Ruby...Not Just on Tuesday.

MY NAME IS RUBY & I'M TRAPPED IN A SUBURBAN NIGHTMARE!

2012-02-26T21:23:00.000-08:00

Here’sthe ironic thing: I used to buy journals two or three times a year. Beautifulexpensive ones with patterned covers, heavyweight pages and pretty lttle sewn in silkbookmarks. I never used any of them. I could never bring myself to write on that first page. Iwas always waiting for some special event or memorable moment for that first, memorable entry. It was like that first page would determine what the restof that year would be like. You can’t just start a brand new diary with a lameentry like: “tonight we had pot roast for dinner.” Do that, and the rest ofyour year is sure to be a complete and utter yawn fest. And so, I ended up with acollection of really nice blank books.

Today I decided to start this blog...

Until today, thatis. Today I decided to start this online blog and just write, because if I hold out for some big monumental moment, I'll be waiting forever. I figure it will be a coldday in hell before any Prince Charming rides in to fetch me from my sorry-ass life on his fine white steed.

So, we didn’t havepot roast for dinner. Nope. Tonight we were treated to steaming bowls of Mr.Noodle and some carrot sticks with ranch dressing for dip. That’s my mother foryou, not exactly a culinary wizard, unless she's cooking for other people. She refers to herself as a “utilitarian”cook, which is just a fancy way of saying that she sucks.

Along with ourmain course, my sisters and I were served up our daily ration of guilt, alongwith a little side dish of resentment, something that my mother is especially goodat.

Jade got tohear how dropping one of her university courses and hanging around the house totally cut into Mom's writing time, andAmber got to hear how her not getting a lead role in the Emo play she's in, shows total disregard for the $400 a year that our mother forks outfor drama lessons. And me? Good old Ruby? Well, I’m just too damn fat. I’m an embarrassment,especially to a mother who writes for a holistic health magazine. Oh, and let’snot forget Dad. Dad STILL hasn’t gotten around to clearing out the downstairsstudy so Mom can put her work out stuff in there. Doesn’t anybody value her in our house? And so on, and so on, and so on…

WHAT'S IN A NAME?

2012-02-25T21:58:00.000-08:00

What kind of mother names their kid Rubyanyway? Ruby is a name for oldEuropean ladies who lived through World War II and wear support hose. People call their goldfishes Ruby. Theonly other Ruby I ever knew was an overweight white cat that lived behind thelocal Laundromat when I was a little kid - appropriately named because it hadone pinky-red eye. Well, my eyes were brown. Not even a hint of pink or red. It was just a fad my mother went through. Her name is Opal, and forsome reason, she’d thought it would be downright charming to continue on thetheme and name her children after precious gemstones. I kid you not. My oldest sister is "Jade", thencomes "Amber", and then me…"Ruby". I guess it's a good thing that there are just thethree of us.

A quick overview: Jade is tiny and perfect, with this amazing porcelain skin and cascadinghair and the teeniest waist ever, which makes everyone else horribly envious,because she eats like a proverbial trucker. I've seen her eat two Big Macs back-to-back, and then inhale a box of Tim-Bits a couple hours later. I think I might hate her.
Amber is next. She's part goth, part pot-head, and part weird. She used to be cool, but as soon as she discovered black eyeliner and nail polish, she went over to the dark side. We get along okay, I guess, so long as I don't steal her death rock or Anne Rice novels. Yeah, no chance of that.
We live in a waspy upper-middle area of town, in athree story, two car-garaged, stone and cedar house with 1/2 an acre of backyard in a subdivision where all the streets are named after birds.

My mom could getpoints for interior decorating, because our place looks like it should be the feature home in "Country Living Monthly". You know the kind of house I'm talkingabout - lots of pine and stone and natural fibres, and authentic naïve Americanfolk art filling up the kitchen walls. Cows and pigs and such. Perfectlyperfect. Like Mom, who is the Martha Stewart of our neighbourhood. Mostly she like to rub shoulders with the other lawyer's wives, throwiing lavish luncheons and serving beautiful little mixed drinks in fancy glasses with umbrellas and floating fruit in them. It's funny how she "remembers" how to cook when she's trying to impress the neighbours, but as far as the family goes? It's frozen shepherd's pie.
She has regular French manicures, pedicures, facials, andleg waxes. Sometimes she disappears on "SPA" retreat weekends to "The Pampered Diva", with some of the "spa flies" as I like to call them. To the best of my understanding, theyall lounge around in bathtubs full of mud and seaweed, get pummelled with hotlava rocks, and then drink huge amounts of white wine while sharing secretsabout their husband's sexual behaviour, or how advanced and intelligent theirchildren are.
I think it might be kind of fun to seewhat would happen if Mom was forcibly removed from her straighteningiron or her espresso machine for the weekend. It might be entertaining.
Dad is a lawyer. Corporate law. Let's see...what can I say about him? He's good at his job. He looks great, if not a bit pudgy, in a grey pinstripe suit. He plays a mean game of squash, and he is terrified of my mother. So he isn't around much. Lately, he's hardly around at all. I think Mom is happy with this arrangement. He just messes up the feng shui when he's at home. At least that's what she says.
So yeah, the Brady bunch we are not.

CAT BARF AND CHIHUAHUAS

2012-02-24T10:04:00.000-08:00

This day has sucked so far. It began the moment I put my foot over the sideof my bed, only to step in a steaming pile of cat barf. Lovely. Definitely set thetone for the day.
It helped talking to Derrick though. I saw him on my way home fromschool, standing in his front yard, in his purple velour house coat, with"Diego", his Mexican Applehead Chihuahua tucked under his arm. I like Derrick. He’s a pretty hip guy: a documentaryfilmmaker who shakes up our mostly sedate street by saying totally outrageous things. Andbecause he is gay and lives with a man called Bennett, he is more often thannot a hot topic of conversation in the neighbourhood.

The neat thing about Derrick is that he’s very intuitive, sohe seemed to know about my bad day before I even rounded the corner.
”Is it a guy?” That’s whathe said.

"Nah…just family.”

Then he laughs and says, "Don’t stress about your family. Nobodygets to pick them. Just be selfish and go get yourself a latte with the worksand visit one of your friends who is less attractive than you are. That's whatI do when people get up my nose. "Gosee one of your kind and ugly friends, Derrick!" I always tell myself.I come away feeling like a bloody Greek God. Family be damned!"

This makes me smile. It’s such a typical “Derrick” thing to say, whichis why he is largely misunderstood. He says shallow stuff like this all thetime, but he has the biggest heart of anyone I know. He’s always doing extravolunteer stuff for old folks, or feeding homeless people, or helpinghandicapped kids go to camp and stuff.

Iwish I could just go live with Derrick and Bennett and Diego. Life is so notfair…

THE DRAWING ROOM (or...drawing the room)

2012-02-23T11:53:00.000-08:00

Today I had an argument with my mom about lamps, specificallythe plastic wrap that covers the shades. She claims it keeps them protected, immune to bacteria, and free of a certain daughter’s (who shall remain nameless, she said) fingerprintsthat are usually smudged with paint, chalk, or pastel goo most of the time.

I argued that as a SUPPOSEDfan of all things natural, any petroleum-based product (i.e.: plastic)surely rubbed up against her social conscience? She went quiet then, and pouredherself a glass of wine even though it was only 4:30 in the afternoon.

It doesn’t just stop at the plastic lamp covers, either. Mymom also loves spraying our custom made chairs and other bits of furniture withdaily doses of “FeBreeze” – chemicalsbe damned. Personally, I prefer the more natural scent of “Eau de Chien” that our golden retriever provides our home with.

A little sketchbook page dedicated to my mom... and Martha Stewart.

Whatever. But, as Derrick would say, turn a negative into apositive so I took to my sketchbook (what’snew?) and created this little homage to Martha Stewart, or maybe my mother.

LET SLEEPING DOGS LIE...(or in this case, cats)

2012-02-22T20:14:00.000-08:00

I am supposed to be writing an essay on Hamlet, but for some reason, all I'm able to do is look at Holden (our cat, named after none other than the great "Holden Caulfield"...and if you don't know who that is, then you will probably hate my blog.) Anyway, Holden likes to sleep on my father's bookshelf in his den. He likes to become part of the environment, like some kind of installation piece. Very artsy.

I think I am going to paint Holden and my dad's bookshelf...on the wall in my room.

So...instead of waxing poetic about Shakespeare, I got my "Catcher-in-the_Rye" groove on and planned out my mural tonight.

I wonder if Mr. Arnott (my English Lit teacher) will be suitably impressed?

SWEET POTATO PORN

2012-02-21T16:09:00.000-08:00

Don’t think I’m a freak or anything, but I like bodies. Allof them. The corpulent, the misshapen, the angular bony ones, the deeply wrinkled,the pink and rosy, you name it. Now, I wish I could say the same about my OWNcollection of muscles and bones and flesh. Nah, when I look in the mirror, I tend to see an ass that’stoo big, feet that are too flat, hair that’s too frizzy, freckles that are toocute, breasts that aren’t perky enough, etc. etc. etc. I blame my mother and her single-mindedfascination with her own body. Her obsessive-compulsive abdominal crunching,regular root touch-ups, bronzing gel fetish, and yes…there have even beenrumours of Botox.

My mother is a 125-pound walking contradiction. On the onehand, she writes all the right things for WHOLE HEALTH, a magazine she submitsto regularly; you know, articles about gratitude and being at peace with yourbody and the importance of daily meditation and organic green tea. What sheFAILS to write about, however, is the importance of her daily three glasses wine(or vodka when she’s particularly stressed), and her giant bag full of toxiccosmetics that could easily blind a whole truckload of bunnies.

"Lily" our female model in art class

So you see? That’s why I’m insecure about my body. One theone hand I hear my mother tell me, “Ruby? Love yourself, hunny…every singleinch of yourself!” and then an hour later she’ll slap the double-stuff Oreo clearout of my hand and tell me there’s plenty of celery in the crisper. Thanks,Mom.

But today in art class we had two life drawing models. Tworeal live bodies to draw! I was completely mesmerized with the bends and anglesand shadows and poses. I think I may have given myself tendonitis because Ididn’t stop drawing for two solid hours.

The woman was beautiful, even though she was old (like, 40!)She was soft and had these silvery stretch marks (three babies) and this massof wild hair and this long, graceful neck like a swan.

"Werner" our male model,
(or "Sweet Potato Man" to me!)

The dude was, well…a dude. I’ve never drawn a naked guybefore, and I hafta say, that while he was perfectly comfortable puttinghimself out there for the entire class to draw, I was a little rattled. I mean,you get to that point where you have to draw his….you know…THING! And when I got there he was lookingright at me so I sort of did a “half-assed job of the junk”, so to speak. After the session, he wandered aroundand had a look at everyone’s drawings and I really hoped he wouldn’t beoffended when he saw mine, and the way I portrayed his…you know. I didn’texactly make him anatomically correct. My rendering of his family jewels lookedmore like one of the shriveled sweet potatoes in the back of our pantry. He didn’t look bothered though, infact, he commented on how nicely I’d shaded his shoulder.

I may have honed my artist's skills today but I don’t think I’m evergoing to feel the same way about sweet potatoes again.

PEACE, LOVE & CLINT EASTWOOD

2012-02-20T12:15:00.000-08:00

We're going to Rashana's for the weekend. Rashanais one of my mother's "new-age" friends - a forty-somethingwoman who escaped the city life of Vancouver to live on the west side of Sarita Island in a yurt. She claims to be a textile artist, which is probably why shewears naturally dyed wool clothing, smells like garlic, and has more windchimes on her porch than I’ve ever seen in one place. I've never really seenany work she's done - only piles of wool in wicker baskets and various looms ofall sizes strewn about her yurt.

All I know is that Rashana's REAL name is KathyParkinson, and that she used to work for ICBC selling car insurance. Momsays that after she divorced her adulterous husband, she was able to reinventherself, so now she is "Rashana" - Goddess of the Earth(who drives a white 2011 Toyota Land Cruiser with heated seats and a built-inGPS, because she cleaned up in the settlement.)

