My 7 year old ward is very concerned about my personal life. He really liked Jake, and was sad when I explained the break up. We’ve been having these intense Wes Anderson moments ever since. Like the day after Jake left me, I told Jordan that my heart literally felt broken, and he stared at me for a while before laying his hand on my arm. Or the other day in the car out of the blue he asked, “Do you miss Jake?” I said yes. He said, “Well, he’s going to have to graduate to being your friend. And that’s very very hard.”
Today I was folding my laundry and he advised me to get a new boyfriend. I asked where I was supposed to meet this boyfriend. “At the coffee shop. You just go up to him and say, ‘Hi, my boyfriend doesn’t want to be my boyfriend anymore. Would you like to be be my boyfriend?’ Oh, but make sure he’s handsome. He should have a good haircut, like me.”
Now the appropriateness of discussing my love life with a 1st Grader aside, he makes a good point. I’m starting to nurture some around-town crushes. None of them really set my heart a-flutter, but they are distracting, at least. Here is a list of my half-hearted crushes:
-A gymnastics coach at Jordan’s gym
-A fellow patron at the Fresh Pot
-The Stumptown coffee delivery man (he is an alumni crush from 2002, when he worked at the flower stand by my house)
-The video store boy
-Reed Harkness (who is in a relationship, I think.)
Today was the first day in three weeks I didn’t wake up feeling like I would vomit. This is a good thing.

When I was in 9th grade I was in this melodrama at my high school. I don’t remember what it was called, and I was only in the chorus. (I was an Old West showgirl. I did a dance.) The catch phrase of the play, which was repeated ad nauseum was “Our strength will be the strength of ten, if but our hearts are pure.” I spent most of my time at rehearsal flirting with the “sailors” and gossiping with the other showgirls, generally zoning out everything that was happening on the stage. But that line, repeated so constantly, must have worn a canyon into my brain and somehow co-mingled with my presonal ethics. Because it was around that time that I began to be consumed with the idea of the pure heart (or what I now refer to as Perfect Heart). I began to define and aspire to Perfect Heart. Here is my general definition:
To have a Perfect Heart you must first have a clear conscience. Guilt erodes all good intentions, so you must conduct yourself in a way that is virtuous (whatever that means to you) and confess your transgressions to those who are affected. A Perfect Heart contains an infinite quantity of forgiveness and apology. Jealousy is discarded as soon as it is discovered, and Trust is distributed perhaps too liberally, but knowingly so. Now the tricky part: a Perfect Heart remains light, even when burdened. It is not a harbour for self-pity or ill-will. It embraces and releases hurt, refusing to scar or shrink. All of the old adages fit in:
Pure Heart
Open Heart
Warm Heart
Stout Heart
Big Heart
Soft Heart
Giving Heart
Brave Heart
Strong Heart
Good Heart
Good Heart
Perfect Heart.
I think in trying hard to live up to this model I forgot that others might not be as concerned. My lover built a barricade around his heart, and let my love slide down off of it. Maybe my pursuit of Perfect Heart is futile, since I cannot influence the hearts of others. Maybe I should have stuck with softball, and avoided melodrama altogether. The fate of the ingenue is always in the hands of villians and heros.

Broken Heart Status: Mending
You know what helps a person with a shattered heart? Flying 3,500 miles east to visit her bestest lady-friends. They will cheer her up. They will take her shopping. They will make her cookies and pesto pizza. They will rent Fame and Flashdance and imitate cool moves for her amusement. They will come up with a hilarious game called “Sleepy Eggs” wherein the three friends find themselves fake-sleeping in absurd places and photographing it. The car will break down, and Miss Heartbreak will gleefully hitchike to help her friend make her train, then hitch back to the car solo. They will administer tough-love, reminding her that at 25 she’s got a lotta lovin’ ahead of her. They will not be too hard on the heartbreaker, but won’t let him off the hook either. Miss Heartbreak will return to the West Coast feeling much more confident and optimistic. She will Google old flames and strike up a flirtation with a man at the coffeeshop. She will still feel the loss of her lover, especially in the mornings. And just before falling asleep. And in the car. But it’s not as bad as before.

