Thursday night was the big holiday extravaganza that my school produces every year. This is not the swaying-on-the-risers-while-singing-Jingle-Bells po-dunk concert that you and I might have participated in many moons ago. Rather it is a 20+ song multicultural bonanza, involving dancing children, singing children, violin playing children, marimba playing children, drumming kids, signing kids, kids singing in French, Spanish, Japanese, and Arabic, kids fighting a dragon, and kids making star patterns with swords. It is the Lower School event of the year. Regular classes essentially come to a halt for the 3 weeks leading up to Revels, and in the last few days the music teacher had my little 1st Graders in daily two hour rehearsals. Deep.

But all of the hard work pays off, the show is amazing. Steve came and watched, and I was so happy and proud to have a good friend see my wonderful students in action. As soon as the lights went down and the 5th Graders began their welcome song I started weeping. I was just so impressed by the whole student body. I spent the whole evening whispering furtively to Steve, “Look, there’s Ryan! He’s the one who makes fairy houses on the playground every recess! He’s singing so loud!” And stuff like that.
I didn’t have time to go home before the concert, so I wore a semi-nice outfit to school and applied some make-up in the bathroom while a 4th Grader brushed her hair beside me. I look way prettier when I wear make-up, but I am to lazy to put it on every day. I was made keenly aware of the effect of my efforts, as every single one of my students told me how “different” I looked. “Willow! You look really different right now.” “Willow, you are wearing a LOT of lipstick!” After 4 or 5 lipstick comments I wiped most of it off, but even then it didn’t stop. Even teachers and parents remarked on how I “clean up nice!” Very odd feeling, having my face talked about so much.
When I lived in New York I wore make-up when I went out sometimes, but almost never during the day. I just “couldn’t be bothered,” as the Irish would say. No one would ever look at me when I was out and about sans make-up. I generally feel like a pretty girl when I am in Portland or Denver or Tacoma or whatever. but in New York I mostly felt invisible. Sometimes it was a bummer, like if I saw a cute boy on the subway and I wanted to wink at him, but he wouldn’t make eye contact with me because of my big coat, big purse, Duane Reade bag with box of tampons clearly visible through the flimsy plastic, frizzy hair because New York does that to me, and probably a runny nose. Gross. I wouldn’t make eye contact with me either. So sometimes I felt bad about the invisibility. But mostly I felt cool, like I had a secret. In fact, that’s how my alter-ego, “Miss Nancy Novak” was born. Now she is a sassy girl-about-town, but originally she was my mousy, slightly frazzled, relatively plain hanging-out-at the library identity. When I was walking around my Upper East Side neighborhood, avoiding piles of miniature poodle poop and getting bumped by women in fur coats, or waiting on a table of drunk, sleazy tax attorneys, I would make myself laugh by thinking, “God! I am so much prettier than I look right now!” Such a funny idea- being prettier than you look. I spent a lot of time by myself when I lived there because I worked nights at the bar, so I would go to matinees alone, or read in Central Park if it was warm, or order a sandwich from the corner deli and have it delivered to my apartment if it was too cold. And I would entertain myself by thinking about how all of the people I talked to or passed on the street were completely unaware of my superhero self. Nothing about the way I looked or acted indicated that I was Wonder Willow- smart, brave, funny and nice. Instead I was anonymous and forgettable. And that can be really lonely, and really dangerous. There’s a risk of letting Wonder Willow go, and being Nancy Novak all the time, or rather, believing that you are only Nancy, and never Wonder. I think I left New York because it got too hard for me to keep those two identities going. Moving to friendlier, mellower cities (Dublin and now PDX) allowed me to chip away the wall between my selves. Now I am exactly myself all the time- with friends, at work, at school, with strangers. It can be fun to have a secret, but keeping it takes a lot of work. A big part of Perfect Heart is to unburden myself of secrets, to not keep any of myself hidden. And good lord, it is a relief.

The other day I ran into my friend Azmo, a cool dude who works with my roommate. Azmo is from New Orleans, and his parents and most of the rest of his family still live there. They lost their business in the hurricane, but their houses remained relatively in tact, and no one came to major harm, praise god. Still, they are citizens of New Orleans, and Azmo is an ex-pat, and while the rest of the country has turned attention to other, more recent tragedies and scandals, they are still in mourning for their beautiful, fallen city. Azmo just visited there to help his family rebuild, and he took some pretty amazing photos. I pressured him into setting up a flickr account, which he did, and you should check it out here. There are only a few up right now, but he showed me tons that made me want to lie down on the floor, and he said that none of them really captured the enormity of the devastation. I have no idea how to process loss on this scale, it just sort of sits in me, all crammed against tsunamis and earthquakes and environmental protection legislation repeals, and arrogant corruption and, and and… And it all lives in just that place that makes it sort of hard to breathe sometimes, like I have to gasp for air. And other times it just feels heavy, and then other times I almost forget, which is a relief, but then I feel guilty and then it’s heaviness and gasping all over again!
All of this is just a way of saying I love Azmo, and I wish I could do more for him and his family and neighbors than just blog about them and get all emo.