Maybe I can get sick between now and the weekend.Maybe if I make a point of licking the stair railings at school, or standingnext to the snotty kid with the goopy eye in the cafeteria line-up, I can begoff from this little excursion. Because, really? An entire weekend at Rashana'slistening to Beethoven infused with the mating calls of yellow-belliedsapsuckers, doesn't really float my boat. And of course my mother will bein full-on "peace, love and granola" mode, raving aboutregular olive oil cleanses, not to mention the health benefits of wearing hempfibre underwear.

I have to find a way to get out of it. For onething, Derrick and Bennett are having a movie night on Saturday (old ClintEastwood spaghetti westerns - Clint is Bennett's fantasy boyfriend) and Derrickis sure to make one of his famous Thai curries. Plus by the time we get to TheGood, The Bad, and the Ugly, Derrick will be all insecure and threatenedand he and Bennett will have highly entertaining squabbles afterwards. It'salways the same.

I have three days to come up with a plan. Wish meluck!

AN S.O.S. FROM THE INDIGO CAULDRON

2012-02-19T18:39:00.000-08:00

Inever thought I’d be bummed about having a superlative immune system. I have to admit, I didn’tgo as far as to lick the stair rails at school, but I did do my biology lab with Jocelyn McMann, and I’m pretty sure she has pink eye. I also ate some very questionable tunasalad in the cafeteria, and let myself get soaked in the rain on the way homefrom school, but alas, I am as healthy as a proverbial horse.

Monkey Placenta Pilaf.

Thismay change, however, because after we arrived at The Indigo Cauldron (the name of Rashena’s yurt on Sarita Island) we were treated (and I use the term lightly) to some of our hostess's new-age culinary skills. I was starving, and would have been happy with peanut butter and jelly, but we ended upeating something that I’m pretty sure was made over-boiled Capuchin Monkey placenta.Seriously.

Toadd to my misery, Arden is here for the weekend. Arden is Rashena’snineteen-year-old daughter. Rashena thinks her daughter is some kind of free spirit, an alternative Goddess in vintage clothing, but in actual fact, she’s just a major pot-head with an obsessive-compulsive attachment to tattoos.

Arden's highly original butt tatt. Not.

“She’sso artistic,” Rashena said over the monkey placenta pilaf. She was referring toArden’s Van Gogh rip-off tatt; a starry-starry-night explosion on her leftshoulder. I’d bet big money that Ardenhasn’t shown her mom her latest ink: an arcing cursive “dirty girl” written across the top of her left butt cheek. It was the first thing she showed meafter dinner. Then she leaned in close, checked out my subtle pierced eyebrowand said, “Well, I guess even someone like youhas to start somewhere.”

Andto think I’m missing Clint Eastwood for this.

DANDELIONS, DEXTER AND DREADLOCKS

2012-02-18T20:04:00.000-08:00

Rashena has become a white witch. At least, thisis what she claims. She has embraced a full-on pagan lifestyle and has begun tocreate potions and tinctures in the privacy of her vinyl Canadian Tire storageshed (which she has cleverly concealed by growing Virginia Creeper up the sideof it) behind the yurt. She has a hot plate out there, and a mini fridgepowered by a generator, and it smells like last night's dinner, (I'm pretty sureparts of that monkey placenta were used in her potion of the day) wet dandelions,and the inside of an old canvas tent, although that might because Arden's soggysneakers were resting up near the hotplate.

"Did I tell you, Opal? I'm going to havea spiritual awakening!" Rashena told my mom after I had supposedly gone tobed. "I'm making a powerful potion just for me. And thanks to Dexter, I'vegot my fifth ingredient…three drops of virgin goat blood!"

Virgin? Dexter? This was rich! Dexter isone of Rashena's Nubians and is quite possibly the biggest Billy-goat-slut on all the gulfislands combined. Last year he’d been threatened with a tire iron when he’dfound his way into the paddock of Axle Jespersen’s Angora hobby farm over atPiper Station. It wasn’t so much that Axle took offence to Dexter's impromptumidnight visit – it was more that the randy goat had had his way with a coupleof up-for-some-rebellious-goat-nookienanny does who’d been out late chewing their cuds, all come-hither in themoonlight. You can’t really blame Dexter. He’s just young and horny andthose Angora girls do have those crazy dreads going on plus some serious personality to boot.

But Axle Jesperson was sure pissed off, andafter that, Rashena keeps Dexter tethered near the chickens and feeds him mainlysoy foods in an attempt to keep his testosterone levels down.

I don't know anything about Wiccan spells andpotions, but it's my guess that the whole "virgin" part of that fifth ingredientis probably pretty relevant. If this potionworks, Rashena will more likely be hooking up with one of the old goats on the islandinstead of seeing some pagan God's face in the middle of her 7-grain cereal.

I'll keep you posted. What else isthere to do on this island?

SOUR GRAPES

2012-02-17T23:20:00.000-08:00

Rashena did not experience thespiritual epiphany that she had anticipated after taking her potion yesterday,but she did get a date! (What did I tell you…using three drops of blood fromthe randiest billy goat in British Columbia is bound to be laced with serious pheromones,right?)

The lucky guy was Nolan Weeks. He’shas a small vineyard on the island and is also a classically trained pianist.Apparently he used to work for the CBC and then took early retirement to starthis grape adventure, which is to producea Pinot Noir to die for. (What IS itwith Pinot Noir, anyway? It’s like the holy grail of wines, and only thesophisticated can truly appreciate it for what it is. Something about it’sartistic temperament and volatile nature…a direct quote from Nolan.)

It goes like this: Rashena bumpedinto Nolan at the market. She was buying avocados and he was buying sundriedtomatoes, and by the time they had paid for their produce, Nolan was coming tothe yurt for dinner. She couldbarely contain her excitement in the car, and kept going on about what a fine catchhe is. Personally, all I see is the tucked-in dress shirts and the Tilley hatand neatly trimmed salt and pepper beard and the fanny pack.

When we got back to The Indigo Cauldron, Rashena suddenly startedfreaking out about wine. About how you can’t just serve Nolan Weeks a $11 bottle of crappy Merlot, but by the time she got to the Beer & Wine Store,it was closed.

Mom suggested she do without thealcohol altogether (I know! This coming from my mom!) and maybe just ply himwith some high-end green tea, at which point Rashena gave her a look that mostpeople reserve for crazy people at bus stops. Arden said that if she wanted acouple of good joints – Purple Haze –she’d be willing to contribute a couple, but no, there had to be wine. Good wine.

What happened next makes me realizejust how unbalanced Rashena actually is – that all the daily meditation, andreading of Eckhart Tolle doesn’t seem to be doing any good. Because an hour before Nolan arrived,Rashena flew out of the house and returned ten minutes later flushed in theface, sporting a flashy bottle of something called: Chateauneuf-du-Pape. It looked okay to me. I mean, the label was cool andeverything, but what do I know about wine?

“Where’dyou get that?” Arden had asked, looking up from the kitchen table where she waspainting her nails with jet-black polish.

“Istole it from the neighbours!”

Ikid you not. She said her neighbours never locked their doors, and that theywere good friends, and that they always had wine in the house, and that theywere also away overnight. She could easily replace it before they got home whenthe Beer & Wine store opened in the morning.

No one said anything. Not even mom.It was a truly awkward moment, made even more so when a couple hours later,Nolan began talking about this particular wine varietal, giving a lengthyhistorical account of the Rhone valley of France. But when Rashena opened thebottle and he took a sip, he made a strange face and stopped talking about wine…quiteabruptly, I might add. In fact, hestopped talking period. He mostly just shot nervous looks at Rashena, and thenat the clock near the woodstove. He didn’t even stay for dessert. He made anexcuse about having to get an early night because of some early morning fencemending date he had with his brother-in-law.

My mom said it was probably true.Operating a vineyard was hard work and sleep was key. She should have juststopped there, but instead went on to say that while Rashena looked absolutelystunning in her russet-coloured Indian cotton dress, she might have overdonethe Patchouli oil just a bit, but never mind. Way to go, Mom. Points fortactfulness.

Today wasn’t any better. The goodnews was that Rashena was able to buy a replacement bottle of wine at thestore. The bad news was that it cost 88 bucks. But she had no choice, so sheforked over the cash. bought the bottle and came home…only to discover that theCoburgs (her neighbours) had returned home early.

She fessed up. Told themeverything. But instead of being angry, they laughed their heads off. We couldhear them from Rashena’s spell hut (The Crap Tire shed), and when Rashena cameback to the yurt, she was red in the face and actually spat out a couple of VERY colourful expletives that Ardensaid would probably set her back some in her quest for peace andenlightenment. Rashena hadfollowed up with a rude finger gesture. Mom had feigned interest in the creepy gardengnome with the pipe and hoe by the fish pond, and I wished like hell I had mynotebook with me to get down all the details, because…come on…this is goodstuff!

The Coburg’s laughter, it turnsout, was due to the fact that the bottle of wine that Rashena had “borrowed” was not, in fact, a $88 bottleof 2009 Domaine du CaillouChateauneuf-du-Pape Les Quartzfrom the Rhone region of France, but rather an old empty one they’dsalvaged along with some others, to bottle up their cheap homemade plonk.

I’m writing this is the car whileRashena drives us to the ferry. Mom keeps trying to engage her in pleasantconversation, but Rashena doesn’t really seem in the mood for benign chitchat.Of course, the fact that the Coburg’s waved and yelled,” Drive safely, Sticky Fingers!” at us as we pulled out of thedriveway, can’t help I’m sure.

I can’t wait to get home and tell Derrickand Bennett everything, because really? This weekend could have been worse.

FITS, FERRIES & FORTUNE COOKIES

2012-02-16T22:37:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Rashena’s little fit back at the yurtwe missed the ferry. This means that I am stuck on Sarita island for anothernight. This also means I will missart class and another life drawing session first thing tomorrow at school. FML…

To her credit, Rashena feels quite bad about herraw display of unbridled emotion, so she picked up take-out Chinese on the wayback home in an effort to appease us. Even Mom is quiet, (I think she ismissing her espresso maker) but a little egg-foo-yung takes the edge off, Ihafta say.

Man, Arden’s old room is like some kind of over-the-top mystic's lair. Over one of the two twin beds, a bunch ofcrystals hang, casting dancing white lights across the polished hardwood. Several bunches of dried flowers aresuspended above the window between the two beds. Candles are everywhere: on the dresser, the night table, andthe desk, and a bunch of gauzy scarves are draped over one of the bed’sheadboards. They’re filmy and shimmery and have tiny mirrors sewn into them.

This room smells like one of those gift storesthat are full of essential oils, elf-lord earrings, and self-help books aboutlearning the Law of Attraction. On the shelf between the beds, under thewindow, there are a few books, and a tacky dragon sculpture. There's this one book on theshelf; a brown leather one that has a red silk bookmark hanging out from thecentre. “Celebrating Earth – A Year ofHolidays in the Pagan Tradition.” Isn't that just great. Maybe I should wear a wreath of garlic around my neck in case Rashena appears in the night, mutteringincantations and swinging a severed raccoon's head in an attempt tocleanse the yurt of the whole “sticky fingers” fiasco!

Onthe other end of the shelf there is an 8’ x 10” photograph in an ornate silverframe sitting on a slight angle. A girl - a gothic fairy-princess type, withmasses of brown hair and big liquid eyes, stares back at me. She’s wearing a long filmy deep-blueskirt, an embroidered peasant blouse, and about a million bangles on herbird-like wrist. There are blue and violet wildflowers surrounding her, and asmall black cat is curled into her lap. She’s smiling serenely at the camera. Inotice she has a daisy chain halo on her head. I have no idea who this person is but she kind of freaks meout. I mean, she looks sweet as sugar, like the kind of girl you'd see in aTampax commercial, riding an old-fashioned bike with a wicker basket full of sunflowers on the front, but isn’t that always the way? Isn’t it often that the sweetest looking ones are thescariest?

