Beginnings: AWP

Well, here we are: the eve of AWP. I picked up my booklets & fancy little AWP bag this afternoon, and as I passed my writing peers with their lime-green lanyards and matching bags, I felt a whir of excitement and (let’s be honest) nervousness.

My last AWP experience was quite different as I went with a small group from our college’s literary magazine. It was in Chicago—a city I’d only ever driven by—and I had no idea what I was doing. As a returning attendee, I at least understand the structure, the layout, the hectic schedules, full rooms, and buzzing bookfair—yet we’re in Seattle—the one city (aside from Florence) that I know best in the world, a place that is familiar, a place that is home, but I am surrounded entirely by strangers.

Walking through Pike Place today, I started counting lanyards—strangers coming to my city to learn about writing, teaching, publishing. In the registration hall, couples and crews gathered around tables, flipping through the schedule of seminars. I figured I’d save my planning for tonight since I wanted to enjoy a precious day of Seattle sun.

Maybe that wasn’t the best idea. Exhausted yet motivated, here I am: booklets sprawled over my bed, trying to plan a day by narrowing down the five to ten seminars each hour that interest me most to the one I will attend for each time block.

By the time I made it through the day’s list, I realized I reserved no time to go to the bookfair, to eat, or to even take a short break—everything is back-to-back-to-back.

Now it’s nearly tomorrow, and I know I need to sleep soon in order to be up, ready, and present for the 9:00 session, but all I want to do is write. So… in order to go learn, listen, and absorb all that I can to improve my writing life, I have to decide if it’s worth sacrificing time to write now when the muses begin to sing?

ramblings on wheels (& a lot of parenthesis)

I have to admit, since moving to my new apartment, I feel old. This new place offers the illusion that I’ve got things figured out just because I live on my own and have my own bedroom. (I still just can’t get over that: SO blessed to have landed here.) I think part of the influence comes from the fact that the building itself is quite old, built in 1907, and offers old-age charm like high ceilings & original plumbing as well as attracts a wider variety of tenants (as opposed to the hip, new building I was at before).

But really, I come home, make dinner (something I haven’t had time to do consistently in so long), maybe do the dishes (life without a microwave or dishwasher is seriously amazing; teaches me to slow down a bit), watch an episode of something, read, write, record a song, feed the turtle, walk the dog—any variation of these things. It’s all very “adult”, and I haven’t figured that out: while most of my peers are going out to bars and drinking excessively and hooking up with strangers, I’m home pretending to be better than them because I’m “accomplishing life goals” and can drink a glass of wine with dinner & be in bed by 10:30 and still get seven hours of sleep.

Don’t get me wrong: I love this. I think it’s amazing to be here with so much going on outside and having time and space to write and play with my dog—but I can’t help but wonder if I’m missing out or at least missing something. I don’t want what others my age have; I’m not a get-drunk-on-weeknights kind of person, or really a get-drunk-at-all kind of person. Admittedly, I haven’t even intentionally gone to a bar yet in the year+ that I’ve been in Seattle (by intentionally, I mean, there are places that I go to eat that serve alcohol that have a bar in them, but I don’t go there to drink).

So if I can’t keep up the writer’s life without feeling like I’m missing something, and I’m not a public drinker (sorry, Hem), then what is it?

I’m starting to get an idea. It’s the road. I miss the road. I miss having a car and the freedom to just go for a drive and end up somewhere new and have new experiences outside of the city. There is much to see here, of course, and I love it, but I don’t always fit in with the city-vibe (one reason I didn’t move to Capitol Hill, though everyone I know says I’d fit in great there…). I like to stay home, but I like to adventure beyond the city limits. I can’t even get to Ikea in my current situation. Further, I’ve also realized that things like zipcar & car-2-go are out of reach as well because my phone doesn’t have an app for them (this is soon to change…).

Do I regret selling my car? Not at all: it’s a season. Though my car was great, it’s been such a blessing to not have to pay for insurance, worry about parking, continually not afford repairs. It’s also taught me a lot about dependence—I can’t get everywhere I want to anymore. While I bike, bus, or walk most places, not everywhere is within reach, so I’ve learned to depend on others for a ride or borrowing their car for a day or so.