Well, I thought I did. But it turns out I just have a bad flu. Remember those head lumps I described last entry? Well, they were actually swollen lymphnodes, which is the major symptom of Mono. The kissing disease!!! I went home sick on Wednesday, stayed home on Thursday, and was sent home on Friday (very firmly). I went to the doctor, who was fairly certain I had the Mono, and took blood tests accordingly. But it was Friday afternoon, and the blood testers decided to head out early, which meant that I had to wait 24 hours for the results. 24 hours where I was convinced I had Mono. But then my doctor called and said that the results were negative, and I’m just normal sick, not special sick. But I am still being teased mercilessly by Jona, Steve and especially Mike about kissing diseased people, despite the fact that I have not kissed anyone in a fairly long time. (I mean really kissed someone.) No kisses = No Mono!
Here are some links I think you will enjoy:
Mike’s pictures from Jona’s show including a shot of me toasting,
Mike’s pictures from our second date
This lovely new blog,
The best description of Portland I’ve ever read,
The coolest party of all time, I really, really, really wish I could have been there.

If you were to draw a straight line between my ears, across the back or my head (okay, maybe this is technically an arch) today, you would find on it two weird, painful lumps. The lump on the left also had a lump friend living an inch below it. Three lumps. On my head. What are they?? I did not get hit by anything (aside from Steve’s cdll phone, but that was 2 weeks ago, and it hit my face.) I do not have a history of cysts, and they do not feel like the head-cysts an ex-boyfriend of mine had. They feel like lumps. Or more exactly, bumps. And as I mentioned, they hurt. “Tender to the touch,” if you will, but also sortof hurty in general. Are there glands back there? Could I be catching the (avian) flu? Or could the lumps be a byproduct of the neckache that plauged me for much of last week? Or could I possibly have three brain tumors? My math mentor (don’t ask) suggested that they are tension nodes, or something. I am going to the chiropractor on Friday, so hopefully I will live until then.
Have I mentioned lately that I adore my students? I adore my students. I love the awkward ones, and the popular ones, and the loud ones and the quiet ones. I love their long stories about their pets, and the way they let highly sensitive information about their families slip out because they are only 6 and don’t know better. I love that they buy me as a teacher, and trust me when I tell them to close their eyes before I read them a poem. (I am teaching a unit on poetry.) And on days like today, when I inadvertantly rush them and nit-pick at the same time, they don’t hold it against me. They are nice guys. Today, my pet (don’t tell the other kids!) brought me a box of chocolates for the holidays. I just about squeezed the life out of that boy! Goddamn, I love my students.
I was about to post pics from date #2, but I have to go meet Mike (and chaperones Steve, Rebecca, and Fiona) at the Veggie Chinese House RIGHT NOW. Next time, Gadget, next time.

Here are some wonderings:
* Is anyone else concerned about Jane magazine’s sudden helm-change? Why did Jane Pratt leave? Why didn’t she give us notice, or a goodbye? Was she forced out? Am I being a jerk because I think her replacement, Brandon Whatever, is totally square? Is my paranoia warranted, or am I just haunted by the fate of Sassy, oh those long years ago. Is Jane going to fold? Or worse, become a Marie Claire JV mag? Anyone in publishing want to shed some light?
* Am I the only lady who, when choosing a stall in a public bathroom, tries to use the power of reason to determine which is the least used? I take note of the stall I would automatically head for, and then use the opposite one. Do other ladies do that? What are your stall selecting strategies, girls?
* Why do I drive my car so much? Every week when I fill up I resolve to make this tank last, and then next thing you know I’m at the pump again. I hate this routine for so many reasons. Someone help me break the cycle! (Freddy?)
* I want to know how many people read my blog. It is vain, yes. But I no longer have a counter, and I honestly have no idea. Recently a nice lady found me on flickr, said she read perfect heart, and asked if she could add me as a contact. Very sweet! It made me wonder how many others are out there, monitoring my follies. If you are reading this, will you please leave a “here,” or “present” or something similar in the comments? Consider it an informal survey. Thank you.
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And now on to date #2 with Mike Merrill. This one was actually set up in advance of our little wager. Mike accompanied me to my cohort holiday party, which is rather like an office party, only less awkward (I’m guessing). We had just come from Jona’s AMAZING curated birthday show at Nocturnal. Mike and I both had pieces in the show- Mike made a rad video with Steve, and I did a performance art piece based on Toastmasters. (Also, Steve made another sweet movie, Rebecca sang a great song, Flint did the most wonderful stand up routine I have ever seen, and many other friends made killer stuff for dear Jona on his special day!)
So by the time we arrived at the cohort party, it was late and things were winding down. Which is code for people were drunk. On a couple of occasions I introduced Mike to someone, and he put out his hand to shake, only to be pulled into a tight elementary-school-teacher hug. He was a very good sport about the hugging thing. Also about the “seeing the future educators of America’s youth grinding on each other and slapping each other’s asses” thing. And also the thing where Kathleen, the raddest 45 year old mom I know gave him a squeeze and said, “Oh Mike! We’ve heard so much about you!” They have?
Anyway, the party was fun, and I didn’t feel too worried about Mike- he’s no wall flower. I just went ahead and backed my ass up with Megan and Shelley, and let Mike talk stocks and bonds with the spouses. So, was this date better than date #1? Hard to say. He didn’t bring along a chaperone this time, but I also didn’t win any money on this date. I’d say they are tied. There are some great photos of date #2, but Mike hasn’t uploaded them onto flickr yet, so I can’t post them. I will try to get the real gems up soon. 2 down, 2 to go!