P.S. My fortune cookie said: “Happy Birthday”

P.P.S. It’s February. My birthday is in August.

OH MY GODDESS!

2012-02-15T21:28:00.000-08:00

Rashena’s guest room is not a guest room. It’s Lulu Beck’s room. Who is Lulu Beck, you might ask? A perfectly reasonable question. I asked it myself. Turns out that Lulu is the girl in the photograph…the one that looks like a Tampax commercial. Apparently Rashena has been renting out the room since January, because money is a bit scarce right now, which is funny because Rashena indulges in regular bouts of retail therapy, and has a bit of an obsession with the home shopping channel. In fact, today she received a set of three ceramic mugs with the three wise monkeys on them – you know, the ones that embody the proverbial principle to "see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil". She seems to like things that come in three’s. She has a “three little pigs” candle holder, a three-wise-men door knocker (that she keeps on her door all year round, and now that’s she’s gone all pagan, it’ll be interesting to see if it stays there) and she’s also a big fan of The Three Stooges. I wonder what that’s all about?

Anyway, Lulu Beck came home at dinner. She virtually floated in through the doorway - a gauzy, filmy, breathy-voiced Goddess with lavender eyes and a ring on every finger. She jingled when she walked. There were little bells sewn into her clothes and earrings and even onto the laces of her shoes. It was hard not to stare, but she just floated about as though tinkling and jingling was simply a natural part of the day.

We were treated to a not-so-lovely stodgy mess of what I think was supposed to be cubed potatoes and turnips. Rashena had boiled the crap out of them which had had left them void of all colour and turned up on our plates a strange shade of grey. They reminded be of gallstones. I have never seen food that colour before.

Nephthys

When we all sat down at the table, Lulu stopped jingling and started talking. She was certainly not stuck for words. I pushed the gallstones around on my plate while I listened to her chatter on about Nephthys, a triple Goddess, who was considered infertile, but finally finally managed to have a kid, and then committed adultery anyway with a dude called Osirus, and is now worshipped by all pagans as a Goddess of Fire who uses her breath to destroy things. A Goddess of Mourning. Dark. Very dark.

I listened politely, because I’m good that way, thinking how much Derrick would love Lulu. Weirdos fascinated him. He’s always sticking them in his documentaries. His latest film features a young heavy metal musician from Norway who has an actual tail.

And I thought of him across the street at home, in his burgundy velour housecoat, carrying Diego around in that snuggli he has for him while he whips up espressos in his state-of-the-art kitchen. It made me homesick. Not for my home…for Derrick’s.When I get back home I’m going to talk him into making me the biggest New York deli-style corned-beef on rye sandwich in the world, which I will then eat with a wondrous amount of wild abandon.

In the meantime, I found a wonderful band called Revenge of Nephthys...German old school stuff, and I decided to include it here just because it seems somehow fitting. I hafta say, I kind of like it.

ANCHOVIES AND AN ALTRUISTIC FROG PRINCE

2012-02-14T20:57:00.000-08:00

Home sweet home. Well, compared to Rashena’s, our home is pretty sweet I guess.

Tonight I spent a couple of hours at Derrick and Bennett’s. It totally restored me, and eating the gourmet homemade pizza WITH anchovies they had so lovingly prepared for me was so wonderful it’s hard to find the right words. (There aren’t many people who appreciate the awesomeness of the common anchovy.)

Not only was Derrick completely enthralled with my tales of Lulu Beck and Rashena and the wine fiasco, but he actually started taking notes in the well-worn leather covered notebook that he keeps for such occasions. (He only takes notes when he hears a really good story…you know, stuff for his future films. I told him if he makes a movie about my life, I totally get to play “me” and he said okay, but I could tell he wasn’t really listening to me because Diego was humping his leg like a jackhammer while he was writing and he didn’t even seem to notice.)

My elevated mood was short-lived, however, because I got back home to discover that Jade had read all my blog posts about The Indigo Cauldron. I guess it serves me write for leaving my computer on, but since when is it okay to just wander into someone’s personal space and sleuth around on their laptop?

Apparently, I am cynical, negative, close-minded and generally unpleasant. I asked Jade if perhaps she would like to spend a few days on Sarita Island in Rashena’s yurt and then maybe we could have a conversation, to which she replied, “that is so NOT the point.”

I thought about what she said for about two seconds. I mean, what’s the point of keeping a diary or a blog if you never have an original thought or a somewhat controversial opinion? You probably wouldn’t feel the need to write at all if you got along with everything and everyone. If your life was like that you’d probably just walk around looking smug while you volunteered at the soup kitchen or crocheted little socks for babies in Guatemala. Wait. That was cynical, wasn’t it? Damn. I’m always saying wrong stuff like that. Maybe Jade is right. It’s not that I think there’s anything WRONG with volunteering or helping kids in Guatemala or wherever. It’s a really good thing to do. I guess it just makes me think of Sarah WIlliamson, who is just like that. Sarah is the editor of our school’s yearbook. She lives on a big organic farm and gives talks to other schools about how we can be more environmentally aware and how we all need to develop and social conscience. The teachers think she’s awesome, but ever since I saw her freaking out about how the newspaper chose a not-so-flattering photograph of her for its “Community Action” feature, I’ve never shared the sentiment. I prefer to worship Josh Delaney. Not just because he’s totally hot but because he goes out in the dark at the end of March, just after the frogs wake up, to help them cross the street to the pond beside his house. He’ll actually stop traffic so they don’t get smooshed. I happen to know this because I’ve seen him do it when I’ve stayed over at my Aunt’s, who lives right next door to him. Josh doesn’t tell anyone or get written up in any newspapers or give speeches at school. He just does it, because, well…I guess he really likes frogs.

A FUNNY THING HAPPENED ON THE WAY TO THE SCARLET ARMADILLO... (or, The Early Bird Catches the Adulterous Father...)

2012-02-13T15:22:00.000-08:00

My father ishaving an affair. I know this for a fact, because (a) I saw him with "the other woman", and (b) I'm notstupid.

Early this morning I was on my way to The Scarlet Armadillo to meetMickey, my best friend since kindergarten, for my weekly indulgence - a tallMatcha latte. I was late so I took the short cut through the back lane thanruns behind The Paper Crane officesupply store. I had my head down because it had started to rain pretty hard butlooked up for a moment to see a the car parked by the dumpster behind MeeYoung's restaurant. It was my dad's car; a nice, practical, boring silver-greyToyota Camry. I knew it was his because of the license plate. "738 DHE" (DAD HATESEVERYTHING), I always make up fitting acronyms for people's plates - another glaring example of my tendency toward OCD behaviour.

Anyway, itbecame immediately apparent that my father doesn't hate EVERYTHING. It became immediatelyapparent that he rather likes the petite blonde woman who was in the car withhim. He was kissing her, and in a way that I've never seen him kiss my motherbefore.

I think Istopped breathing. I know I stoppedmoving. I did not want to be spotted but I realized that my father wasoblivious to everything except the woman's face he was virtually devouring inthe front seat of his car. I probably could have done the full-on Party Rock Shuffle with orchestralaccompaniment and not have been noticed.

The woman’shair was long and wavy. I didn't hang around long enough to seriously check herout, but it was plainly obvious that she's a least a decade younger than mymother. Maybe two.

When I got tothe Scarlet Armadillo I told Mickey everything. She advised me not to tell mymom, but I still feel sick inside. It's so ironic. My father, Mr. Pillar-of-Society,model citizen, well-respected lawyer-about-town and all round good egg. Howstupid is he? Surely if you're going to cheat on your wife, you do it in somediscreet hotel in a strange town, not in a local alley way ten minutes fromyour house.

When I gothome, Mom was polishing the silver and singing away at the top of her lungs to BonJovi’s You Give Love a Bad Name.

Talk about anunderstatement.

THE ICING ON THE CAKE (not to mention the saucy little tart)

2012-02-12T14:34:00.000-08:00

My father arrived home with flowersfor my mother. Flowers! Real ones. Freesias and some other kind that were pinkand white and very foo-foo. Therewere accents of baby’s breath and some feathery fern stuff as well and thewhole bouquet was tied with a big pink satin bow.

Maybe Jade is right. Maybe I AM cynical. Maybe my father had a crisisof conscience after his back alley tryst, and dumped his saucy-little-tart-on-the-side. Maybe he’s decided toturn his attentions away from face sucking in parked cars, to focus on his wifeof twenty-four years at home. Yeah, right. My take is that coming home on time(for once) and bearing a bouquet of flowers helps to alleviates his guilt just a little. Justsayin’…

It made me so sad to see my motherso happy. After she put the flowers in a vase, she danced around in the kitchen in bare feet, preparing pork roast and rosemarypotatoes (my father’s favourite meal), and then decided at the eleventh hourthat she would make a lemon layer cake (my father’s favourite dessert.)

I told her we should just havestrawberries and ice cream, and that it was too late for cake-making, at whichpoint Jade glared at me like I was the devil incarnate and began pulling lemonsout of the fridge and slamming them down on the kitchen table in a mostdramatic fashion. She clearly has control issues.

I looked to Amber for back up, butshe was plugged into her iPod listening to dub step and cleaning herfingernails with a kitchen knife. Amber’s gross like that.

Not one to say, “I told you so,” the cake ended up failing miserably.The filling turned out all rubbery and the cake itself didn’t rise very well and sunk horribly on one side.. To make matters worse, the lemon-meringue frosting was allsort of shriveled, and oozed a kind of sugary plasma down the sides of the cake. My father shot himself in the foot by eating bite after bite, expressing howutterly delicious it was, and then asking for seconds. I must stop here to inform you that my father is a dessertconnoisseur. He is not easilyimpressed. He even finds fault with the dessets from The Scarlet Armadillo,claiming their cakes are too rich, which of course, they aren’t. So, when he hadnothing but lovely things to say about the citrusy disaster in front of him, mymother’s fresh-faced glow began to fade, she went quiet, and then got up andbegan clearing the table in a somewhat frenzied fashion, clanking china andthrowing silverware into the sink with a clatter.

“What’s with your mother?” myfather said.

“Dunno,” I said, and then couldn’thelp adding, “Maybe she should have made a little tart, instead.” And I glaredat him, giving him the look that Mickey says could jump-start another ice age.His face went from ruddy to beetroot red and then he got up from the table and wentinto his study, shutting the door behind him. A second later I could hear theglass top of his whiskey decanter clinking, and then, Rachmaninov's, Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, which he always listens to when he's agitated.

I don’t usually have much to dowith my sisters: Jade’s too emotionally unstable, and Amber is from anotherplanet, but even still, I stuck my head in Amber’s room on the way upstairs.

“What’s with the rents?” I askedher. I tried to make my voice sound as nonchalant as possible, like I wasn’treally interested but just making polite conversation.

Amber looked up from her bed, whereshe was snipping off split ends with a pair of scissors. “Dad’s probably havinganother affair.” She said this so calmly, like the way someone might say, “Looks likeit might rain tomorrow” or, “There’s a sale on pumpernickel at Country Grocer.”

I guess I must have looked shockedbecause Amber threw her scissors on the pillow and rolled her eyes and said,“Jesus, Ruby. What planet do you live on? Dad’s been working his way throughthe legal secretaries at the firm for years.”

I’m seventeen years old and allthis time I thought I was the one with my feet solidly planted on terrafirma. Go figure.

THE MYTH OF HAPPILY EVER AFTER...

2012-02-11T17:45:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, my mother interruptedabusing the china for a little retail therapy. First thing in the morning shetook her visa card out of the freezer and ran the block of ice it was hidden inunder the hot water tap until it disappeared. Then she got dressed, stuck herhair under a baseball cap, dumped a tin of Whiskas cat food into Holden’s bowlwithout even mashing it up first, grabbed her keys from the windowsill, andthen peeled out of the driveway. I was actually quite impressed with the littleburnout she pulled off; completely out-of-character for her, and kind ofbad-ass.

