Yesterday, when you were young everything you needed done was done for you.

This morning, I put on my hiking boots and overalls and hit the highway with my 81-year-old neighbor. Well, we hit the side of the road for the Adopt-a-Highway program. The Adams County Democrats maintain a four-mile stretch just outside of town. And these days that pretty much means me and my neighbor and occasionally his wife. He sits in the truck while I wander into the brush and skeleton grass and look for the stuff people throw out their windows while listening to loud music or arguing about dumb stuff.

It's hard for me to imagine what kind of nerve it takes to carelessly fling garbage from a car or truck, but of course I envision most of the offenders in 4-wheel drive vehicles cos I hate them so much. Since picking up trash is sort of a meditative activity, I started making up little theories about this and that. For awhile there, I was noticing that most of the beverage bottles and cans were for soda or beer. I thought to myself, "Ha! People who drink water are more conscientious." But that theory didn't last long. I reckon I picked up about 35 empty water bottles. I don't know why I ascribed that higher level initially. Maybe because I drink water like a fish? (Do they, in fact, drink water?)

My friend drove along the side of the highway, and I would look around a patch and pick stuff up and then hop back into the cab of the truck and we would drive on a little further. At one point, after I picked up this huge plastic bottle of what I thought was iced tea, he told me that I didn't have to pick up urine bottles. Yikes! I wasn't really current with that particular cultural phenomenon. (Also, someone needs to tell that guy it looks like he might have a kidney infection.) After that, I started noticing the bottles more. My final piss bottle count was five. My friend told me to be careful in particular of wide mouthed containers and I restrained myself from making a remark about penis size, etc. You guys know how delicate I am.

I picked up two pairs of men's boxer briefs, both heavily soiled either by the elements or the lack of an appropriate container for that particular bodily function. I did not look too closely. I found no women's apparel of any sort, although I picked up three dish rags and one pot holder. (By the way? I have one of those picker-up things so I don't have to touch stuff AND I get to wear an official orange safety vest.)

Another trend? I found three separate cardbox boxes which formerly contained Coleman camping products. Another illusion of mine shattered. I thought campers would be more attuned to the environment. I wondered if they all came from the same vehicle. You know? Somebody sitting in the passenger side of the car, happily opening up newly purchased goods to admire and covet and then discarding the boxes as they went?

Almost every single beer can that I collected was Bud Light. That says something, right? No Fat Tire bottles thrown from windows. Thank fuck I can hold that ideal near and dear still: people with good taste in ale are not litterers.

In the end, nothing huge was revealed to me. But I was pleased to know that the Adams County Democrats have the cleanest strip of highway in this part of the country. Of course, the Republicans haven't adopted anything at all. Right-to-lifers are like that, I guess.

And nah, that's not me. That's The Weepies. "Walk on, walk on, walk on. You can't go back now."

It's been awful hard to just stand on my feet. I think I'll slow down if I am able.

Wow. It's been a straight-up year to the day since I've added anything to this blog. I wonder what that means. Nothing good, in all likelihood. I've been talking recently with an old friend who used to read my blog on another site, and he said he's hoping to see me write some more ruthless girl2-style stories. He claims he likes my ruthless wit, read: hard-core bitchiness. I think he was hoping for drama and perversity. I definitely can deliver that in spades on a good (bad) day.

And please? Don't think that kind of thing has been missing from my life, cos it's hasn't been. Just ask Alex, I think he'll know. His new squeeze may have a thing or two to say on that score. Vodka under the bridge, I mumble.

I went to Spokane, Washington, today for not the first time -- usually I go to synagogue or Costco. But this time I had an appie at a hospital and then went further downtown. I guess I thought the little city would be sort of half-assed and mangy compared to Seattle, my hometown. I've been here over a year and I couldn't be arsed to take the tour. (Plus there's my Generalized Anxiety Disorder keeping me from hopping the free bus, a freight train, or even into the car of a boy with pretty eyes.)

And Spokane is kind of mangy in places, which is a beautiful thing. I remember the good old days back home where you could get soome really greasy eggs at The Doghouse Restaurant or a six egg omelette at Beth's at 3 a.m. all the while pointedly ignoring the boys in the bands who would hang out in those places after gigs. Now it's all tapas and prix fixe menus written on blackboards by boys with studied arrogance and too much hair product. I hate that shit. I miss Bimbo's Bitchin Burritos, although it passed away not so very long ago. Ernie Steele's is now Julia's and you can't get the waiter to even look your way. What I'm saying is I miss ripped red banquettes and snarky waitresses who brought my bloody marys as the result of just a glance. Ya feel me?

I dunno. The bookstore in Spokane was really pretty and I found a second-hand autographed copy of Kay Boyle's Fifty Stories and how cool is that? Next door, my friend and I had quiche and salad; I admit I also appreciate restaurants that bring carafes of cold water to a table set with linen napkins. I like the juxtapositon of old apartment buildings and nice libraries. And though I love dives and corner beer bars, I also miss the opportunity to lust after pretty knobs (the kitchen kind) at Restoration Hardware. Being there elicited memories of good times with friends in other cities and let me know that that there is the possibility that life in Eastern Washington may not have to be all about old men, overalls, and neighbors who speak in tongues.

I came home and got back to a little mindfulness. You know? That thing that I do when I'm not obsessively calling for my cats to come home or making smart remarks in chat rooms and checking for the 80th time that the front door is locked. So, immediately home and in a white linen dress, I pulled up all my top-heavy sunflowers and laid down some good soil for next year's delphiniums. I took a risk and transplanted a semi-dormant Long Tall Sally Rose. I trimmed my tomatoes and took a good harvest. And guess what? I found one perfect little wild strawberry hidden beneath my overgrown chives. Ah. Promises, ripe promises.

Here are the tomatoes from today. I don't know what I'll do with them just yet -- probably donate them to the senior center or make gazpacho. For today, though, I'm keeping them in their pretty bowl, on the corner of my desk. Cos I've got to figure out how to reap what I sow, at least when it's the good stuff. And even if I'm a girl, I too can be all about the visual.

"I won't drown in the ocean, Or starve in my place at the table."

And nah, that's not me. That's Band of Horses. I sure like them. I wonder where they eat their late night brekkies.