Baby went to Seattle this week! I went also, because it would have been strange and irresponsible to send a fetus on such a long trip alone.
This was my first visit to Seattle, and most of what I know about the city was gleaned from Sub Pop, Starbucks and the movie “Singles.” I also know Seattle as the home of the newborn vampire army in “Eclipse,” the sequel to “Twilight.”
Unfortunately, neither grunge nor vampires were to be found anywhere.
A whole big city and not a single sparkly man.
On a good note, I did find Starbucks.
“You know it’s an original Starbucks, because the mermaid is fatter,” said my friend Ashley.
I fell for Seattle immediately, the way you see a handsome stranger and can instantly imagine your life together. Over-caffeinated people, many slightly pale and dirty, shrouded in flannel? Restaurants that serve sizable portions of inventive, local food? Markets filled with freshly plucked produce? Mountains and pine trees and painfully blue, blue water? Yes! All of it yes. This city gets me.
Six blocks of yum.
The occasion for this trip was the annual AWP conference, the Association of Writers and Writing Programs, a gathering of 13,000 nerds for workshops, panels, a gigantic book fair, readings and evening events.
The conference squeezes all the experiences of going to school into just a few days. The first day is like a junior high dance, with everybody standing awkwardly in their own corner, looking at the wall. By the final day, it’s college. People have separated into cliques. They are bleary-eyed and weak, and their backs have been tweaked from carrying too many books. They skip workshops to meet friends or to tend to their hangovers. Or they skip the conference entirely to smoke pot in hot tubs.
AWP is a strange and wonderful world, but it was different to experience it sober rather than seeing it through a martini glass. Last year I was a social butterfly who hopped from bar to bar and the occasional hotel room, partying with questionable poets until 4 a.m. This year I was the pregnant lady who just shoveled pie into my mouth. But I spent less money this year. So there’s that.
Anyway, I did not take any photos of the conference, so here are some more pictures from Pike Place Market.
Spelling candy with a K makes it sweeter.
Warning: When a dead monkfish asks you to come closer, it’s gotta be some kind of trick.
Freshly chewed: The bubblegum wall in Post Alley.
Of course, the best part was that I got to spend a lot of time with one of my best friends, Ashley, and watch her give an incredible reading. Here’s the piece she read an excerpt from on stage.
MFA BFFs.
Here’s how everything else is going this week:
Baby: The size of a papaya. Yuck. This is the first week I haven’t liked the produce comparison, since papayas taste like feet and vomit.
Health: I had a full-on anxiety attack, because I suddenly couldn’t feel the baby move anymore. So before I left for Seattle, I called my doctor’s office and forced myself upon them until they agreed to let me come in for an appointment. My usual OB wasn’t there, and I was given someone with the bedside manner of a Pike Place Market monkfish. She listened to the heartbeat and said, “Well, it’s there. You’re fine,” before she ushered me out the door. It wasn’t exactly reassuring, but until someone invents a uterus porthole so I can peer inside myself and see what’s going on, I have no choice but to believe her.
By the way, can one of you invent a uterus porthole? Thanks.
Later, in Seattle, I ate some unbearably spicy Indian food, and the baby kicked up a storm. So he’s there. And I will eat tongue-shredding curry every day of this pregnancy if I have to, just to feel him.
Also, baby got his first piece of clothing this week! How sweet is this?
The onesie that said “Write like a motherfucker” was sold out.
Cravings: Everything, really. Although I still want slurpy noodles and dumplings and curry and sushi slightly more than usual. This conveyor belt of food at Blue C was a dream come true.
Sushi-go-round!
Strangers: This week two people confirmed why I don’t like to leave the house anymore.
1. My seatmate from SFO to SEA leaned over and whispered, “What flavor is it?”
ME: By “flavor,” you mean what?
HIM: You know. FLAVOR.
ME: Like, boy or girl? Ethnicity?
HIM: Democrat or Republican.
ME: Oh. Well, his parents are Democrats. But I hope to raise a critical thinker who can make decisions for himself.
HIM: Atta girl! So a Democrat.
2. Inside the AWP conference, a man sidled up to me on an escalator. Then he rubbed my belly.
HIM: So what are you doing tonight?
ME: Me? Sleeping.
HIM: I’m going to this boss party, and it’s gonna be off the hook. I’d love to get your number …
ME: Um, no. I don’t think so.
HIM: (groaning and running hands through hair) Ugh. Sorry. I drank too much boxed wine last night.
Belly: I think bathroom selfies are the ultimate in tacky, but I found myself in a bad place this week. And that bad place was the Westin lobby, with several hours to kill before my flight back to Palm Springs. I wanted to get my usual belly photo, but all of my friends were already gone and nobody else was around so … I selfied it up.
I realize the point of a selfie is to make yourself look good, but I decided to reject that idea by getting rained on, wearing no makeup and staring at my iPhone screen with dead, soulless eyes.
#badphoto
That is what Seattle Maggie looks like.