Five hours later she returned, andhad to make several back and forth trips to the car for all her bags. Icouldn’t believe her haul. She bought a green pant suit, a pair of boots, alamp, a Macbook Air laptop, a start-up fish tank, an end table with green paintedlegs, a book about Findhorn (somespiritual community in Scotland), a pair of earrings that look like cokespoons, a casserole with flying pigs all over it, a bed-in-a-bag set featuringa lovely autumnal theme, a toaster oven, a woodcarving of an otter, a digitalcamera, a Lagostina set of copper-bottom saucepans, and a three-foot highstuffed zebra.

Jade and Amber didn’t seem to thinkthere was anything suspicious about my mother’s behaviour, but clearly, herimpulse-buying bender is a desperate cry for help. Or maybe she’s just tryingto stick it to my father - a little payback for his philandering ways.

Personally, I think this marriagestuff is for the birds. Derrick and Bennett are the only happy couple that Iknow, which doesn’t say much for the rest of the world. I will never get married. Nope. Instead, I will live a wonderfully richand creative solitary life, eating overpriced cereal for dinner if I choose,and wearing clothing that does not match. I will have many lovers, and castthem aside without a moment’s hesitation when I grow tired of them. When I’m old, I won’t be trapped in a coldand loveless union, forced to feign happiness in a spotless split-level rancherwith a games room and an ice-making refrigerator. I will live above a funkystore in the old and character-rich district of a large city, and I’ll lobrotten fruit at snotty-nosed brats as they walk under my window on thesidewalk. I’ll probably have a petrat too, or maybe a ferret. I will not celebrate Christmas or attend babyshowers, but I will send thoughtful little gifts to people I love on randomWednesdays.

I will be happier than anyone Iknow.

PICASSO MEETS THE CAT'S PAJAMAS

2012-02-10T19:07:00.000-08:00

In a noble effort to get my mindoff “the rents," Derrick and Bennett took me to see a play. It wascalled “Sylvia” and it was about atalking dog that caused a huge amount of tension between a young couple. It wasquite funny. So much so that I almost forgot to think about my father’s elicitaffair and my mother’s blatant disregard for the value of a dollar.

I did, however, feel slightlyunderdressed in my Birkenstocks, jeans and Vince Vacarro teeshirt. Derrick and Bennett didn’tseem to care, although as usual, they were dressed to the nines; both wearing colourful dress shirts and expensive ties. Derrick’s tie was made ofpure silk and printed with cats wearing paisley lounging pajamas. (Only Derrickcan pull off such bold fashion statements – a by-product of his healthy self-esteem,not to mention classic Cary Grantgood looks.)

Bennett is fashion savvy as well,but doesn’t possess the same esthetic flair that Derrick seems to have wiredinto his DNA. I don’t think he feels at all upstaged though. I think he simplyenjoys being with the best eye candy at any party they attend.

During the intermission we went tolook at the art exhibit in the theatre’s foyer only to discover that Remy Benoit,Derrick’s ex of a million years ago was showing his work. Much to Bennett’s horror, he was onsite, chatting to interested viewers near the baroque-style fountain by thewindow.

He was tall, and wore a blackleather jacket, black pants, and a black beret that sat slightly askew on hishead in what I thought was a very affected manner. I noticed he did a lot ofgesticulating with his hands while he spoke.

“Pretentious git!” Bennett (who isBritish) hissed.

“Hush!” Derrick said.

If you're going to create
bathroom art, then it better be good!

Remy spotted us and made a hugespectacle of saying hello, gushing all over Derrick and mostly ignoring Bennettand me. I took an instant disliketo him. All he did was talk about himself, except when he looked down hishaughty nose at Bennett and said, “It’s Bennett, isn’t it? Right. Right…the dogwalker. I remember now.” And I wanted to punch him right in the middle of hishipster black-framed glasses because Bennett is a very well respected animalbehaviourist who holds a Masters of Science in Ethology from StanfordUniversity and whose work has been written up in many distinguishedperiodicals. Bennett didn’t bitethough. He’s a very gracious and composed man.

Remy then went on to talk about hislatest sculptures, which were dreadfully dated pieces made from bits ofendangered indigenous woods from around the world. Very 70’s and not very PC, Imight add.

Pretty sure that Picasso
would have been horrified

He rambled on about one piece inparticular – a collection of polished wood bits with a few pink circular things addedhere and there. He called it: RememberingRembrandt and Eros,and supposedly it has something to do with one of Picasso’s later paintings. Ifyou ask me, he would have been better off calling it: Still Life with Urinal Pucks, because honestly? That’s exactly whatit looked like.

When the play resumed no one saidanything about Remy Benoit, but when it was over, the three of us exitedthrough the back door of the theater instead of going down through the foyer.Bennett said he wanted to see if the foreign magazine shop across the alley wouldstill be open but both Derrick and I knew the real reason.

On the way home Derrick askedBennett if he would mind meeting with his marketing manager whose Labradoodle hadbegun acting out by chewing the sofa legs and defecating in people’s shoes. Bennett immediately grew animated andbegan talking about separation anxiety and alpha/dominance issues while Derrickshot me a wink in the rearview mirror.

There is no doubt in my mind thatDerrick and Bennett could teach my parents a thing or two about marriage.

STUPID CUPID AND THE STATUS QUO

2012-02-09T14:31:00.000-08:00

I don’t understand the hype surroundingValentine’s Day. Isn’t it just a big, red, heart-shaped money grab? I mean, not to be cynical or anythingbut I read somewhere that people collectively spend over 17 billion dollarsworldwide on the day. That’s a whole lot of chocolate, jewellery, roses andnaughty underwear being thrown around.

Is it true love if your spouse drops 200bucks on a big red bouquet of roses? If you receive an over-priced Hallmarkcard pledging unfailing devotion till the rivers run dry, are you on easystreet? Is that all it takes? Cards and flowers? What about the other 364 days,that’s what I want to know. Because my father was always great at the bigValentine’s Day splash out and look where it got my parents. And yet it seems that grossdisplays of Valentine’s Day consumerism is what “normal” people do.

Which brings me to my next question.What’s the big deal with "normal,"anyway? The way I see it, normal is entirely overrated. Normal people sometimessit right on the edge. You readabout them in the paper all the time. How some pillar-of-society stand-up guy goespostal and offs his boss with a sawed-off shotgun and then drives the leasedSebring straight into a rock face, or walks out of the door of his two-story whitestucco rancher in a perfectly good neighbourhood and never comes back.

But are they NORMAL on the inside?

Jerry Schultz, who used to live sixhouses down from us, did just that. One September day, three years ago, he’d driven his son toHarvard, where the kid was studying on a full athletic scholarship, come back,cut the grass, washed the family minivan, and then driven off into the wild blue yonder never to be heard of again. No one could believe it. They’d said stuff like: Murray was the last person you’d expect to do something like this,or… Who’d have guessed it? And: Poor Judy – they had such a perfect lifetogether. I think I was theonly one who hadn’t been all that surprised. I’d seen Murray at plenty of neighbourhoodsummer BBQ’s, filling up on Scotch and 7’s and laughing just a bit too loudwhile he regaled everyone with stories about his latest newly-acquired toy. Hiswife Judy was a high strung, beautifully dressed woman who volunteered at thehospital and dusted the furniture regularly. People thought Murray had anidyllic life: a successful law career, an attractive wife who could speak threelanguages, a son at Harvard, and a daughter headed for a career in foreign affairs.But I'd seen the signs. I'd seen the extensive library of self-help books that Judyhad on her shelves, the blister packs of Paxil hiding behind the potted violetsabove their kitchen sink, and the bourbon and wine bottles that showed up eachweek on recycling day. I hadn'tbeen snooping. I just noticed stuff. Artists are very observant about these sorts of details. Soyeah…so much for normal.

Well, normal or not, that lovesick chubbycherub avoided our house like the plague yesterday. Mom went out with a girlfriend. Dad has gone AWOL– and Jadeand Mark, her present flame-of-the-day, are currently not speaking. Amber holed up in her room, madly texting,probably with one of the emo guys in the crowd she has taken to hanging aroundwith lately – the sort who likes writing really bad poetry about opening a veinor drinking absinthe on some urban rooftop in their underwear.

And me? Ruby Ross? How did I spendValentine’s Day? Well, Holden and I watched a TVshow about two Italian dwarves who worked as custodians in a schoolwhere a murder had occurred. They’d figured out who’d done it and written abook called, “Partners in Grime.” (Apparently it’s number three on the New York Times best seller list.) I don’t know who was more fascinating,the two dwarves (Marcello and Rafael) or the man who was interviewing them, ashis face was the same colour as a barbecued potato chip and he had freakishlylarge, not to mention unnaturally white teeth.

I guess it could have been worse - theonly other thing on TV was the Celine Dion Valentine special.

NOT SO SMART, ALEC...

2012-02-08T20:02:00.000-08:00

Chagall - Brilliant artist

My father, Alec Ross, has lost his mind. Granted, I’ve never reallyseen him as a highly evolved creature of burning intellect, even though he madepartner in his law firm last year. He’s merely one of those over-educatedacademic types who can spout off a lot of facts about this and that, but who would look at a MarcChagall painting and say: “Looks like something a kid in kindergarten did!”Not that art done by five-year-olds is anything to poo-poo. On the contrary -some of the best art I’ve ever seen as been done by the under-ten set, mostlybecause it’s authentic as hell.

My 6-yr-old cousin - Also brilliant artist.

But, back to my father…he didn’t come home at all on Valentine’s Day.In fact, he didn’t come home until dinnertime yesterday. What makes the wholesituation even weirder is that my mother acted like this was not the least bitodd. She barely even looked up from the kitchen counter, where she was crushingsaltine crackers for the top of the tuna casserole, even though it was plainly obvious that my father has died his hair. No more salt and pepper short backand sides. It’s now jet-black and so unnatural-looking that I thought at firsthe was wearing a rug. Good God.

Jade and Amber were both home for dinner, so they provided the not-so-stimulatingdinnertime conversation, unless of course you find an in-depth discussionabout Miranda Watson’s continuous battle with water retention food forthought. Still, I was glad for the distraction. It helped to keep me fromstaring at my father. My sisters didn’t seem to notice his radicaltransformation, but then they are both pretty self-involved so it is no realsurprise.

While my mother and I cleared the dishes, I watched my father wipe hismouth with a paper napkin – something that he does a lot because, while he is atopnotch corporate lawyer, he has a challenging time finding his mouth with hisfork. It’s not pretty. When he placed the napkin down on his plate, I noticedan unmistakable orangey tint smeared across it, and then a pale blotch leftbehind on his chin. Bronzing gel. And here I’d thought that it was thedyed hair that had changed his colouring. I looked at him long and hard then,because he looked less like a lawyer, and more like a cheesy game show host.Very unprofessional.

An hour later I snuck out after my father when he left on his eveningconstitutional. My mother, who is obviously walking around in a state of puredenial, retired to the bathtub with her self-help books and both my sisterswent out to see some chick flick. I decided to take matters into my own hands.I mean really, someone ought to know what’s going on with this family!

It was so simple. Fifteen minutes later I watched my father round thecorner of Hawthorne Ave and head into Brickman Park toward the duck pond. Whensomeone else joined him, I took immediate cover behind a willow and did my bestnot to breathe.

My father’s fling is young. Probably not even thirty. She’s blonde andtiny and when they walked (stuck together like burrs) past thestreetlight I got an eyeful. She's waif-like – a girl inneed of a good steak and a B12 shot. God. Since when did anemia become sexy?

I learned something else tonight, too. Ilearned that my father is cheating on my mother with a girl named Carmen. That's the only word he uttered...."Carmen...Carmen...Carmen..."

A LITTLE WHITE LIE...

2012-02-07T17:24:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the Gods just hand you thetools you need to get through the day. And...sometimes they don't.