As a frequent flier, I’ve developed a list of questions that consume me while on the plane, and which I promptly forget as soon as I disembark. But for highly scientific blogging purposes, I’ve tried to retain my ponderings. Here is a list:
*Does everyone think of death when they fly?
*Do flight attendants think about death more than I do, in general?
*Do flight attendants develop a finer appreciation of the view from the sky, or do they become immune to it’s beauty after a while?
*How do pilots fly directly toward the sun?
*What is happening down there?
*If the plane were about to crash, would the pilot tell us, if he knew, or spare us the knowledge of our doom?
*Which would I prefer?
*Do people ever survive plane crashes?
*Are the people around me traveling to their home or away from it?
*Who gets to use this shared armrest?
*Isn’t it weird that we all act naturally when we are in fact FLYING through the air?
*Why are some of those fields down there circular? Is that really space efficient?
*What state are we over?
*Who would choose peanuts as a snack? Honestly, who sits around eating peanuts when not in the air?
*What mountains/lake/river/desert/plain/bay is that?
*Can people recognize specific landscapes from the air?
*Are pilots good at predicting weather?
*How do they know when we’re “coming up on some turbulence?” Do they see it? Isn’t it just air?
When I fly there is a part of me that is sure I’ll never land. Time seems to stop in the air (Einstein says time slows down for a body in motion anyway). Suspended 40,000 feet above the earth, a village of strangers lingers each over their own thoughts: work, faces, anticipations, reunions, farewells, the inevitible, the possible. Even if we don’t crash, I’m certain we’ll never land. Time races away in both directions, expanding the pause until it feels infinate. Sometimes the stillness is tedious, but mostly it’s just strange. Then we descend, land, collect our belongings, report that the flight was fine, but shudder nonetheless. There is a great Jets to Brazil song about being an air passenger. It captures that idea of lingering very well, “If I forgot to say, I love you every day, know that I’m keeping track, in my quiet way… I’ll be thinking of you, when the plane goes down.”
I’ll write more about my trip out East tomorrow. I’m feeling much stronger and my heart is lighter. I think I’m through the worst of it.

Grr. I just spent over an hour working on a post, only to lose it right before I could publish. This is my luck right now folks. Maybe the post was too focused on the banalities of my life-since-heartbreak, and losing it was a sign to return to my fantasy land. So here we go:
“I woke this morning in a hay loft, the sunlight golden as it filtered through the dust and pollen. My body aches from days of riding, the slow burn that reminds me I’m alive. My fine painted steed is called Melinda, and is on loan from the cowgirl ranch near Laramie. One of the cowgirls, Betty, rode with me for a while, and she was a good companion. Quiet, but not with sorrow. She didn’t have a destination in mind, just liked the feel of her seat in the saddle. Betty says there’s no such thing as good and evil, only fear and love in a constant struggle for our hearts. I asked her which would win out, in the end. She just smiled, and at first I was hopeful, but then a tear slipped down her cheek, and now I’m not so sure. She turned around in Pueblo, but not before she kissed me on the mouth, so tenderly, and told me Melinda would see me safely on. I ride today toward Santa Fe, to sagebrush, and rattlesnakes, dark blue skies and a lover I left behind many years ago. Is it too late for apologies to cleanse my heart? If I say I’m sorry to all I’ve wronged, will I finally be lifted? Grasshoppers danced at my feet as I stretched this morning, as swallows dipped and soared above. I will go East soon, but first…”
Thank you dear friends for your sympathy and support. Calvin says all you can do with a broken heart is suffer through it, and that is just what I am doing.
Willow Wonder

The weird thing about having a personal blog is not knowing just how personal to get. I mean, my relationship just fell apart, suddenly. But this isn’t the right forum to disect the depths of my devestation. Suffice to quote Joni Mitchell “I’m so hard to handle, I’m selfish and sad, and I’ve just gone and lost the best baby that I ever had. Oh I wish I had a river, that I could skate away on… I made my baby say goodbye.”
But rather than write about my heartache I’ve decided to play a game of make-believe. Here is the post that I would publish in my alternate universe:
“Greetings from the road! My planes, trains and automobiles adventure is well underway. Yesterday I hitched a ride from Des Moines to Deluth with a fading beauty queen and her reformed pirate beau in a 1976 Rolls Royce. What a hoot. I told the queen about the stone in my chest where my heart should be and she cried diamonds and gave me her Miss Midwest Dairy tiara. The pirate wiped her tears with his sash. I hope I see a bear up here, or at least the Northern Lights.
Last week, on the Tall Ship, I met a sailor with waves in his eyes. He showed me tenderness, but he was married to the sea, and I of course to the road. We shared a hammock under the stars; I described the forrests of my youth, he taught me the constellations. Now I can navigate in darkness.
My patron, Mme du Monde, has sent word that my play opened in London to mixed reviews. Perhaps I will rewrite the ending before the New York debut. Everybody wants a happy ending.
That’s all for now. I hope to travel East soon. I’ll hop a train, I suppose, or maybe I will walk. Tonight I played my guitar for a widow living above an abandoned department store. I will sleep in her arms. Deluth is even more that I imagined. Goodbye.”

