Mmm, pickles and crudites

I am totally stress eating my way through my last few thousand words with pickles and diet pop. And crudites and Catalina dressing!

In related news, crudites is a way better word for raw vegetables than raw vegetables. Which is why I use it all the time. Crudites, crudites, crudites. Crudités, crudités, crudités. See, the spell checker in Firefox totally thinks that the é is pretentious, because it doesn't recognize that spelling.

In further related news, the knights in my novel have become these sort of terribly crude frat boys. Whenever I need the heroine to feel frustrated or distanced from the hero, the knights show up and fart and burp their way into her ire. Like, I just wrote this:

_{[Context: Their manor house is all beat up and in pieces, the only bedrooms that are really liveable are their bedroom and the soldiers' barracks, and the hero's parents have just shown up for an unexpected visit. So, ring the doom bells, her in-laws are on her stoop.]}

"We cannot put your mother in the barracks. Your father perhaps would not find it such a hardship, but we cannot house a countess with those . . ."

"Those what?" he asked.

"Those men you call knights!" she practically shouted, gesturing toward them.

Luc looked at them and saw what she was on about. The men were currently engaged in a game of . . . well, he was not sure what, but he supposed it could be called wrestling, though a less astute observer might assume they were beating each other.

I have been spending way too much time with my brothers and their friends, who are not knights, but who do stuff like that all the time. So, they'll be talking to each other, one of them will fart, the other one will fart louder, and it spontaneously turns into a brawl -- only they're laughing.

I think I gave up any pretense that I'm writing a romance novel about five thousand words ago, and it's now more of a Judd Apatow film set in the middle ages.

_{My despair, she is deep! My sense of humor, she is weird! I think I'm a little punch drunk.}

Not if you can imagine it. That's what being a scientist is all about!

I just wrote the wedding night scene. It's awesome. Not because they're having sex all over the place, but because the wedding guests sweep them from the great hall up to the master bedroom, and then the single male guests demand Margarethe's garters, because that's a thing that never actually happened in the middle ages, but I will perpetuate myths if I want to, meh*.

Anyway, the crowd is all, "We wants the garteressesssss," and Luc is all, "You shall not pass! Begone from here!" because his new wife is all freaked out because she's been plunged from the convent into the midst of this ravening crowd, who want her underwearohmigod. And Luc is all protective and finally not a stiff back proper gentleman, thank god. Prior to this, he had about all the personality of a dishrag with a picture of a knight stamped on it.

It is probably the most "romance novel" thing to happen in my story. May there be no bodice ripping to top it.

Must scurry like a little mouse and WRITE MOAR!

_{*Please don't hurt me for my ahistoricity.}