This morning in my two-hour Englishclass, Mr. Mills had us write some poetry. It had to be a “stream-of-consciousness”poem, i.e.: it didn’t really have to make sense so long as the flow wasconstant. He said to write about the first thing that came into our minds, payattention to syntax, and just go from there. So, that’s exactly what I did.

Not to brag, but I sort of rocked it. Ilike poetry for the most part, and I always have stuff going on inside my headso I wasn’t stuck for ideas. Icalled mine: A Slice of Death.

At the end of class, we had to stand up and read our poems aloud to the rest ofthe class. Some of them were pretty good – like Jayne Jackman’s brilliant ranton the genre of modern-day country music. Others, however, were not quite asinspiring, such as Lawrence Dennison’s: “Odeto Rugby.” Mind you, Lawrence has an IQ of about 8 – probably a directresult of the numerous rugby-related concussions he has sustained during hishigh school career – so I wasn’t expecting Robert Frost or anything.

I read my free verse – a passionate asideabout my father’s recent indiscretion. I was sure to include a lot ofinflection and just the right amount of facial expression and wavy armgesticulations. When I’d finished, the room became unbelievably quiet. I hadobviously moved everyone and left them virtually speechless. I think Mr. Millswas overcome with emotion because he kept clearing his throat and rubbing theside of his nose and sneaking sideways glances at me when he thought I wouldn’tnotice. I couldn’t really blame him. It isn’t everyday that high school Englishteachers encounter artistic genius in their class.

However, things got strange after lunch.I was in bio, about to begin our unit on salmon migration, when the door openedand Ms. White appeared. Ms. White is our school nurse, who looks a lot like Lois from The Family Guy show (if it ispossible for actual humans to look like a cartoon character.) She delivered a yellow slip to Mr.Franks, who read it, looked up, and then called my name.

“Ruby,” Ms. White said when we wereseated in her slightly off-putting office – a back room on the first floor thathad at least twenty framed Anne Geddes cutesy baby prints on the walls. (Ms. Whiteis like, 55 and childless, so while her obsession with babies posed in flowerpotsand cabbage patches is definitely creepy, I “get” it.)

“Ruby, we’re a tad concerned about thepoem you wrote this morning,” she began.

She went on to ask me all sorts ofquestions about rage and resentment and then made me take a drug awareness questionnaire,followed by another one about sex and birth control.

I was actually quite annoyed with hercondescending tone and her blatant assumption that, just because of my father’sinfidelity, I was quite possibly a sexually promiscuous and drug-addicted teen. I must state that while my parents are basketcases, I am quite well, thank you very much.

Just the same, I took great pleasure infilling out the questionnaires with enough whack answers to keep Ms. White upto her ears in dime store psychology for at least a decade. I have nothing toprove, and if you ask me, Ms. White is the one who could use a littlehorizontal time on the couch, if you know what I mean. Anyone with a 4-foot square poster ofa fat kid stuffed inside half a watermelon above their desk, is clearly askingfor help.

FROM BAD TO WORSE

2012-02-06T22:31:00.000-08:00

Just when you think it can’tpossibly get any worse, it does.

I’ve always said that my parentsare hard-core professionals when it comes to practicing avoidance tactics. Ifthere’s dirty laundry to do, it gets done in the middle of the night. If there arebits of betrayal and shame and dishonesty kicking around on the carpet, theyget swept right under it. Maybe it’s their British roots. Stiff upper lip andall that crap. If you don’t talk about it, it isn’t real. If you refuse to dealwith stuff, the stuff eventually goes away.

While this has always been a sourceof serious frustration for me, I can’t say I’m at all pleased with their suddenchange-of-attitude.

It happened over take out friedchicken. No sooner had I picked up a fat-laden drumstick, when my fatherannounced three things:

1 – He and my mother are getting adivorce

2 – That Mom is moving out, andCarmen is moving in.

3 – That Mom and Amber and I willbe leaving in a week to stay with Rashena IN THE FUCKING YURT UNTIL SUMMER!

Sorry for the colourful expletive,but…MY. LIFE. IS. OVER. I wasn’teven given the opportunity to speak my mind. Apparently, my parents received a verydistraught call from Ms. White, who went over my poem and “questionnaire” withthem in great detail. Of course, I explained that I had just been having a bitof fun at Ms. White’s expense, and that I wasn’t really sleeping around withthe hockey team or hoarding Special K around in my backpack. It didn’t matter.They didn’t care. I was - how didMs. White put it? - clearly acting out ina potentially self-destructive fashion. A few months on Sarita Island wasjust what the doctor ordered.

My mother did not contribute muchin the way of conversation throughout the entire bucket of chicken. In fact, Idon’t even think she was really listening. She just stared at the imitationcuckoo clock on the wall behind my father’s head in an unblinking sort of way,and hummed The Itsy Bitsy Spiderunder her breath. She reminded me of Joan Crawford; the whole thing was very “Mommie Dearest.”

“Sucks to be you,” Jade said afterdinner. Apparently she is moving with her friend Rebecca into a basementapartment. It’s about time. She’s twenty-two for God’s sake.

Mickey came over tonight withleftover Pepto-Bismal-coloured Valentine cookies from The Scarlet Armadillo and half a bottle of crappy white wine that she’dnicked from her fridge at home. It was a very nice gesture but neither reallyhelped to lift my spirits. In fact, I spent most of the time that she was heretrying to swallow the giant lump that has taken up permanent residence in mythroat.

When she left, I stood in thedoorway and with my earphones in, listening to loud music while I stared out into the street. Across theroad I could see Derrick and Bennett moving around in their living room, rearrangingart on the walls. They were both laughing. Diego was jumping up and down attheir feet like a wind-up toy, clearly trying to get in on the joke.

The lump in my throat got bigger.And when I couldn’t stand it a second longer, I went back inside, crawled intobed, and anticipate that I will now cry myself to sleep.

WHITE RABBITS AND THE WINDSOCK MAN

2012-02-05T22:29:00.000-08:00

Today I did something a rarely do. I cutmy Saturday morning art class. It was entirely spontaneous: I rounded thecorner at 5^th and Collingford, just like I always do, but when I saw theDavis Arts building looming in the foreground, I ran for the bus, got on, and headed downtown. I’m not sure why. No. That’s a lie. I absolutely know why. I got on the busbecause I didn’t want to have to face everyone and tell them that, as ofFriday, I’m bound for a yurt on an island that, among other things, has a sketchyWi-Fi connection, a healthy population of feral goats, and an even healthier one of skinnyvegans who sell dream catchers at the ferry terminal.

If I’d gone to class I would have had tomention my parent’s break-up because everyone would have asked me what waswrong. (I’m not great at hiding my feelings and I’m a crappy liar) I wouldhave had to spill. And of course, the fact that Carmen, my father’s paintedJezebel trollop, is moving into our house would have to be revealed as well. Itall seemed so completely overwhelming and I got tired just thinking about it. Besides, Monday is going to come soonenough. That's the day I'll have to face the music, so I figured for today, a little procrastination might be a good thing.

I went to my favourite place in the wholeentire world: White Rabbit Books. Mysanctuary….my port in a proverbial storm. As soon as I pushed open the door, Iwas greeted by that wonderful bookstore smell that always makes me want to eathomemade minestrone soup and take up knitting and write real letters on prettystationary with a fountain pen. WhiteRabbit Books smells like paper and candle wax, old wood floors washed withMurphy’s oil soap, aging leather, and dark musty corners. You can smell theyellowing pages of old stories, the fresh ink of the latest bestseller, and ownerEllie Smith’s L'air du temps perfume that she’s worn for as long as I can remember. The shop isn’t anything likethe big box bookstores further in - the ones that are attached to a Starbucksand sell espresso makers and over-priced greeting cards near the cash registers.White Rabbit is all aboutbooks: new and used, trashy and literary, fiction and non. The aisles are narrowand the shelves go right up to the ceiling. There are stacks of books on thefloor, on the stairs, on tables and under chairs. The pale yellow walls arecovered with tattered posters, old record album covers, and photographs offamous writers, famous diners, famous writer’s dogs, and famous bookstores around the world.

Moon and Sixpence, the resident cats, curl up in the most unusual of places,and there’s always good music playing from the speakers hidden behind the long abandoned fish tank near the back. Blues mostly, but sometimes classical and jazz. It depends on the time of day.

Once inside, I turned off my cell phone and got wonderfully lost for two-and-a-half hours. It was the best two-and-a-half hours I’ve had all week - getting completely absorbed in the brilliant words of: John Green, Barbara Kingsolver, and Sara Zarr. I boughtthree books, played “where’s the deadspider?” with Sixpence on the back stairs that lead down to the storage room, talkedwith Ellie about homemade pretzels, and then went next door to Albert’s Dinerwhere I treated myself to French toast and bacon and three cups of coffee.Albert must have sensed that I was not myself, because he gave me way morebacon than is the norm. He’s cool like that. Very perceptive.

I killed another hour by walking around town. Somehow people watching and wandering aimlesslydown the busy sidewalks felt oddly therapeutic. When you don’t have anywhere you have tobe, you tend to notice more stuff. Like graffiti, and how cool some of it canbe. And window displays. And people having heated discussions while they waitfor the traffic lights to change.

And…windsock men. I must have watched thegiant windsock man outside the car dealership on Main and 7^th forabout ten minutes. I felt a strange sort of kinship with him. Maybe it was because he looked so powerless. The way he was being pulled about in a milliondifferent directions – jerking this way and that - but unable to move his ownfeet.

It was pretty ironic.

P.S. But back to bookstore smell. I found a great post about this very thing, with pretty pictures to boot:
http://fictionwritersreview.com/blog/why-old-books-smell-so-good

ZOMBIES ARE MY PROZAC

2012-02-04T19:04:00.000-08:00

I think a big ol’ zombie apocalypsemight be the answer to all my problems. I’ve been thinking about the end of the world lately, for obvious reasons, and the whole Mayan prophesy thing.You know, the one about the world coming to a screeching halt later on thisyear? Some say it’s just the end of the Mayan calendar…maybe the guys doing it just gotbored and stopped the project to do something else. There are other theories too, of course. My fundamentalist Christian neighbour says that it’s all about JudgmentDay, and that we should keep our ears peeled for the Trumpets in the Skythat will signal to us that the day is near. The greenies say the planet will simplyimplode – thanks to we humans, who sit at the top of the food chain, making such a mess of the planet.

(And if you’re interested in “said” reportings of such trumpet-typesky music, check THIS out:

Maybe this wouldn’t be such a bad thing. It seems that we areall so bent out of shape trying to generate bigger incomes, greener grass, atighter butts, smarter kids, bigger pensions, and bigger houses, but all itreally seems to get anyone is a bigger headache. Maybe we deserve to get takenout by zombies.

Personally, I love the undead. I lovetheir grotesque-ness, their lack of moral fibre, and their tenacious anddisciplined approach to obtaining regular meals. They just do it, like Nike says. They just keep on keeping on, (like Joe DIRT says…)

My zombie shirt of choice
for tonight's Dead-Fest!

And there’s nothing like a little bloody brain-dead escapism to make you forget about your own impending end of days. I’ve been spending Sunday evenings atDerrick and Bennett’s house for weeks now, ever since the 2^nd seasonof “TheWalking Dead” resumed a couple of months ago. Derrick and Bennett arehard-core zombie aficionados. We’re all a little weird about them, actually.Our “Dead” sessions includezombie-themed clothing, as well as zombie-themed snacks. If you don’t “get” it,you’d most likely hate the show. It isn’t like sitting down to watch an old “Friends”episode. Zombie shows are more of a lifestyle thing. It’s hard to explain, butI guess you could say the same is true about trekkies and Star Wars fans (although zombies are a hundred times cooler.Just sayin’…)

When I got to Derrick and Bennett’shouse, no one answered the door so I let myself in, something I do more oftenthan not. It isn’t unusual to find Bennett slaving over numerous hot stoves,involved in some culinary wizardry, and Derrick pretty much lives with hisearphones on, especially now that he’s making some film about the evolution of improv jazz, so doorbells are low on their priority list. I keep telling himhe’s going to go deaf but he says artists have to subject themselves to allsorts of character-building, unpleasant things if they don’t want to reek ofmediocrity. I tell him that the whole "starving artist in a garrett" thing is very archaic, but he's stubborn and quite opinionated.