I think I mentioned that I went to Portland Meadows this weekend for an exciting afternoon at the races. It was quite a thrill. What I didn’t mention was that this excursion was the first of four dates with Mike Merrill that I won on Thanksgiving. That’s right. During our betting frenzy at the bowling alley and poker table I somehow walked away the winner of four hot, hot dates. I am prohibited by contract to reveal the full details of the bet, but rest assured it is complicated and absurd. A comedy of errors, if you will.
First let me say that Mike was a wonderful date. He held the door open for me, placed bets on my behalf, and literally put me on a pedestal:

It would have been a perfect afternoon, if not for the fact that Mike brought along his ex girlfriend, Fiona. Bad form, Mikey, bad form. Steve and Rebecca also came along. Hey Mike- are we Mennonites or what? How many chaperones do we need? Ugh. Men. Always so puritanical. Always. Luckily I love the pants off of Steve, Rebecca and Fiona, so they were warm blankets, not wet blankets. You know what I mean.

We had a great time.
And I guess our date was blessed by god because Mike and I both won big money (Willow= $16, Mike=$22). Here we are rubbing it in the faces of our friends:

So I guess I am on a winning streak. I play poker tomorrow night with the ladies, and I look to win a cool $35. No dates though. I don’t swing that way.

My lord, was this weekend ever festive! In addition to Thanksgiving Day mishaps and high-stakes betting, I also enjoyed:
* Going to Vancouver, WA to see Goblet of Fire
* Getting a belly ache from too much egg nog, but then drinking more egg nog anyway
* Finishing my VERY LAST bit of homework for the Fall Term!!! No more studying until January, yo!
* Hanging out with Ganja and then going to an art opening at this elite office store called “Office,” becoming incredibly enraptured by an antique adding machine, also playing Solitaire on my cell phone because my friends were clearly avoiding me (or so I thought in the moment)
* Going to Portland Meadows- the horse track near the river. Did I win big monies? I did. 16 dollars big! Go go, lucky seven!
* Spending lots of time in my little nest-room, hanging holiday lights and raging the space heater
* Other fun stuff
So I capped off the lovely weekend by watching the Outsiders with Steve last night and drinking Coke with Lime, which kept me up even later. I was meant to get up at 6:50 this morning in order to pick up my carpool at 7:30. At 7:15 she called me to see if I wanted to work out after school. I was still sleeping. The alarm did not go off. The party was officially over. I mumbled something to the effect of, “Work out? No. What time is it? Fuck.” How do they let a lady as irresponsible as me become a teacher? What kind of people do they have working for the Licensure board? Where are your tax dollars going? These are the questions you should be asking yourself right about now.
Finally, let me transcribe the conversation I had with the twins last night as I was reading them a bedtime story:
Amedeo: Your boobs are big.
Willow: (noncommital noise, continues to read Cheerio story)
Amedeo: Your boobs are bigger than my mom’s boobs.
Willow: (appropriating the language used by the parents) That’s my privacy, buddy. Let’s just read this story, okay?
Amedeo: I’m gonna chop your boob off!
Eban: (giggles helplessly)
Willow: Buddy, that’s not a nice thing to say at all!
What do I do? They are only 3 years old! Children are jerks.

Steve made this for me.
Thanks, Steve!

Highlights:
* Before guests arrived, frantically cleaning the kitchen, listening to Mr. Bob Dylan.
* Wearing my Thanksgiving dress (past 5 years, only on T-Day).
* Braving the crowds at Fred Meyer with Steve and Amedeo (one of the little dudes I live with).
* Friends knocking on my door.
* The following exchange:
Willow: Man! Why is this pie so bad? I made it last year and it was delicious!
Mike: Well, I am very glad I didn’t eat your pie last year because I am really enjoying this pie, and if I’d eaten better pie last year I might not love this pie quite as much.
* Holding hands and giving thanks- hearing what my friends are thankful for (Mike= Internet).
* Eyes too big for stomach.
* Texas Hold ‘Em in my living room.
* Bowling with Bros, drinking Budweiser.

