Seattle

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Heading Back to the Emerald City–

Published May 21, 2012 by monicastangledweb

View from the Pike Place Market, which is always on my must-do list when visiting Seattle.

–Or, I have a feeling I’m not in So-Cal anymore!

Recently, I decided to throw caution to the wind, and throw the shoestring budget I’ve been on out the door, so that I could head back to the place I called home for nearly a decade: Seattle.

The Emerald City. The Pacific Northwest and all that.  Tony Bennett may have left his heart in San Francisco, but for me, mine will always be firmly entrenched in the city nestled on a gazillion bodies of water, between the Cascade and Olympic mountains. Lush and green, and a far cry from my current dessert-like home, where the weather may be gorgeous all year round, but limited rainfall makes it a largely brown and arid region.

For those who have read my Road Taken saga, you’ll know that I moved to Seattle to be with my ex, who wasn’t an ex back then, but rather, a boyfriend, and then a husband. The “ex” part came long after we left Seattle. Which does make me wonder, what if we’d never left Seattle at all?  Hmm….

Seattle is green in so many ways. What struck me is how many people grow their own vegetables and the like, right along the sidewalk. So resourceful!

Anyway, I still have friends there. Good friends, who I don’t see often but when I do, it’s just like old times. Friends like Pam, who was the subject of three entire Road Taken installments.  There’s also Pat, my highly-organized, pays attention to every detail, kindred spirit. She loves to write and watch soaps—we were both hooked on Dallas and Knots Landing for years—and Tom, my quiet friend who prefers to call me by my alter name, “Della Wolfe,” and who drives me to drink with his flair for making tantalizingly addictive, Galliano Sours.

And, then there’s Clare.

Clare is a published author, whose latest book, Soccer Dreams, was inspired by a project we once worked on together. She also is a performer and songwriter (when in Seattle, you have to catch The Righteous Mothers in concert, and you’ll see Clare singing and on the piano). She’s been helping me tremendously, with my half-baked attempts to write my memoir. She’s like my coach and she’s very critical. When others keep telling me they like my stuff, Clare sees right through my charade and shenanigans, and tells me, I could do better. She pushes and pushes until I’m up against the wall and ready to cry, “Uncle!”

Mother’s Day proved to be a beautiful day for a three-mile walk around Greenlake.

But, in the end I have found, Clare knows best, and she’s really a lifesaver, helping me put together something that is cogent and actually tells a story.

It was Clare that suggested I come up to Seattle and take a Life Story seminar, with her mentor, Brenda Peterson, author of a memoir titled, I Want to be Left Behind, about life with her Southern Baptist family as they eagerly prepared for the Rapture.  I’d never taken a class on memoir writing before and I learned all sorts of interesting tidbits in this one, which I’ll be sure to share in a future post. In the meantime, please enjoy these photos, taken during my visit to the Seattle of my heart.

This photo of one of Pam’s daughters exemplifies how green Seattle is, and also at peace I feel when there. It is like a green cathedral.

This dog doesn’t seem to have a care in the world. He’s going places but has no idea where. I wanted to get his owner in the picture as well, but they were going too fast!

This is one of Clare’s favorite spots for contemplating and zoning out: The Japanese Garden at the Washington Park Arboretum. Too beautiful for words!

If I moved back to Seattle, I’d want to live in this spectacular building. A work of art, if you ask me!

Pam’s Yorkshire Terriers. Aren’t they adorable? I wanted to scoop them up and bring them home.

View from Fremont neighborhood. Look closely and you can see Mt. Rainier in the background. Breathtaking!

Bosses: The Good, The Bad & Gleda Balls

Published January 5, 2012 by monicastangledweb

A Road Taken Story

When it comes to bosses, I’ve had my share.  The good, the bad and the in-between. Thankfully, my current boss, is not only good, she’s GRRREAT!! She possesses the perfect combination of skills: leadership, generosity and diplomacy.

But I’m not here to talk about the good ones.  Instead, I’d like to tell you about Gleda Balls. As far as bosses go, she falls in the in-between.

Of course, Gleda Balls wasn’t her real name, but it came close.

You may recall that my first job in Seattle was at a TV station. Patti, a dynamic, down-to-earth woman, hired me the day I walked in. She was genuine and super friendly. She even threw a party for G and I, after we returned from getting married back east. Patti was everything you could hope for in a starter boss.

But within a few months, Patti announced she was going to head the public affairs division. And so, a nationwide search ensued for a new promotions director.  Jeff, the assistant director, applied but didn’t get it. Too bad, because he was an amiable and funny guy.  “Wake up and smell the coffee,” was his mantra.

One day, we learned that management had hired Gleda Balls to replace Patti. Gleda was a tall, thin woman, who hailed from Lubbock, Texas. She had shoulder-length, chestnut-colored hair, and a face that looked like a rainbow exploded on it, leaving her with a permanent coating of blue green eye shadow, magenta lipstick, and peach-colored cheeks.

