The beetle of truth
You look deep into the eyes of a beetle, and you will see yourself reflected there. It will be the real you, the whole you, the so-help-me-god you. And, you may not like what you see, but then again, you just might. You could admire the no-holds-barred you, the I-don’t-give-a-fuck you, or the unforgettable you, that shows so clearly in those black-pool eyes. You may despise the wracked-with-guilt you, the indecisive you, the yes-your-arse-looks-big-in-that-you-stupid-fool you. You must understand that what you see is the true you, in that moment in time. It takes a strong person to hold the truth-gaze of the beetle. It takes a stronger one to brave that coleopteran-gaze twice.
I am a fucking tool, um, but I don’t mean I’m like a vibrator or love beads or something…I think I’ll shut up now.
I have been given an early re-introduction to two extremely important things to consider when ‘dating’, which somewhat surprisingly had slipped my mind in the last 12 years.
1. Men are bastards.
2. I am an Earth Girl.
Ah well, I live, and I might just learn 
I do
It is 2 am and I just told a friend I loved him, but not,
“I loves ya mate,”
and not,
“I love you like a woman loves a man,” (even though you know I’d totally do you, and then some )
but rather,
“Because you listen to my shit at 2am in the morning and you are a damn fine human being,” kind of love.
It is simple, and yet as complicated as the many tens of thousands of words that have passed between us…I love you, and even if you can’t say that exact word back (I don’t have any expectations), I know you feel the same.
blahblahblah
On the way to nowhere imagination took a turn. It leapt into a rain-sodden forest, where the crack of leaf and branch underfoot, were dulled and muted by moisture. Inhaling gum-scent and leaf-rot, imagination scanned the forest, and spied a tall and mighty tree. Rubbing fingers over smooth-rough bark, circling the broad girth, imagination paused with palms on the trunk, and felt phloem pulsing with life. Pressing ear gently against the prickle-tickle trunk, imagination heard the rush of water being drawn through xylem, and into stomata, by the water-cycle freedom that existed beyond the confines of the lofty, leafy-crown of the giant.
Resting its tired back on the solid trunk-friend, imagination surged suddenly upwards into the canopy, to be let loose amongst the leaves, branches and birds. Wind spoke in treetop whooshing to imagination, and imagination heard the tinkle of bells, and echoes of ancient faerie in the voice of the wind. Birds cocked heads, chirruped, and looked sideways at imagination, uneasy with its intrusion into their canopy-world.
Smiling at the world and full of resigned determination, imagination glanced down to earth, and saw the welcoming, brown, damp ground. Releasing its grip on the canopy-perch, imagination plummeted through leaves and branches, thundering, screaming, going against the grain, all the way back, to reality.
Wow
I just got back from a wonderful, wonderful date. I’m telling everyone, so why not you too?!
Overheard: my parents
“Fred, there are no vacancies at any of the dog-hotels.”
“None?”
“None.”
“What, you’ve called all of them have you?”
“Well no, I’ve called two, but there will be none, I know they’ll all be full. “
“Shit! Why didn’t you book them in earlier? I told you to ring earlier!”
“Oh do shut-up. So, I called the place that Harry has booked Jock into, and the man says he will take them, if they get along with Jock, and they do, because he can put them into a big run together.”
“Wilma, you know they don’t get along.”
“What? Yes they get along, they don’t fight.”
“Right, they might not fight, but you know that Jock ‘gets into‘ Benji.”
“What?”
“Jock GETS INTO Benji!”
A pause.
“Oh, but they don’t fight.”
“Shit, did you at all hear what I just said!?”
“What? They don’t fight…problem solved.”
And, so it seems my mother does not mind her little Benji taking a bit up the arse for the sake of Christ(mas).
Lowest form
At an inner-city cocktail gathering (women only, so why call it a cocktail party?), fairy-lights threw dim light on the high, high, high, stiletto-glamour. I sipped my apple martini (ewww), and surveyed the beautiful crowd.
Audrey, the friend of a friend, tried to engage me in a vapid game of, “This is my friend Rachael, try and guess what her profession is. Go on, go on…you’ll never guess!”
I glimpsed at Rachael, her eyes were bright, she enjoyed being the subject under scrutiny.
“Prostitute?” I ventured expecting a laugh (had there been men present, I would have got a laugh), but,
“No!” Audrey says, discounting my theory with a vigorous head-shake and a distinct narrowing of her eyes. She was right, I never would have guessed Rachael was an Army Captain (who really knows from just a look, what the in-her-civvies person you observe does for a quid).
After my third watery cocktail in a short space of time, I was not feeling even slightly on my way to becoming even slightly tipsy (must find the drink-source and remedy this insipid-drink situation).
On my way to the kitchen, I was drawn into a conversation with a very engaging woman in her mid thirties. She was as smart-as-a-whip and attractive. She relieved herself of a tale of her two current lovers, their sexual agility, and long-term worthiness of staying her man. It all seemed rather irrelevant when she revealed that her work was soon relocating her to their London office. (I think I hate you).
“That sounds like, um…quite an opportunity,” I said, with maybe just a hint of I’m-a-separated-stay-at-home-mother-from-the-suburbs envy.
“And can you believe I’ve a rent allowance of twenty thousand pounds?”
“Mmm!” I said eyebrows raised, nodding. (Oh don’t talk about money. How tasteless!)
Ms Engaging continued to reveal more of her wonderfully successful professional and fulfilling sexual (not love) life, but as she talked, I began to realise that she was not a self-obsessed ass, she was simply, genuinely overjoyed with the good in her life. Later in the night, after questioning me at length about my life, she admitted that she often wished for marriage and kids, but, as she had never been asked, she was a bit limited in her achievement of that goal.
A pregnant woman arrived, a small group gathered around her and the conversation (doesn’t it always) turned to her bump,
“…it’s twins. We are so happy, because it took months to conceive, (I shot a surreptitious look at my bestie, she’s been trying for 3 years) and I was really concerned because, I’ve only set aside 5 years for my breeding-block and,” she looked around before adding, “I am 41!” (Breeding-block, what the fuck kind of term is that?)
One woman replied with the expected, hand on breast, “41 really, but you don’t look 41!”
And I added (I still can’t quite fathom why, no wait, that’s not true, it was because she was a smug cow),
“Yeah, but the light out here is supplied by fairies.”
Yes, I know, it should have stayed in my head, in italics, but it came out and it adds to the gathering, now largish amount of evidence, that perhaps I should be seen and rarely heard.
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