If you know what's good for you

This past week has seen my novel (sounds so grand, doesn't it?) fall far behind the word count goal. I'll catch up! I must!

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It's not my fault, Ossifer, I have good alibi:

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Three doctor appointments. Three volleyball practices. Two volleyball games. Two music lessons. A repeat of the ever-escaping pony drama.

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Ooh. Let's lean on the pony drama.

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On Saturday we were watching Madeleine serve it over the net and score on a small town near us where the players are all fed Miracle Gro or some such supplement so as to make our team look like miniature players on a full-size court. That was my view from the bleachers, at least in between serial battles to keep Laura from, er, borrowing extra team balls and hucking them into the field of play. I think she was trying to confuse the other team. Or get us some penalties. It's hard to tell; she's not yet 2.

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Anyway between Games A and B I had to miss out on the ever-tempting concession stand lunch to run into town for my H1N1 immunization appointment.

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This is when I abandoned my mother and Mr. Suite in our group efforts to corral Laura and cheer on the mighty Wildcats.

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And while I was gone, my husband's cell phone rang. It was our next-door neighbors of the B&B, now for sale and looking oh-so-French-Country should anyone out there be interested.

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So Mr. Suite answered. He didn't figure it was a social call. Never has been.

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Nope.

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Dolly-the-danger-girl Shetland was out of her paddock, causing my elderly Arab much anxiety.

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Dolly never ventures far, mind you. She just wants to taste the grass on the other side of the fence and it's a bonus if she can drive her pasture pal insane in the process. Just because he's not willing (or able) to commando crawl under the bottom wire. Gee whiz. It never occurs to gentlemanly Two Spot that he could leap the top wire with ease. He's just a law-abiding sort deeply offended by Dolly's disregard of the order of all things barnyard.

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Anyway this escape caused the neighbor (did I mention their house is beautiful and for sale?) much consternation as he is not a "horse person" and his wife is allergic. (To horses, not him.)

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Mr. Suite (otherwise known as my long-suffering non-horse-person husband who loves me despite my horse habit) was 30 minutes away from home and I was 45 minutes to an hour away. The hour existing in case I might have time to pull through Dutch Brothers for a mocha. Full disclosure. And, hey, I'd just had a SHOT. In the arm.

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Recap, without parentheticals:

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I'm in town. My husband's watching four children and a volleyball game three small villages away. One pony is out and one horse is pacing the fence and whinnying like a heart attack. The neighbor is worried about ... well, who can blame him? ... his lavender plants.

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So Mr. Suite does the most expedient thing possible and gives the combination to our barn lock to the neighbor and explains the steps to capture said pony.

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Oh, poor, poor neighbor. For a non-horse-loving person to be subjected to this: Open barn, step over feed sacks and assorted tack items, scoop out can of grain, call for unhaltered naughty pony, open gate in (schlocky deep) muddy paddock entrance, shoo away full-size panicked horse from open gate, maybe even step in the mud in order to lead stinky pony inside, close gate, re-lock barn against tack thieves... it's all too horsey for words.

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Also I think this is why good fences makes good neighbors.

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So I'm driving home like a maniac, sans mocha. Mr. Suite is driving home much more safely because he has Laura and Grace on board, having left Madeleine to finish game B and Sarah to keep Grandma company and further to beg for Taco Time on the way home.

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I beat my husband and the babies home by a few minutes, long enough to watch Dolly look left and right, to simply step over the lower rail and duck under the middle rail to freedom. By this time Two Spot was bored of the drama. As might you be if you lived with Dolly.

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I called to the naughty pony, opened the gate and she marched back in with her head held high.

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Then Mr. Suite went to town and bought some solid field fencing. He and his dad spent a happy (okay, that part's maybe not true: it's a frigid 40 degrees out here in the evenings) afternoon fencing our lower paddock. The openings in the field wire are three and a half inches square. In fact it resembles a volleyball net, just a little, so that's bringing the themes together for you. Such service with the tangents.

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Dolly has not figured out a way around (through, under) this. Yet.

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Just like I haven't yet figured out how to catch up on my word count. 'Cause I've been too busy catching ponies. Yeah, that's it.

Breaking Up Is Hard To Do

Don't tell the EGE, but I've been having a torrid, lustful affair. It's long-running and even predates my 15-year marriage. GASP.

I am only on day two of the break-up and the withdrawals are fierce. I am alternately plotting ways to recontact my ex-lover and chanting a mantra of self-control. The mantra goes like this:

Dutch Brothers costs money. Dutch Brothers costs money. Dutch Brothers costs money.

Just so you know, I hate the spending hiatus. If I had it to do over I wouldn't do it. But now that I've declared the spending hiatus to my two readers (I lost a few over the daffodil vase, I think, unless you're still lurking, in which case, please come back), there's this stupid little problem called accountability. We all know accountability can make us do idiotic things. Like swearing off spending money at a time when a quadruple mocha is just what the doctor ordered.

Judging by the number of links in that last paragraph there are some definite themes in my life as a blogger. Such as: (A) embarrassing myself by posting before thinking and (B) obsessing about escaping my problems through drinking (caffeinated chocolate!).

So the spending hiatus is going well.

I've only thought about spending money a couple of dozen times. A minute. I realize stocking up on yogurt and rice was not sufficient to get me through the next eight and a half days. I need to buy a book or two. I need to have some more coffee creamer in the house. I don't really want to use dish towels for nursing pads or for diapers, for that matter.

For crying out loud I didn't even put gas in the Suburban so we could take a drive. All the playdough in the house is dried up and Gracie needs her playdough. It's only a dollar or two. No one would know.

So I can search the internet for a playdough recipe. Mother of invention, right here. I even have the cream of tartar in the house. This brings me to my next problem: I don't WANT to make playdough. I want to drive to town, stopping for a DUTCH BROTHERS, and then buy the freaking playdough at Target or WalMart like "that girl" does.

I have a problem. Thanks for noticing.