I keep trying to get to the yard to sit and draw on the next Bosom Enemies story (no laptopping in sunlight, ya know), but between gorgeous weather and -- ahem -- the beginning-of-summer controlled happy white stuff stuff busts going on right across the street and all over town -- they do sweeps for early in the summer for the hard stuff, 'cuz, while everybody agrees that the old Mary Jane does less harm than alchohol, the damn crank and meth gets made to leave Dodge -- I did tell you we live right next to the sherriff's office? -- and taking a turn at throwing a line in the water again, just to see if anybody's out there and hungry, and this morning the tide being out practically to the end of the entire reef, and grabbing the opportunity to see just where all the rocks and weeds were, for later, and teaching a Neah Bay missionary how to find agates -- where the hell did the time go? Of course, every place in the lawn and garden I walked by needed just a few more minutes puliing up grass and weeds, just to save time for later.

I'm starting to feel like Hugh Grant in "About The Boy." Jobs -- how do people fit them in?