My "brains" cupcakes. Points for enthusiasm?

My meager contribution to tonight’s Dead-Fest paled in comparison toBennett’s imaginative creation of oysters, smoked salmon and rolled cheeseblintzes, all artfully arranged to emulate a cross-section of a humantorso. I made braincupcakes. I didn’t have the right icing tools to shape the brains, so the topslooked more like fat, radioactive bamboo worms instead of an accurate representationof the right and left hemispheres. Oh well, sugar is sugar, and Derrick andBennett always seem to appreciate my efforts.

It felt pretty good to slump back in thecorner of their leather couch, with Diego (also dressed for the occasion in hisown “Zombie Dog” t-shirt) curled up in the crook of my arm. I didn’t thinkabout tomorrow, and school, or my impending move to Loser Island, and Derrickand Bennett were kind enough not to bring it up.

The only time that I thought about myfather was when a poor, unsuspecting human succumbed to voracious zombie appetitesand went down in a blur of flailing limbs and blood-curdling death cries.

It was actually quite cathartic. I thinkMs. White would approve.

It was only after I got home and dug outmy hairbrush from my packpack, that I found the zombie dolls. Two of them,attached to two little notes. One said, in Derrick's distinctive scrawl:

Nothing says, "I care" more than a
couple of handmade Zombie dolls!

“What day is it,?"asked Pooh. "It'stoday," squeaked Piglet. "My favouriteday," said Pooh.

(Derrick's subtle way of telling me

to be more positive)

The other one contained a phone card with a - “call usanytime of day or night. X0X.”

(This, from Bennett,who is always so practical.)

Howam I going to survive without these guys?

* Note * For all you zombie enthusiast readers out there,you really ought to stop feeling bad for me and get yourself over to youngadult author, Courtney Summer’s site, where she’s giving away ARCS of herlatest book: THIS IS NOT A TEST. (Yes, it’s a book about ZOMBIES!) If you don’t know Courtney Summer’sbooks, then you should! She’s one of the best writers out there. And, shespeaks fluent zombie. Good luck! http://courtneysummers.ca/2012/02/this-is-not-a-test-arc-giveaway/

CHRIST ON A BIKE!

2012-02-03T21:31:00.000-08:00

Ugh. Monday. I walked to school today,instead of taking the bus. I thought the exercise might do me some good, not tomention clear my mind. But just as I was starting to get a good pace going, Ilooked up and stopped dead in my tracks. Christon a bike! No. Literally. Christ was right in front of me, on a bike; acardboard Jesus, wired onto the frame of an old cruiser-style bicycle. He wasstaring right at me and pointing up at the sky. It was some kind of omen. Awarning. Maybe I was going to hear those trumpets start to play at any moment?

Mondays are traditionally the mosthated day of the week, unless of course you count Wednesday, or “hump day” as people like to call it,which is the day when you sigh and say things like, “What? We’re only half-way throughthe week?”

I supposed if you are ridiculouslywealthy and don’t have to work, you don’t pay attention to days of the week.Monday mornings are just like any other. You get up when your natural bodyclock dictates. You have a lovelybreakfast of fresh mangos and French Roast. You probably take a refreshing dipin your pool, and then perhaps you read a book, or take a nap, or marvel atyour fully stocked fridge full of imported Bling H20 from the Swiss Alps.

My Monday did not fill me with hope.When I got up, Jade was freaking out because she couldn’t find her burgundy pumpswhich she likes to wear when she works the dayshift at “Planet Eclectic” – she says she gets better tips when she wearsheels. Personally, wearing heelsfor better tips would not be enough incentive for me. Unfortunately, I see afuture of varicose veins, bunions and hammertoes for my sister, but she rarelythinks about her future so she isn’t concerned about the welfare of her feet.

Amber refused to get up at all,saying she had the flu even though I happen to know she was hanging out withher drunken musician friends last night and that her headache probably has moreto do with Crown Royal than it does with the Influenza virus.

My father has become nothing morethan a slightly overweight shadow that sometimes manifests in the hallwaybetween the front door and the door of his study. I have no father anymore…

And Mom was still sleeping when Ileft for school. I think she pulled a late one because there was an empty winebottle on the coffee table in the living room with three movies lying besideit: “Sleepless in Seattle,” “TheNotebook,” and “The Bridges ofMadison County.” Why is it that the brokenhearted watch cry movies? Surely Monty Python would bea better viewing choice for the soon-to-be-divorced? Mickey says thatencouraging a good cry is physically and mentally very beneficial to thoseunder emotional duress – that crying releases a butt-load of cortisol, thestress hormone.

Speaking of cortisol, having tospill the beans about my parents wasn’t as bad as I had anticipated and myfriends were mostly sympathetic. They all agreed, however, that my having tofinish out the school year on Sarita Island blows. They’re right. It does, andwhile Mickey and Laney and Clare ranted about the grand injustice of it all, Ilost my appetite and mostly just pulled apart my enchilada and made little chickenmoguls all around the edge of my plate. If I’d been in a more positive frame ofmind I would have taken a photograph of it, because in actual fact, it wasquite an eye-catching creation.

I figured a double block of artafter lunch would put me right, but not even the wonderful smell of linseed oiland paint and sawdust from the woodshop next door turned me around.

My painting, an early morninglandscape, sucked!

I knew it. My teacher knew it. Even Andrea Clarkson, the mostartistically challenged student on the face of the planet, knew it, and gave my shoulder a patronizing little pat as she walked by my easel. Cow.

After struggling with it for theentire two hours, I ended up covering the canvas with a thick layer of drywall paste and then clawed at the entire surface angrily with a dinner fork.

Christ on a bike, indeed!

ARGYLE IS THE NEW BLACK

2012-02-02T22:01:00.000-08:00

Mickey says I need a makeover. Shesays that I have no fashion savvy and that in order to establish a strong andconfident presence when I get to Sarita Island, I require a major wardrobeintervention. Apparently this can be achieved by shopping at the GAP.

I hate shopping. Clothes shoppinganyway. Nothing ever seems to fit me properly, which is the main reason why thebulk of my wardrobe is comprised of jeans, t-shirts and bulky sweaters. I don’tsee what the problem is – a lot of my sweaters are quite quirky, althoughMickey informs me that “quirky” isjust another word for “ugly.” She, onthe other hand, is a total fashion statement. She can wear hats, and does so ona regular basis. Toques, caps,fedoras, pillbox varieties, vintage… the works. And they all look fantastic onher. Of course, Mickey was blessed with giant green eyes, a delicate frame, andtons of chestnut coloured hair; a memorable look that is part rain-forestmammal and part Twiggy-from-days-gone-by. (You probably don’t know who Twiggy is, but your parents will.Suffice to say, her eyes were bigger than her face.)

We went to the mall after school.First to Bootlegger where Mickey attempted to stuff me into a pair of skinny jeanswith zippered ankles and a button fly. I was a little concerned that I mightnot get them off again.

“They’re really tight,” I told her.

“Duh,” she said. “They’re supposedto be.”

I put the jeans back on the shelf,and pulled off a nice friendly-looking pair of grey oversized sweats.

“Putthose back!” Mickey yelled and I dropped them to the floor like theyhad suddenly ignited. The sales clerk looked at me as though I was somethingstuck on the bottom of her shoe. Mickey glared at me with flushed cheeks and green,alien eyes. You don’t want to piss off Michaela Forbes. Trust me.

She then dragged me to the Gap, AmericanEagle, Hollister, Old Navy, and finally Abercrombie and Fitch, but all Imanaged to find were some cool socks with small geckos embroidered around thetops and an argyle-patterned pillow case.

“Ruby?” Mickey said. “You gottalose the whole argyle thing. You can only pull off Argyle if you’re a supernerd, which you aren’t. You’re an artsy. You can’t even spell math. It’s all wrong for you.”

I ignored her, because I refuse to labelmyself as a particular “type." It’s very limiting. Besides, I like argyle. I just do. And honestly…I don’t give a fat rat’sass if the people on Sarita Island take issue with my clothes.

Mickey says my attitude sucks. Duh! What was her first clue?

FAUX PAS AT LE FLEUR

2012-02-01T22:35:00.000-08:00

My father, who has been more orless a silent partner in the raising of us kids, chose today to arrange a little father-daughter bonding. Of course, it hadless to do with trying to connect with me and Amber and Jade, and more to dowith getting the initial “meet the tart”meeting over and done with. My father is very transparent, which is odd whenyou think about it, because that doesn’t seem like a character trait that wouldserve a lawyer very well.

We drove to a very expensiverestaurant where “Carmen” wasapparently going to meet us when she got off work. Let me first make itclear that my dad does not like to spend money on things that have no lastingmaterial value, like dinners out or vacations. To be at a restaurant at allwith him was just plain weird; to be at an expensive one was even moreunsettling.

Le Fleur’s is a dark, woody sort ofrestaurant with terra cotta floor tiles, brown leather-studded bar stools andarmchairs, and a lot of big palms nestled in the corners. There is a bigPersian rug in the bar, and all the waitresses are beautiful – the sort thathas perfect skin and wears no make up except bright red lipstick that looksamazing.

We got a table near the window thatlooks out over the water fountain and koi pond, and that’s when dad looked atme like he was just noticing me for the first time.

“That’s what you’re wearing?” hesaid.

I looked down at my clothes. “I’mwearing a skirt,” I said flatly. Granted, there was a gravy stain on the front,but I did not think this occasion called for pulling out the Sunday best. Au contraire.

He looked at my doc martens, andthen caught the attention of a passing waitress and barked, “Scotch and 7.Straight up!” He didn’t say please,nor did he say thank you when she brought it to him. These two things speakvolumes. I have always said that you can tell everything you need to know aboutsomeone by the way they treat a waitress.

Carmen blew in shortly after myfather’s third drink, all blousy and flustery and dewy-eyed and looking eventhinner than she had under the streetlamp in the park. Her arms reminded me ofPVC piping: white and smooth and narrow. I tried not to think of them entangledwith my father’s.

For ten minutes she gushed abouthow wonderful my he was, and how she would never ever try to replace ourmother, and how “we girls” were sureto become the best of pals, just wait and see! Personally, I would rather chewglass than become BFF’s with Carmen, but Jade seemed quite taken with her.Understandable, as they appear to be more or less the same age. I envy Amber.Weird as she is, she always seems to remain safely inside herself. She justlooked bored, and spent a lot of time tracing her finger around the top of herwater glass and then stopping as soon as the buzzing tone began. It was sort ofcreepy, but Carmen didn’t seem to notice. She probably couldn’t hear it overher own voice, which was very high-pitched and irritating.

In an effort to stick it to my dad,I ordered the most expensive thing I could find on the menu: a $32 entréecalled, Foie gras. The entire menu was in French, and as Iam a C student in the language at best, the description was lost on me, but nofrikkin’ way was I going to ask for a translation.

Carmen (who apparently speaksSpanish, French AND German) raised her eyebrows when I ordered it and said,“Oh, well aren’t WE adventurous! Wayto go, Ruby!”

Turns out Foie gras is a noxiousconcoction involving the livers of geese that have been force fed, so not onlywas it disgusting - it also rubbed up the wrong way against my socialconscience.

I was trapped, however. I had toeat it, or I’d be eating a big plate of crow instead. I braved a few mouthfuls– it was ten times worse than Rashena’s monkey placenta pilaf - and was verygrateful when Dad and Carmen excused themselves to go and say hello to acolleague at a nearby table.

