You Know It's Wet When the Grass Grows Here

[dancinghorse]

Serious monsoon for the past week, and there's grass in the (still wet and muddy) arena. We haven't seen that in a couple of years. Everything's green and growing like mad.

I have been working like a working thing. Fiction fell by the wayside, but I am bound and determined to finish the last week of the Clarion Write-a-Thon with at least some new words. This past week racked up a mere 1854. Bad writer-a-thon. Bad.

Applewood-smoked bacon. Forget chocolate. Now there's a vice.

Pooka got a ride this evening. He's been running his own picket line, proclaiming Abuse, Neglect, and Bad Horse-Mom-Ship. We had to be creative in among the patches of mud, and he was very, very boingy. Boing! I was pleased that I didn't even breathe hard throughout. Not bad considering how little riding I've done in the past two weeks.

This week, I hope, Ephiny will have her Big Day. She seems to be over her owie, which was indubitably a bruise: as soon as rain softened the ground, she was sound. But I did see her get tromped, so there wasn't much room for debate.

And in the Department of Utter and Sparkly Evil, the wonderful elisem is having one of her justly celebrated sales. This is a progressive sale, which means 10% off each day until everything that's left is half off.

When you succumb, blame casacorona. I'm innocent. Totally. Really.