Dear reader, I want to assure you there are other things going on in my life besides a preoccupation with unaffectionate pets. There really are.
As it is, I'm not in the mood to write about those things. I'm not in the mood to write about forgetting carpool (just saying that spiked my heart rate), the disparity between my imagination and the way my hair really looks, volleyball camps and music recitals, end of school madness, horrific bedrooms, car repairs, or anything else which may be plotted on the space-time continuum.
I am in the mood to tell you about my beetles, though I hardly dare. I have this sneaking suspicion there's an unwritten rule flying through the internet which quantifies the number of times one may reference dung, and Tollipop has roundly exceeded that quota.
It's just that I recently learned the gestation period for baby beetles is four months.
Four months, dear reader. Four months of staring at a dung heap, wondering if any bundles of joy lurk beneath its surface.
Four months. Anything could happen in four months! I could be a rockstar in four months. I could join the secret service. My life is simply too dynamic to sit around wondering whether or not it's time to pass out the cigars.
I'm also in the mood to tell you about this: the enormous blue bee!
Did you think it was a myth, dear reader? Did you tell yourself: oh, there she goes again, spinning one of her wild and crazy yarns...?
Well, guess again.
This one is not even as big as the one I spotted last year and yet you can ascertain, by the scale of the mountains in the background, that it's at least two hundred feet tall.
At first I indulged the staring contest but finally I was all: Excuse me, but are you a drone? Am I speaking to some trigger happy pilot sitting in a darkened room in the remote corner of some sham republic?
It didn't blow my head off so I guess it was a bee, after all.
Also spotted on my run: a leviathan gopher snake slithering across the trail, just as I was in the middle of my war spy fantasy (wherein I'm a running courier between the battle front and forces camped miles away, of course). So I was already in a jumpy frame of mind when this fellow suddenly manifested himself, with markings not unlike that of a rattlesnake.
You should have seen me jump. You should have seen me fly.
Dear reader, quota or no quota, why would I go on about forgetting carpool when we can sip our tea and talk about truly pertinent things like this??