Normally I am not prone to rash orimpulsive acts, but desperate times call for desperate measures. In one swiftmove I slid the livery mess off my plate and into the big linen napkin on mylap, and then stuffed the whole thing into my mostly empty bag and zipped itup.

Jade looked at me with a look of horrorand said, “Oh my God. You are so messed up, Ruby.”

Amber looked up from her highlydigestible looking green salad and said, “Can I have the garnish?”

When I passed the bar on our wayout, the bartender leaned over and whispered, “You could have asked for adoggie bag, you know.” I wanted to disappear between the tiles in the floor.

Once outside, a very large Rottweileron the other side of the parking lot, with a head the size of a washing machinemade a beeline for my bag. Jade and Carmen screamed. Amber, who was texting at the time, didn’t seem to notice, and my father began swatting feebly at the dog with hissport coat like some kind of pissed off, fat matador.

I surrendered my bag, and the dogtook off with his prize: duck liver mush, a hairbrush, some Nivea hand creamand half a roll of throat lozenges.

I have had better evenings.

PAWS FOR THOUGHT

2012-01-31T21:30:00.000-08:00

This is my last night sleeping in this room, for, I don’tknow…maybe forever. Strange the way things work. For years now, I’ve hated thishouse. I’ve hated the blue broadloom rug in the living room with the matchingdrapes. I’ve hated the ostentatious front door with the overkill columns oneither side. I’ve hated the square patch of unnatural green lawn that has beenour back yard for as long as I can remember, and I’ve hated the fact that thereare at least six other houses on our street that look virtually identical toours.

But now that I’m about to leave it, I feel a strange urge tochain myself to the inside of my bedroom closet and remain there forever. Thereare memories in every room and in every corner. I squeeze my eyes shut but Isee them anyway. I see the time Amber broke her leg and had to share a room with mebecause she couldn’t handle the stairs. It was before she’d turned weird, andwe’d spent so many nights that summer talking for hours in the dark, wishing on stars. Talking about ourparents, the kids at school, our dreams and what our lives would be like whenwe were grown-ups. Then there isthe hole in the drywall in the downstairs bathroom that Jade made with her headwhen she passed out after being bitten by my Aunt Mavis’s dog. The wall never reallygot patched up very well, and Amber had scrawled the word “Ouch” over thefilled area with an Hb pencil. Forsome reason it had never been painted over.

There’s the doodle art I scrawled on the back of my closetdoor – something I took to doing the year my parent’s really started to fight.I’d go into my room, put on my headphones, and doodle until the ink of myfineliner went dry. Some of those drawings are pretty dark, but some are prettycool, as well.

And then there’s Tucker. I get a lump in my throat when I thinkabout him. How he’d shown up one morning after being out all night, whimpering,all swollen up like he’d swallowed a beach ball. How Mom and Dad and I hadrushed him to the vet, only to be told that he had bloat – it was common withdeep chested dogs. And then we’d had to make that decision - that it would be kinder to let Tucker go.

He had died on my lap with his head in the crook of my arm,and afterwards we’d brought him home and buried him under the Sycamore tree inthe back yard. I’d sat out there for hours, remembering how he would sit besideme every morning at the breakfast table, drooling patiently while I ate my cereal,leaving a nasty wet patch on my slipper. I’d always shoved him with my leg andtold him to go slobber on someone else.

And now the trollop – Carmen– would be lounging around in our back yard by Tucker’s tree in the summer,in short shorts with a gin and tonic in her one hand and her cell phone in theother. She does not belong anywhere near Tucker’s tree.

So I am lying in bed, in the dark, in a soul-less house,waiting for tomorrow. Tomorrow is my last day at school here. My last day tohang out with Mickey and Clare. Tomorrow I take a ferry to a remote island tolive in a yurt with a white witch wannabe. Tomorrow I will shut the front doorof this generic house and I won’t look back.

But today, right now, I would give anything to be sitting atthe kitchen table, with a bowl of cereal and a disgusting soggy slipper on myfoot.

THE WRONG SIDE OF THE RAINBOW

2012-01-30T15:51:00.000-08:00

The worst part about being atschool today was saying goodbye to the art room. No. Wait. The worst part wassaying goodbye to my friends. Maybe it was both. In any case, it sucked.

What sucked even more was thatJoshua Delaney (remember the frog prince from afew posts ago?) passed me a note in English that said, “I hear you’removing to an island or something. It’ll suck not having you in English. You’realmost sane.”

I passed him one back that said,“Thanks. I think.”

Thing is, I like Joshua, and itisn’t solely because of our mutual admiration for our small, amphibiousfriends. We don’t talk all that much, but that’s mostly because he is such aloner. I even thought he might be gay. And now he writes me a message sayinghe’s going to…what? Miss me? Great timing.

Later on, after a couple of tearful goodbyes, when we're ready to go, I decide that the best way to leavethe house is to just get in the car and not look back, which is exactly what Ido. I don’t look at the street or the other houses – I don’t even look out thewindow. Instead, I start scrolling through the songs on my iPod, looking forthe perfect, depressing, apocalyptic sort of tune that will complete this day.I decide on Wye Oak’s “Civilian”because it was used in the Walking Dead season #2 trailer, and because I feellike a zombie, it’s fitting.

Thinking about zombies gets methinking about my miniature zombie dolls which gets me thinking about Derrickand Bennett which gets me feeling really sad. Then it starts to pour with rain,which also seems appropriate. Maybe, if I’m lucky, a giant meteorite willplummet into the middle of the highway and annihilate the entire human race, orwe’ll finally get that big mega thrust earthquake they’ve been promising thewest coast for years.

Mom doesn’t say much, but plays herCeline Dion CD over and over and over again. It’s enough to make me want togouge out my eyes. Amber, of course, has her headphones on and is staringvacantly out of the window. If I didn’t know her, I would think that she waseither (a) sedated, or (b) intellectually challenged.

The ferry ride over to SaritaIsland is, thankfully, short. Just under twenty-five minutes. It’s a rustbucket of an old barge, some retired Coast Guard vessel or something, and atleast 50% of it appears to be covered with rust. We drive on and then go up tothe small lounge area that smells like stale tobacco and cat pee, to hang outwith the other islanders. There’s an elderly lady with actual chopsticks stuckin the back of her grey bun. She’s wearing a long purple skirt that is soakedat the bottom, and a pair of muddy pink Ugg boots. She has some strangeshapeless, curly coat on – probably made from one of the feral goats or sheepthat inhabit the island, and is carrying a cloth bag full of dirty potatoes.When she sits down beside Amber, she lets out an enormous fart.

Two seats ahead,a girl and aguy, probably not much older than me, are making out like this is their last nighton earth. WTF?

There are a couple of old Germanmen sitting by the window, arguing about chess, and last but not least, a womanwith two little girls – identical twins – who are building a monolithicstructure right in the middle of the aisle with plain wooden blocks. When I try to step around them, theirmother puts up a hand like she’s directing traffic and says, “Please don’tinvade their space bubble. They’re creating. Could you go around the otherway?” So I back track and weave in and out of chairs until I get to my seat. Ilater hear the mother telling, “Flora”and “Fauna” if they’d like some “Yummy Mummy milk” before the ferrydocks. I swear to God, the kids are like 8 years old.

Five minutes before the ferrydocks, it stops raining and a rainbow appears on the horizon in the distance. Itis the first lovely thing I’ve seen all day, not counting Josh’s note, and I gooutside and just stare at it until the engine cuts on the boat.

As we drive down the off ramp, Ikeep my eyes on that rainbow until we disappear into the cedar trees that flankeither side of the main road. Ithink about the Wizard of Oz…how did that part of the song go? Birds fly over the rainbow, why then, O whycan’t I?

I try to swallow the lump in mythroat. What I wouldn’t do for a set of wings right now.

PARTY ANIMALS

2012-01-29T22:58:00.000-08:00

Rashena’s yurt is a fifteen-minute drivealong a pothole-peppered gravel road. It travels through what the locals referto as, “The Hub.” The Hub consists of a gas station (wheregas is twenty-five cents more a litre than it is on the mainland), a co-opstore where you can also buy liquor (again,overpriced) a health food store/bakery/juice bar (where I’m sure Rashena purchased the monkey placenta for the pilaf wehad) a used bookstore (the onlybright spot on this whole entire island) and a coin-operated laundromat.

“Oh good,” my mother said when wearrived there. “The co-op is still open. I need to get something for thegathering.”

“The what?” I asked, going cold allover.

“The gathering! Rashena is throwing alittle do in our honour, girls!” Momsaid. “Rolling out the red carpet just for us!”

All I wanted to do was disappear into mycorner of the yurt (even though yurts are corner-less) and sleep for fifteen hours in an effort to forget where Iwas, but no...we were going to be the stars of a party.

Amber and I waited while mom trottedinto the co-op. It was only then that I realized she wasn’t wearing her usualexpensive jeans, black leather boots and Liz Claiborne suede jacket. Instead, she was resplendent in plum velour drawstring pants, navy crocs over grey work socks and a green andpurple woven Baja hoodie. How had I missed this?

A knock on the window made me jump. Onthe other side of it was a twenty-something guy with a heavy beard, a nose ring and a blackwoolen toque that was mashed down over long hair. He had a guitar slung over hisshoulder.

I rolled down the window, but only a fewinches.

“Namaste” he said.

“Who?”

He laughed. "Are you guys theRoss women?”

I didn’t say anything.

“Rashena said you’d be on the ferry.Told me to look for your Tercel. Said I could catch a ride with you to thegathering.”

“Uh…” I looked at Amber, whose faceregistered no expression at all.

“I’m Sorrel,” the guy said.

“Oh,” I said. What kind of a name is Sorrel?

At that point my mother came out of theco-op carrying a big loaf of bread.

“Are you Opal?” Sorrel said. He had armypants on and the crotch on them hung down around his knees.

“I am. Are you Sorrel? Rashena saidyou'd be looking for us. Need a ride to the Indigo Cauldron?”

(She actually said this. Jesus.)

Sorrel sat in the back seat next to me.He smelled like garlic and something else. Horse manure, I think. He also liked to talk. He told us helived on the other side of Sarita Island, but was looking for new digs becausehis roommates were not interested inunlocking their Chi power, and, as a result, were quite toxic to live with.He added that he was currently undergoing a garlic cleanse, to strengthenhimself internally against their negative energy. I wanted to tell him hedidn’t need to worry – that he could keep the entire Cullen family clan at bay onthe other side of the planet, but in the end I chose to remain silent.

Rashena had set out a million littlecandles to one side of the yurt, and bright orange batik curtains billowed inthe wind, suspended on an old shower rod that was attached to a driftwoodtrellis. Painted wooden chairs sat in the long grass here and there - their caned seats mostly frayed and unraveled.

There were people, dogs and kidseverywhere, most of them covered in natural fibre and wool and estheticallychallenged footwear.

I have no idea what happened to my mom.She’d disappeared with Daisy Archibald, who is apparently the high priestess ofthe Rashena’s white witch coven. You’d think a high priestess would be about 7feet tall and have blood red nails and a scepter or some such thing, but Daisy is a sixty-fouryear old slam poet who wears spandex bike shorts, Wal-mart runners and a fannypack that she keeps filled with rune stones and dried apricots (or so I’m told).

What I did see, however, were three goats helpingthemselves to the buffet. Now, if I were a decent, sweet person, I would havejumped up and shooshed them away, but I didn’t feel decent and sweet. I feltsullen and sour. So I sat on my log at the edge of the field in the twilight,and watched the goats polish off the two trays of chocolate brownies in lessthan twenty seconds.

Something strange happened then. The goatswent crazy. One of them knocked over the food table, and another bounded straightinto the yurt, whereupon a lot of pot clanging and yelling could be heard. Thethird goat brought down a batik curtain, and ran through a crowd of people dancing to Zamfir out in the field, the flowing saffron fabric impaled on his horns.

