Sadly, I have reached the conclusion that I need a new blog in the name of my new Pseudonym. It isn't that I'm trying to hide, just keep my two professions, lawyering and writing, far apart. This is necessary because I work for the government.
I don't intend to continue updating this blog *sobs* but I hope you'll join me over at
Marguerite Says. I'll be moving all my contact links there and I hope you won't think who? when somebody named Marguerite comments on your blog.
I have a velcro goose. You know how some people have "velcro dogs" that are attached to them? Well, I have a goose. His name is Chowder and he's an African goose like the one in the LOL above. I hand-raised him from a chick and it's safe to say he's imprinted on me.
And he's lonely.
Chowder has two ladies for companionship, Panini and Ceviche, but both girls are broody--for the non-poultry addict out there, this means that they are sitting on their nests trying to hatch eggs and rarely step off. During the breeding season, life was a constant pool party. There was more "happy time" going on in my pond than teens on spring break. Life was good for the Chowder.
Oh, what a difference a month makes. Now his girls are broody and the good times have come to an end. He wanders the farm, lonely and calling. Chowder needs his Mama and that means me.
I can't do anything without a goose following me and "assisting." You think cats help out in the house? This guy is into everything and have you heard the phrase "like poop through a goose." I have goose poop everywhere around my house including the garage. He's learned that I come out that door and now he waits there. Pitifully. Honking and crying. He's learned to knock on the door too. Eventually I get fed up and come out to comfort him and feed him apples. Men of all species are the same. Let a woman reject them and it's back to Mama for food and hugs.
Don't feel too badly for him. I posted previously about the snake stealing Panini's eggs, but I just hatched three goslings in my incubator. Geese are devoted parents and easily adopt any babies offered to them. I about a week Sushi, Truffles, and Schnitzel will meet their new parents.
Then maybe I can walk into my garge without looking where I step.
I have a small complaint about romance novels and erotica and more specifically about the sex scenes. I'm not sure what happens to people when writing about physical intimacy. I'm pretty sure that most of these authors have had sex. In fact, many of them are parents and so I know they have experience with the horizontal mambo. They must have a basic grasp of the mechanics. Been there, done that, got the kids to prove it.
So why do I find so many sex scenes in novels to be so...moist?
You know what I mean. Characters start getting cozy and various parts of their anatomy start leaking fluids. Not that there isn't a certain amount of that going on in real life, but the levels which are described in these novels bring to mind a good dose of penacillin. I read a novel a while back that describe a woman's girly parts as her "river of love."
Do not want.
Girly parts should not be a river and manly parts should not be a firehose. It's just wrong. Don't think this is an isolated incident by an over eager writer. Oh no. I see this over and over again. I've read about the amount of semen produced by the man. I've read about the scent and viscosity of the woman's "love juice." Mostly I hear about the continuous gush of fluids resulting in the flood at the happiest moment. Seriously, in one recent novel, bodily fluids alternately wept, seeped, flooded, gushed, spilled and cascaded. Oh, I so desperately wish I was making that up.
These people don't have a wet spot, they have a waterbed. Seriously, what is with the wet?
Well, my son's youngest doe tried to climb a tree yesterday. Didn't go so well for her actually. She got stuck.
Okay, backing up in time. I'm upstairs typing away on the outline for my new book. I had an awesome idea for a scene and wanted to get it all down before I forgot. Aren't you proud of me? So, I'm working away and the dogs are barking and whining. I make my husband pause the T.V. so we can listen. He thinks I'm nuts because our dogs bark at the wind, but I knew that it didn't sound right.
My son thinks so too and goes out to check. he comes back in to announce that "Penny has her foot stuck in a tree and she's making this baaing sound." Husband curses a bit about goats and puts on his boots. I decide they might need my help and wander out with them.
Oh. Em. Gee.
I think she took a year off my life! Penny is hanging, HANGING, from the tree with her head just limp at an odd angle. She looks dead.
Heart pounding, I run out there to her. Her foot isn't just stuck, it is completely wedged and she's panting and making choking noises.
It took all three of us and a can of Pam non-stick spray to get her out safely. I was worried about her foot, but she limped for a day and has recovered from the shock. I did NOT allow her into that same pasture today. But I did catch her trying to...
Typical day at the B Square Ranch. Yes, my little pretend farm is really called the B Square. I'll explan some day.
Anyway: get up, dress children, feed animals, turn eggs in the incubator, kill snake that is threatening broody goose, tromp around an excavation site to check for environmental law compliance, plead a bunch of cases out over the phone, get car inspected, hase goat that is eating rose bushes, gather eggs, kick naughty rooster that goes after my leg, remind cranky gander I am bigger and meaner, scratch donkeys, check for email from editor, run amok at website because it is after all April Fools eat leftovers, feed children leftovers, check homework, despair of the next generation, update blog,
Whew. I think that takes me current.
Yes, I said kill snake. It was super creepy. I'm not bugged by much, and I prefer to let snakes live. They are beneficial. But this sucker was HUGE and he was bold enough to attack my brodding goose Ceviche for her eggs!
I heard my girl hissing and hissing and she is usually a happy, contented girl on her nest. I pretty much looked like the cat above when I saw it. Now I know what has been happening to the eggs in my dog house. See, the dog house is my chickens' favorite place to lay their eggs. They have lovely nestboxes, but they will literally stand in line for a chance to get into the big plastic dog house.
It's sort of like one of those clubs that has watered drinks and long lines and plastic technomusic, but people will gladly hand over their case for covers just to get in and be seen. yeah. It's the cool hang out.
I notice some publishers are like that. These publishers become flavor of the month and suddenly it's cool to have a book with them. Yup. Writers are just like chickens.