So this is the big news of the weekend: I got a Queen Bee bag (pictured below) for HALF-OFF at this store that was closing downtown. Folks, this is incredible. These bags are hand made, vegetarian leather, extremely popular (in the NW), and usually run about $100. This lady from Olympia, Rebecca Pearsy, makes them. I first became aware of them last year when my wallet was stolen. My pal Calvin sent me a K Records wallet that she made to cheer me up. It was so cute- silver with a pink K symbol. Then when I moved to Portland, I started seeing her bags and purses at choice boutiques around town. I oohed and ahhed at them so much that Jake Longstreth bought me one for Christmas. It was perfect- blue with little multi-color birds flying around on it. I have used it every day since he gave it to me. I thought I was all set on Queen Bee items. Until…

Yeah. I know. it’s beautiful. It was $40. I am in heaven. Check out buyolympia.com to get yr own hot number!
In other news, the first grade class that I spent every day with for six months before getting brutally replaced (still bitter) has been sending me adorable St. Patrick’s Day cards. This seems to be completely spontanious and independent on their part. Every day when i pick up Jordan from school he says something like “Oh, by the way, I have a note for you in my lunch box.” These notes are so adorable, I must publish them here. As you read, imaging that they are written on these orange shamrock cards that say “I feel lucky to know you” on the top. Some are cards they made on the computer, presumably during a class, that feature a smiling shamrock on purple paper. Being 1st Graders, they have jazzed up these cards with marker drawings of rainbows, hearts, pots’o’gold, etc. I’m including their original spelling, for added cuteness:
From Sasha;
“To Willow love Sasha
Willow, I hope you good luck Willow! love: Sasha.”
From AJ:
“Willow I miss you I wish I wood no wht class you are in. Willow were you are at lunch recess. I Wish you wood come back to meet us.
From Melanie:
A crayoned picture of her and I standing under a rainbow, each with our own pot of gold. We are smiliing. The sun is out. She drew some wind.
Another from Sasha:
Willow: Willow this is Sasha and we miss you. happy St Patricks day willow. from sasha (this note is punctuated by small hearts drawn above each period.)
From Galen B.:
“I wish that you wood com dack. to willow love Galen B”
From Haneen:
“I miss you I wish you came back to are class I vare miss you I wont you vare vare vare miss you I vary wont you to came back pales willow. From Haneen.
Pretty cute huh? Sigh. I made the class a big yellow thank you card with a construction paper flower on it and delivered it to them on Friday. 22 kids hugged me at once. The teacher said “They only appreciate you when you’re gone.”
Now it is Spring Break, and I am babysitting for the week. The school secretary, Liz (See her blog on my sidebar- she’s “The Other Liz”) and I are going to take Jordan and his sister to the aquarium in Newport Beach on Tuesday. Two and a half hours each way. Wish us luck!
As ever, etc,
Willow Wonder

I recently chopped about 6 inches off of my hair. After all of the upset with my job, plus weeks of sunshine and cherry blossoms, I needed a change. I wanted to feel like I had, you know, SOME control in my life. (The classic reason for major hair changes!) I went to Salon in Vogue, this Aveda training salon. Haircuts are only $20 and they give you hand and scalp massages. The downside is that you sometimes get really nervous new girls cutting your hair, and the your concerns about her ability to avoid bubble-bobs effectively cancel out the spa treatment. Or at least that’s what happened to me. My lady was so fussy I thought I would have a heart attack. Her name was Tiffany. She asked me if I wanted my hair stacked in back. You know, like in the early ’90’s. Dear God.
In the end she actually gave me a haircut I like pretty well. Here are some before and after shots:


(I’m just learning how to do links- pretty cool, huh?)
So, new hair, new me, I guess. As for the “shave” part of the subject line, that was a hoax. I haven’t shaved (my legs) in 6 years. Sorry to fool you all. Even without the long locks, I’m still a hippie-mama in my heart!