I’m starting to get the feeling, though, that this will not be a prolonged season. In my journal, I made an oath to myself that I wouldn’t buy a car until my student loans were paid off. I think I’m a liar because I don’t think I could go about 5-10 years without road trips or weekend get-aways. Plus if I go to grad school (God-willing it would be funded, but if not…) those loans would get bigger, not smaller. In the meantime, my puppy & I need to go!

I told my sister that if she moved back West, I’d immediately get a car so I could visit her. (I’m obsessed with roadtrips, and West-coast drives are so scenic, vast, and variant that I forget that the rest of the world exists—like when I drove through a snowstorm in Oregon to get to the dry deserts of Phoenix.)

I also resolved to myself that I would wait to get a car until I moved to Montana for grad school (why do I make such strange resolutions that are based on options floating in the air that I have no commitment to?). Everything is so unpredictable that I can’t keep a single promise to myself about the future (I really don’t have the final say, thank God).

So here I am: sitting on the couch, as I have been, admittedly, most of the weekend (the unceasing winter rain makes the couch very appealing) and probably will be tomorrow as well. I’ve spent my time doing yoga (not on the couch, obviously), reading Pride & Prejudice (which I can’t spell (pride & prejuice?) and have—for shame— never read before), and snuggling with my dog with a lavender scented pillow under my head & a tie-dyed blanket that Katlin made for Derek years ago keeping us warm, as Pickle’s little (actually large, but as she is still a puppy (and always will be to me), all of her accounts for “little”) head sticks out above my feet, warming my toes under her whiskered chin.

Who knows what’s next? Seriously. I change my mind so much that I am beginning to wonder if I even have a mind—it’s probably just a bunch of pieces of a brain all mushed together trying to function as one. Who knows when I’ll next have wheels (God knows I can’t even think of affording that right now) or even leave the couch (very much affordable to stay put right here!)? For the most part, we’re happy, Pickle & me, and that’s all that matters. 

beer boy

I can’t hold it any longer. I’ve never been good at secrets—but it’s certainly not a secret—yet I think the whole story is here, so I’m ready to tell.

It all started at a Super Bowl party.

"Oh, speaking of the Canadian flag; tell Natalie, Martin.”

“We have an errand for you."

“Okay…”

My dear friends then made a wonderfully joint effort to tell me about this catch of a twenty-one-year-old available boy they met at the brewery a few blocks down.

“You have to go see him during half-time. We told him to look for the girl with ear plugs,” (she was referencing my gauges, in case you were wondering).

Half-time came, and Martin accompanied me to the brewery. On the walk down, we both felt quite silly about the whole thing. What was I even supposed to say? “Hey, my friends said you’re great; let’s go on a date?” Minus the rhymes. Totally clueless, we passed the small crowd of tables and up to the bar, only to find that the boy had gone.

“To missed connections,” Martin raised his glass of Amber Ale that had some clever name that I entirely forget. I kept thinking what a bummer this was—it seems impossible to find a nice, Christian man outside of my church (not that there aren’t nice ones at my church; there just haven’t been any advances), and now this one chance was gone!

So I left him a note. I have no idea what I was thinking; do people even call people anymore? The last boy I connected with, we exchanged email addresses. So I left a note with both my phone number and email address and waited.

“How long is the appropriate waiting period before a random stranger responds to a note left by another random stranger? Do they respond? I would. I'm curious,” I asked Martin two days later over Facebook. His response? “5 days from the time the random stranger views said note, give or take 39 hours.” This provided a very accurate yet inaccurate calculation, as the next day, he called. CALLED.

I was in the hardware store when an unknown number called. “Hi, it’s ____ from the brewery. I think you left me a note on Super Bowl Sunday?” It took a minute to register that it was actually him on the other line. His voice sounded either extremely sweet and gentle or gay, which was slightly confusing. He asked a few questions about myself over the course of several dropped calls as I had to leave the store for service and said to text him about making plans.

I immediately called the list of people I had told about him, which was basically Martin and my mom. My mom’s advice? “Just take it slow.” My response? “Mom, we haven’t even met”.

