Thus the wooden spoon and bottle of tonic water, which I refilled with normal water after I rescued it from the recycling bin in order to SPRINKLE THE EARLY DEW upon my plant charges.

Also, do not despair regarding the aphid infestation. I, too, suffered the PERILS OF THE DAMNED when I saw the insects, but I had anticipated this. Organic bed plants are always infested, so I bought marigolds as well, which attract some kind of special fly that feasts on aphids, and they are already all gone.

* Please recall, Gentle Reader, that all caps should be read, not as shouting, but in an English Accent. CHEERIO.

On my way home from the Dentist I got my first tube of Gamblin’s Torrit Grey paint. Gamblin hosts an art competition for artists using Torrit Grey every August and I look forward to finally entering. The paint is free and it is made of the leftover pigments that get caught in the air filtration system at the factory. I got my tube from our neighborhood art store called I think Sixth Avenue Art and Craftsman Supplies.

Torrit Grey is probably the second coolest name for a tube of paint. I think the coolest name is Krappalack Dunkel- aka Alizarin Crimson.

Also, here is my new painting apron. The old one, which was made by my grandmother and said “I’m a Hot Tomato,” disappeared in the move.

I was walking in the morning. Sunshine, palm trees, Craftsman homes. I had on a visor since I am ever vigilant about skin cancer. Some hoodlum on his way to school tore this hibiscus off a bush in someone’s yard and then hurled it to the sidewalk like thunderbolts from Olympus. So I took it home and painted it.

Today was a momentous day in our lives since the washer- which has been broken SINCE TIME IMMEMORIAL (about 2 weeks) has been replaced.

When I trotted downstairs to the laundry room to discover this happy fact, I also discovered Laundry D-Bag Neighbor. This is a neighbor I only ever meet when he is monopolizing the laundry room amid a CHORUS OF LIES.

Sometimes I see him naked in his window as well. Not a pretty sight as he is large and lumpy in the manner of a saggy old couch whose cushions have settled into an odd and unpleasing new shape.

His CHORUS OF LIES is when he says- and he says this every time, “Oh, I’ll be done in a minute.” And I say, “Sweet!” I head back upstairs to get my laundry bag and soap and $20 million in quarters. Then I trudge back to the laundry room weighted down by all these items- down two flights of stairs, up the sidewalk, around the corner and up another sidewalk beneath drooping lime trees THE COLOR OF SADNESS. I arrive at the laundry room which is locked so I sort through my six pounds of keys, finally wrestle the door open and find he has put ANOTHER LOAD IN THE WASH and it will be THIRTY SIX MORE MINUTES and I shout and kick things- in fact this kicking might be what killed the old washer- and call curses down onto his head. Then I lug it all back up the stairs and accept that the house will smell like a locker room for AT LEAST ONE MORE DAY. THAT IS ALL.

This week was a near-total fail on the Idol Bingo front. I really thought we would get a Bingo but we did not. There was not a single utterance of “Dawg!” from Randy- it must be the first time this has ever happened and it really felt like he did that on purpose just to thwart me- and it looked like Kara had spent the night somewhere other than a crack den or maybe someone finally told her about Clear-Eyez. Boo.

I was seriously impressed, however, by Ellen, who gave us not one but two resounding Creepy Lesbian Moments; first calling a young girl’s performance “horny” and then noting that the giant grinning blond guy was surrounded by “sexy young gals.” Just to be clear: I love lesbians. I love Ellen. This is not hate speak. It is love speak. I am speaking from a place of love. Kudos to her and also to Simon for wearing a nice sweater instead of those awful V-neck tees that make him look like he just wandered onto the stage unwashed after a six week bender at the beach on Spain’s Costa del Sol surrounded by huge beet-colored Germans.

Well, better luck next week. I can’t handle the pressure so I never tune in on Results Night. It makes me lose all control and I get completely shitfaced, shouting at the TV in an insane rage and I just can’t have that on a Wednesday.

Er, catnip.

Our neighborhood is, let’s face it, a mecca for the insane. It is also full of tourists who quite often overlap the first group.

Insane tourist with wacky-looking wife: Are you planting marijuana seeds?
Me: Uh… no.

I was in fact planting catnip. We have a fifty foot long planter in front of the apartment building. Currently it is mostly empty. I thought it would be picturesque and quaint to fill it with stray cats, and I am sure the tourists would like it.

Our local branch library- a short walk from the house along a sunny, palm-lined boulevard- is called University Heights.

This is shortened to “UH” on the books.

I love this.

That’s an Easter card for you.

When I go to the beach, I take the usual things- hat, towel, sunscreen, cat.

Maybe some cats like the beach. But not this one. Here the cat is obviously praying for deliverance.

Eventually they carried it, quivering, back to the car.

First, happy St Pat’s Day! We plan on celebrating with a bottle of almond champagne and Idol.

These revelers were at the parade held here in San Diego last Saturday. Among the best-prepared parade goers I have ever seen except for my mother, they brought a huge picnic and even held a raffle. Not to mention- green mohawk, anyone?

My favorite part of the parade was probably the Irish setters:

Although there really was a lot to love, including this handspring:

And these bagpipers practicing in front of 666 Sixth Ave.

That is a lot of sixes.

Peacock at large:

Furry feet:

Arms emerging from the kitchen cabinet:

Sometimes in the morning- and only in the morning- the kitchen smells like kitty litter. We don’t have a cat.

Also, the front door locks and unlocks itself. It’s eerie, and a security risk, but just like people in a horror movie we stay, thinking it must be BASEMENT CAT, on his way home from a tough night of SOULSNATCHING.*

*On my blog I prefer that ALL CAPS be read not as shouting, but in an ENGLISH ACCENT.