I have been arguing with Jake Longstreth about Curb Your Enthusiasm for about a year. He thinks Larry David is a comic genius. He has adopted Larry David’s method of telling stories. He thinks that I am like Larry David’s TV wife, Cheryl. He thinks that issues that come up in our relationship are just like Larry and Cheryl’s issues. (Okay, that last one might be an exaggeration, but still!)
I watched the show a good few times and found it to be profoundly unfunny. I felt that Larry was just an asshole, and watching him be an asshole for half an hour did not make me laugh. I mean, this guy feels no remorse. He creates havoc wherever he goes, and he never seems sorry. I guess mine is a moral objection. I had the same problem with Seinfeld, specifically the George character (modelled after Larry David). Unhappy, distasteful, always complaining, Larry/George gets on my nerves. Or did. Until I watched the third season of Curb. Now I think I am hooked.
See, my roomate has the first two seasons on DVD. Over the last few months I ended up watching nearly every episode. On say, a Friday night, when I was feeling sick, and all of my TV choices were geared toward 11 year old girls, I would pop in a Larry David DVD. Just to remind myself how much I disliked the show. As time went on I was able to admit that I was sometimes, mildly amused, but not often of course. But then, this weekend, I was at the video store, and I wanted something episodic that I could watch all week since I have a lot of time now, and somehow I ended up with Curb Your Enthusiasm, season 3. And by god, it was funny.
Liz told me once that if you eat a food seven times you start to like it. She used to hate avacados, but she kept eating them, and now she likes them. Well, Larry David finally wore me down. I realized that Larry’s unapologetic attitude is what makes him funny. Or rather, if you watch Curb enough times you start to share his perception of the other characters. Why be concerned about the over-sensitive, uptight people around Larry? Why offer apologies to people who are clearly over reacting? Somehow the most unsympathetic comic character ever has won me over to his side. He has become likeable, an admission I never thought I would make.
Now it could be that the recent events in my life have made me more appreciative of mean humor. Maybe it’s not a coincidence that my conversion to Davidism came but a few short days after losing my job. I’m feeling rather put-upon, so I turn to the King of the Inconvenienced. Maybe when my morale rises I’ll snap out of this, but I felt I must confess it in the meantime. Just don’t tell Jake. Like Larry David, I hate to admit when I’m wrong.

I lost my job this week.
Despite the fact that the school where I work(ed), and the parents of my student all wanted me to stay, a lawyer for the district decided to act against the best interest of all of us by inserting a stooge in my position on one day’s notice. It’s a long story. I’m going to continue working with the school and the family, but in a more general way. And I start grad school in June, so at least there’s that.
It feels so weird. I have been Jordan’s aid since the third week of school. His parents hired me because (at the time) he was ineligible for special ed services, but he had a “running away outside” problem and needes someone nearby to chase after him. It wasn’t just running though he also had problems with: kicking, biting, reading, eating, shouting, bathrooms, hiding, and hitting. In those early months I had him in full body locks at least a couple of times a week. He was suspended from school twice. He’s in First Grade! I worked with him at home and all day every day at school. I was there through medication changes, behavior plans, eligibility meetings, and many many meltdowns. In the last couple of months he really started to turn around. He started on new meds, and I swear they are miracle pills. His behavior improved along with his appetite and his school work. Every day he did a little bit better, and I was so proud to see it all unfold.
Now suddenly, I’m out. And it feels so unfair. I was there through the toughest times, and now I don’t get to watch him succeed. Everyone’s hands are tied- I just got caught in the middle of this absurdist beaurocracy. But there was no closure. I’d become so attached to his whole class. I had no idea when I said goodbye to them on Tuesday that I wouldn’t be saying hello on Wednesday. The classroom teacher had to think on her feet, so she told them I’d found another job and I had to start right away. It feels so dishonest, but how else do you explain an upheaval like this to 22 7 year olds? I hope they don’t feel betrayed by me. I hope they miss me. Jordan told me they’re all working on an art project for me- goodbye cards or something. This makes me sad.
And Jordan… I don’t even know what to hope for. If the new aid doesn’t work out, then they’ll put me back in for the rest of the year. But I don’t want to hope he fails so that I can have my job back.
Sorry for such a downer of an entry. Hopefully the dust will settle soon and I’ll have better news. Luckily Jordan’s parents and teachers are supportive, and are committed to finding a new place for me. Keep your fingers crossed.