Later that night, we were arranging to meet when my lack of transportation + the chaos of that day’s parade downtown prevented me from leaving the apartment. We became “friends” on Facebook—something I was extremely hesitant of before meeting because it allows him a warped insight into my life. You really cannot get to know someone on Facebook, but for whatever reason, many millenials think you can. Further, any correspondence from then out would be biased against what he saw on Facebook. What if he saw my picture and thought I was ugly or fat or not “whatever” enough for him? That’s a shit way to “meet” someone. Regardless, he had already given me his contact info, so of course I had browsed his profile; it would have been creepy for me not to add him.

Maybe this isn’t needless to say, but I haven’t heard from him since. A week later, I sent him a text asking if he still wanted to meet sometime. No response. Seriously? At least be polite enough to say no, damnit.

On Valentine’s Day, he made a Facebook post along the lines of, “Its better to be single with high standards, then in a relationship settling for less!” followed by hashtags about his dream woman. After a brief texting exchange with both Kim & Martin from their separate phones (they are definitely the cutest couple I know), we all agreed that my standards start with someone who can at least write an accurate sentence, concluding that, IT’S better to be single THAN to settle for someone with shitty grammar. #Ihavestandardstoo (Thanks for the encouragement, friends).

Here I am on this lamest of lovey-dovey holidays, date-less and cuddling with my dog. I called my mom to thank her for the valentine & cookies (yes, I got a valentine from my parents! No shame! There are lemon cookies involved!) and told her that I was out for a walk with my valentine. While she assumed without saying that I was referring to my dog, I had to awkwardly avoid referring to my valentine as “she”.

All that to say, we are no longer Facebook friends, this “beer boy” (as Martin so cleverly referred to him) and me, though the slightly hopeful part of me can’t bring myself to delete his number even though he’s clearly never calling back. It’s because I don’t ski. Seriously.

Anyways, after more encouragement, I wrote a song about beer boy. I figured it was only appropriate that it take place as a pseudo-voicemail. You can listen to it here. 

welcome home

I’ve been at my new apartment for one and a half weeks, and I’m nearly settled in. I keep telling myself that once this happens or that comes in the mail or I do this one thing, I’ll be home; I’ll be settled. I’ll be in it for the long run.

I feel shockingly committed to this apartment. We always knew that the last place was temporary. This one feels good—great location, great space, solitude. I’m really happy about it and hoping to stay for a few years. Yes, I said years. Plural. We’ll see how I feel in 6 months or so.

But really, I am oddly happy. I think I am caught in the euphoric novelty of the apartment & living alone. Before I moved, I was afraid that I would be too lonely. I’m still afraid of that, but this week is aptly filled with hangouts, so really, I’m not too worried. What I am worried about is the sadness.

The sadness that creeps in whenever it wants to, without warning or cause, and overrules anything else I may be feeling. Week one was okay, but by Friday, I could feel it pushing its way in through the register and the windows and the cracks between the couch.

I guess there’s no sense worrying about something I don’t feel yet, especially when I feel so happy now, so totally content with what my life looks like from a bird’s-eye-view. I get too worried about details. Let’s be real, I’m settled in here.

Pickle is too. She loves running from the living room to the bedroom, and just getting to say that makes me so happy: rooms. She loves jumping onto the bed or over the couch. She also has a strange obsession with hiding her toys under the living room rug and the trying to get them out by chewing on the rug. We’re working on it.

SO here it is from a glance. 

Entry way, complete with boxes, Dali calendar from 2012, and dog.

Pickle abides. 

Living room window. 

1st Ave

Broken strings, but who cares? The guitars made it up!

She's usually a better welcome committee lead than this. Trust me, if you come over, she'll leap to greet you with a much happier face. 

"The office"/kitchen "table" (this has actually progressed since this photo: now featuring bar stools & a calendar!)

The kitchen: kettle on the stove, feels like home.

BEDROOM! When I toured the apartment, we walked into the living room, and I was like "woah, this is a small studio," (seeing only the living room) and the lady said, "oh no, it's a one bedroom". I nearly fainted with joy. So.Much.Space.

 Books and more books, of course. It's a comfort thing. More decorations to come.

Maybe it's weird to showcase my bathroom, but come on, there's a corner toilet. Awesome.