Lowlights:
* Hitting the wall in the kitchen- unable to cook anymore! (Jessica bailed me out. Thank you!)
* Being hit in the head by Steve’s flying phone.
* My Terrible Toast- trying to praise each of my guests individually, but inadvertently insulting all of them. And then the food got cold. Oh god.
* Clean up the day after.
All in all it was a great time. My guests were generous, helpful, and understanding.

I just got back from a show at the Holocene- Rebecca’s friend from Las Vegas is in a band called Phosphorescent (I think that is what they are called.) It was unusually quiet there tonight. Obviously many Portland partiers were out of town for uh, out of town parties. Holidays. You know. They did this weird thing where they filled the whole space with small tables- two chairs apiece. It was very loungey, which was somewhat inappropriate for the psychedelic jams, but whatever. Halfway through the set, this tall lanky dude in loose red pants and a blue tank top started dancing with his limbs all a-flailing. Mind you, he was the only dude STANDING, let alone dancing. Rebecca and I realized that that is just the Holocene way. No matter what band is playing, be they electronic, metal or folky, there is always one lone hippie feeling the vibes. Sometimes it is a lady- braless and barefoot. Sometimes it is a man- tan and smiling.
Rebecca and I did some drinking- whisky for her, gin for me. The show ended and we were waiting around for her friend to finish loading up his stuff. At this point the place was almost empty. There were about eight people there total, all connected to the band in some way. We were bored and sort of tipsy, so we hit the dance-floor, impressing each other with our awesome moves. Then we were joined by the hippie. And then by his two hippie friends. There was much stretching and reaching coming from that end of the dance floor. We were more about the shimmies and kicks. But still… My question is: Is this how it starts? Is this how Holocene dancers are bred? Are Rebecca and I one step away from broomstick skirts and spagetti-strap tanks, communing with the music through the movement of our bodies? Oh god.
Lately I’ve been feeling like I need a second, secret blog to let all of my messy bits out. I feel like I’ve become too self-conscious in Perfect Heart because I know so many of my readers. Like, I don’t talk about my crushes because not only do they read Perfect, but so do their friends. And I don’t mention sex or talk shit like I used to because I feel the compulsion to be likable, which translates to boring sometimes. I’m burying this confession at the bottom of a silly entry on Thanksgiving Eve, knowing that fewer people than normal will read it. The thing is, Perfect Heart (the concept which includes but is not limited to this blog) is about transparency and against self-censureship. I need to stop acting composed and just let my sloppy, trouble-prone, boy crazy self out, and in the process liven up this place. Secret blog? Fuck that noise. What do I have to be ashamed of? In that spirit, here are two confessions:
1. I have snuggle relationship with a dude who is in love with another lady, which would be fine with me if he didn’t talk about her so much. When we are snuggling. I mean, honestly. I don’t want to be this man’s girlfriend or have his babies or anything, but while I am in his bed I would prefer not to hear about his long-distance pining. Love the one your with, man. Right?
2. Remember when I blogged about being drunk the other night with my old roommates? And I bought a nightgown? Right. Well, what I didn’t mention was that I unerotically kissed this man who drives a motorcycle and who has had the hots for me since I moved back to Portland. Why was it unerotic? Because the girls pressured me into doing it, and it was at the bar, and the man was extremely uncomfortable, and sober, though willing. And I was not into him. So why did I do it? I don’t know! Because kissing is nice and the holidays are upon us, and I literally have no prospects. Every boy I might like is either in love with someone else, or just recovering from being in love with someone else. Steve and I talked earlier, and he was like, “why are you so grouchy about this? Aren’t you happy without a man?” And he’s totally right. I am so happy with my life right now. I love the amount of time I spend with Steve and Reba, and I love the groove I’m in with my other friends- once a week or so with Nicole, and Liz and Justin are both getting back in the mix. So why and I even sweating it? Well, for one, as mentioned earlier, I am boy crazy. Always have been. For two, it is the holiday time, which makes me crave a man’s touch. And three, I am stuck in some anti-feminist vacuum that has permanently linked my sense of self-worth to the attentions of men-folk. This is getting much better as the years go on, but it is still a presence. And also, kissing is fun! So is snuggling! So is s-e-x!
So there you have it. My completely un-Perfect Heart, my drunken blogging that I will either delete in the morning or bury even deeper under inane Top 5’s and TV talk. I gotta find a better balance though. Perfect Heart needs to reflect my whole self, not just my cheery put-together self. I’ll work it out. I have to go to sleep now. I must cook a feast tomorrow. Adieu.