People were yelling. Children were crying.And when everyone discovered the missing brownies, there was a lot of swearing. That’s whenDaisy Archibald showed up. She climbed onto an upturned rain barrel and began tomutter strange incantations. But nothing got rid of the goats.

The last thing I saw before the remainingbatik curtain caught fire, was a particularly fat goat trying to have its way withSorrel’s leg.

Garlic may repel toxic roommates andvampire clans, but I guess it’s no match for stoned goats.

TWISTED SISTERS AND THE TREE CREATURE

2012-01-28T21:25:00.000-08:00

I woke up early, thanks to Hercules,Rashena’s resident rooster, and decided that rather than lie on my futon,lamenting about the fact that I was trapped on Sarita Island, I would get up, get out, and get coffee. In thatorder.

I was sleeping in a little storagecloset off the laundry room in a plywood shack that was connected to the yurtby a narrow passageway. It sucked, but at least I didn’t have to mingle in withMom and Amber and Rashena, who were all slumbering away in hammocks behindelaborate Asian-style screens in the giant circular room. The closet wasn’t so bad; there was alittle trap door in the top of it, so if I had to escape from a raging infernoor a similar disaster, I could escape through the roof. I‘d propped it open allnight, which explained the whole Hercules thing. I could see that gettingfresh air AND a good sleep would prove challenging.

I dressed in my jeans and my blackand white canvas sneakers and stuck my hair under a ball cap. This was not aseasy as it may sound. My hair is very uncooperative. On a more positive note,my jeans have started to feel loose, which means that stress is good forsomething, I guess.

There were three strange peopleasleep on the floor in the middle of the yurt. Sorrel was one of them. He stillhad both of his legs so I guess he won the battle with the goat. The other twowere women. One was beautiful, with dark auburn hair and small, perfect feet thatwere sticking out from the end of the crocheted afghan, and the other wassnoring on her back, her arms flug outwards to reveal more underarm hair thanI’d ever seen on a person – even more than the Italian roofer that worked on our neighbour’s houselast summer.

As much as I hate to admit it, SaritaIsland at sunrise is actually sort of pretty. It smells of salt and moss and windand earth and as I walked down the trail that runs parallel to the main road, Inoticed for the first time just how big the trees actually are: tall andstraight, with trunks wider than anything I’ve ever seen before. I made sure that I snapped a fewpictures with my phone, mostly because I knew that Derrick would be stoked tosee them. His next documentary is a green one, so I knew he’d appreciate theimages.

When I reached The Hub, there wasn’t much of one going on. The co-op and the gasstation were still closed, but I could see someone moving around inside Twisted Sisters, the bakery/juice bar,aptly named because it is run by Mavis and Jane Hart, two sisters in their late 60’swho, as Rashena tactfully puts it, are “different.”

I pushed open the door and said asilent prayer to the God of all thingsJava that there would be an espresso machine inside, and much to mysurprise, there was. I inhaled asthough I was taking my first breath and thought that maybe it was a sign thatthe day wasn’t going to totally suck.

“Morning,” said a woman from behindthe counter. She was short. Squat. With cropped grey hair, bright eyes and around, moon face. She was wearing Capri pants, even though it’s February, and agreen sweatshirt that said, “CartwrightConstruction” across the front.

“Hi,” I said back.

“Whad’ya want?” she said.

“Um, coffee?”

“Help yourself.”

I stood in front of the coffeemaker, looking for the cups. Up. Down. Left. Right. There weren’t any.

“Didn’t bring a mug?” the woman said,appearing beside me.

“No.”

“You’re supposed to bring a mug,”she frowned. “Everyone brings their own.”

“Oh. I didn’t know. I’m not fromhere.”

She took a step back and gave methe good ol’ up-down once over. I decided to stare right back at her, but it wasa challenge because she had a mustache like a 70’s porn star. I didn't know where to look.

“You one of the girls staying withRashena?” she frowned. I wasn’t sure what the right answer was.

“You one of the girls with theadulterous father?”

I blinked at her.

“Thought so,” she said. “All menare assholes. Sooner you learn that, the better. Here...you can have one of mymugs. On the house. Keep it.”

“Thank you." I took the mug from her. It had a half-moon on the front with LUNA written underneath it.

“Don’t mention it. But don’t thinkit’ll make the coffee taste any better. Coffee is shit here, just so you know.”

“Why don’t you get better stuffthen?” I asked, filling the mug to the top.

“I should do that,” she said.

“OH SURE, JANE!” said a voice. “ITISN’T LIKE I HAVEN’T BEEN SAYING THAT FOR YEARS!” Another woman appeared,equally short and squat, but not in the same dire need of electrolysis as her sister. She too, gave me a good once over. Whileyou could tell that the two women were clearly related, the first had a softnessabout her and the second, a leathery hard countenance.

“Shut up, Mavis,” Jane said. “This is one of the girls staying with Rashsena. You know…”

Mavis looked as though she wasabout to say something, but then jerked her head to the door and shrieked,“GODAMM IT, JANE!”

I turned my head to see an oldblack dog in the doorway. It only had three legs and its eyes were opaque, witha slightly blue tinge. It made a tentative hop inside the door but stoppedwhen Mavis chucked a dishrag at him.

“Don’t you dare be cruel to Oscar!” Janescolded, tempting the dog inside with a bit of stale cinnamon bun.

“Dirty, filthy animal,” Mavishissed, and then disappeared into the back room of the bakery, slamming the door behind her.

“Whose is he?” I asked.

“Everyones,” Jane said.

I sat down on one of the red woodenstools and sipped my coffee – which really wasshit – while Jane told me that “Oscar,”who had a habit of falling asleep in the middle of the road on the hill down tothe ferry terminal, had been run over two years ago by a man riding a vintageVespa, and as a consequence, had lost his leg. He’d hung around The Hub ever since, relying on thekindness of strangers and become a bit of a village icon. Jane loved him. Mavisdetested him.And he was a constant bone of contention between them (if you’ll pardon the pun) because (a) hestunk, (b) he could not be trusted around the baked goods, and (c) he peed ininappropriate places, on account of his cataracts and general geriatric state.

I left Twisted Sister with more coffee in my newly acquired mug, andheaded back into the trees toward TheIndigo Cauldron. I wanted to stay cranky. I really did. Because beingexiled on Sarita Island was an injustice of great magnitude and I had everyright to be seriously pissed. But walking in the woods amidst all those big,big trees somehow took all the sting and acid out of me, and the shitty coffeetasted...well, not that shitty after all. I stopped walking and just looked upthose massive trunks that led into the canopy of green overhead. They really shouldn’tbe cutting those big ones down. You can just feel how ancient they are.

The air was still but the birdswere chirping up a storm, a sure sign of spring. And that’s when I saw it - the tree creature - a small, fox-likeface staring back at me from a crevice up high in one of the big cedars just afew feet off the trail. It was looking right at me, with big, black vacanteyes. Its small ears were pricked and upright, and…it didn’t move.

It didn’t breathe.

It didn’t make a sound.

And it didn’t take its eyes off me.

THE LUNA SPHYNX SECRET

2012-01-27T22:17:00.000-08:00

“I can’t believe you saw Luna,”Rashena said over scrambled eggs (free range, of course) and unleavened bread.

Artist: Sophy White

“I don’t know what I saw,” I toldher. “It looked like a demonic fox in a hollow in a tree. It was creepy ashell.”

“It was most definitely, Luna,”Rashena said. “There are stories about her that began way back when theSpaniards first discovered these islands. She’s a Werefox. Not many people seeher. You were very privileged, Ruby.”

“You are the chosen one,” Ambersaid dramatically, but I could tell she was yanking my chain.

My mother didn’t say anything. I hada feeling she was still recovering from the night before, even though she said thatthe punch she was drinking was alcohol-free. I recognized the look on her face. It was the one that said - if you make any sudden moves or noises noiseI may have to thrust a sharp stick into your eye.

Still, this whole Luna thing was sort of weird, especiallyafter Jane gifted me the moon mug and all.

When everyone cleared out to go tothe craft market at Pentimento Point for crocheted dishrags, I decided to callMickey. I’d been on this island less than 24 hours and already I was morphinginto a freak. I headed to my closet, sat on my futon and flipped open my phone.

ME: Mickey? Code Red call!

Silence.Silence. Silence…

Then…PING! Incoming.

MICKEY: What up, freak?

ME: That’s the problem. I AM a freak.

MICKEY: No you’re not. You’re just paranoid. How’s life on granola island?

ME: I miss you.

MICKEY: Same. What’s up?
ME: Oh. Not much. Some goats got stoned. Mom is hungover. And I have an animaltotem. A werefox. I had a vision or something.

MICKEY: Okaaaaay. Are you stoned?
ME: NO!

MICKEY: ???

ME: I saw a weird creature in a tree. A fox thing. Out of a book orsomething. Creepy!

MICKEY: There aren’t any foxes on the gulf islands, dumb ass.

ME: I know. That’s why it’s so weird.

MICKEY: Forget the fox. How’s everything else?
ME: Surreal.

MICKEY: I hafta go, Rube. Working morning shift. Text later?

ME: OK

MICKEY: Stay sane. Don’t drink the water!

ME: OK. Bye Mick.

I snapped my phone shut and satstaring at the pentacle poster stuck on the wall beside my bed. Mickey was onlyjust across Georgia Strait, but she may as well have been four thousand lightyears away in another galaxy. I couldn’t remember when I’d felt more alone.

My first few hours onSarita Island had left me feeling restless. The fact that I now had a supposedwerefox guardian spirit, riding shotgun with me, did not help.

Fragmentedimages of the past month’s events flashed through my mind like some kind ofmanic slideshow: my father. Carmen.Derrick and Bennett and Diego. Mymother’s psycho shopping spree. It was like one of those made-for-TV horrormovies where the director slips in split-second shots of grossness along withthe regular footage. And you just knew that one of those subliminal pictureswould come back to haunt you when you were least expecting it. Probably when you were putting ketchup on agrilled cheese sandwich or mindlessly flossing your teeth. Fortunately, a knockon the door of the yurt snapped me out of my little trip down memory lane, andfor that, I was grateful.

The manat the door looked to be in his 50’s, with wiry grey hair that stuck out inevery direction like he’d stuck his finger in a light socket. He had on a pairof paint-splattered green work pants that were about four inches too short, ayellow dress shirt that was done up wrong, and a pair of cheap red flip-flops.

“Have youseen Bastet?” he said, glaring at me from behind thick, black-rimmed glasses.

“Who?”

“Bastet.She’s gone. She didn’t come home last night. It’s too cold. She can’t beexposed to harsh elements. If it’s too cold, she could die of hypothermia. Ifit’s too hot, sunburn can do her in. Have you seen her?”

I had noidea what he was talking about.

“Bastet?”I repeated.

“BASTET!”This time he yelled, and I jumped.

Basquiat

All Icould think of was the graffiti artist from New York…Basquiat, but I was prettysure that wasn’t to whom this man was referring.

“Um…”

“Bastetis her name. She’s named after the feline Goddess of Ancient Egypt, because ofher breed.”

“Herbreed?” I was beginning to feel like an imbecile. Nothing was clicking.

“She’s aSphynx cat. Egyptian. Hairless. Very rare. ”

“Hairless?”I said.

“Are youhard of hearing or something?” The man was clearly annoyed, and little beads ofspittle were forming in the corners of his mouth.

“I’msorry. I’m new here. I don’t know anything about a hairless Bastet –“

“She’s acat, for fuck’s sake!” the man yelled.

“Youneedn’t swear,” I said calmly. I may have been ignorant but that was certainly no reason to be rude.

He rolledhis eyes, reached into his pocket, and produced a crumpled, faded photograph. Istared at it in his hand, and slowly, all the puzzle pieces began to slot intoplace.

My totem,my animal guide, my spirit guardian, was not an elusive, mythical and highlyrevered werefox. It was a pink andbeige, hairless, anorexic-looking cat with a very prominent overbite.

Fortunatelyfor its owner, I knew just where it was hiding.