Did I mention Gleda Balls wasn’t her real name? Mary, the publicist, gave her that name when she accidentally typed, “Gleda Balls” in the contact line on a press release that was sent out to every newspaper in the Seattle-Tacoma area. And to TV Guide,too.  After that snafu, the name stuck, though not to her face.

Gleda Balls' kitchen didn't look quite like this, but close.

I didn’t interact with Gleda Balls right away. She didn’t invite me into her office, nor did she stop by mine. After all, I was just a lowly assistant, and not at all on her radar. At least, not at first.

Around the third month of her tenure, she breezed into my office, which was really the front parlor of the Victorian house the station occupied.  I shared this room with Ann, another assistant, who was about 2o years my senior and half my size.

When Gleda entered, she waltzed right up to my desk, and stood inches away from me. I could feel her warm breath on the top of my head. I looked up. Gleda had on a red jacket and pencil-thin skirt, and three-inch heels. Considering the rest of us wore jeans, sweatshirts, and sneakers or Birkenstock shoes to work—we were in Seattle, after all—she seemed a tad overdressed. A gargantuan brooch, in the shape of Texas, and studded with sapphires, was pinned to her bosom and protruded over my head, daring me to stand up and bump my head against it.

Yep, Gleda towered over me, and I was at once nervous and excited. She was unnerving, but I imagined she had come because she finally wanted to learn about my work and how I was contributing to the department. No doubt, our general manager had already told her what an asset I was to the station and how in just six months, I’d gone from a part-time, hourly employee to full time with benefits, on account that the general manager and the program manager had noticed my capabilities. So now, in addition to typing up the weekly listings I had more important and challenging work to do—I was answering viewer mail and serving as a station receptionist three days a week.

“Why, I’ve heard such wonderful things about you!” she said in her sing-song, Texas drawl voice, adding, “I’d love to talk to you about something real important.”

I beamed. I anticipated that an invitation to her office was imminent. Perhaps a promotion was in the offing! Or maybe she wanted to discuss new opportunities for me! I was ready.

“Honey, I’m in a bind,” she sighed. “I’m moving this Saturday, into a new home, and was hoping you could help me.”

She must have noticed how my business smile suddenly froze on my face, for she added, “It would be a great way for me to get to know you.”

My eyes darted from side to side, looking for a way out. G and I actually had plans that weekend. She looked at me expectantly, lightly tapping her foot against my desk, with a smile so broad and glistening, that I wondered if she’d ever been in a beauty contest. For all I knew, I was talking to Miss Texas 1965 and didn’t even know it.

“Well, Sugar, can you be a sweet girl and come to my rescue?”

I carefully weighed my options: Say no and risk always being perceived by my boss as an ungrateful employee, someone who is not a team player, or say yes, and get on her good side.

“Sure, I’d love to help you.”

“Oh, darling! I just knew you would!” She handed me a piece of paper. “Here’s my address. Be there at 8:30 sharp, okay?”

I nodded.

“Perfect! Oh, and make sure Jan can come, too.”

Jan, was a student at the university and a part-time assistant who helped out in the office a few days a week. She was also obsessed with pigs and would regale me with humorous poems she’d written about the creatures. It was Jan who first caught the “Gleda Balls” mistake on the press release, once it had been mailed. She also helped to proliferate the use of the new moniker. I knew Jan wasn’t going to be happy about our “special” assignment.

On Saturday, we arrived precisely at 8:30. We soon discovered that Gleda Balls hadn’t even started packing up her kitchen. She handed us empty cartons and a stack of newspapers. One by one, I wrapped up the glassware. Jan alternated between helping me pack up the kitchen and moving the boxes out to the truck. Gleda didn’t do much except tend to her two children, who were being fussy and whiny about having to move. Clearly, we were in it for the long haul, and ended up spending the entire day there, doing nothing but packing and loading the truck.

At around 10 pm, Gleda finally said, “You girls ought to leave. I’m pooped and need to call it a day.”

As we walked to our cars, I heard her call to us, “I owe you girls lunch. Maybe you can come back sometime?”

“When pigs fly,” muttered Jan under her breath.

“Sorry?”

“We’d love to,” I said loudly, hoping that we’d already earned enough brownie points to last the year.

But in my short experience in the work world, there was no way I could foresee that, within the year, Gleda Balls would spin out of control, leaving Jeff, Jan and me to pick up the pieces. Of course, like everything, her downward spiral started in the most innocent of ways.

Missed a chapter? Read past installments, by visiting the page, The Road Taken.

The Road Taken: Christmas with Pam

Published December 6, 2011 by monicastangledweb

It was that time of year again and I was dreading it.  The holidays. I’d been living in Seattle a few years and still couldn’t get used to not having the family around at this time of year. But they were all in New York and I missed them immensely.

At home, it was business as usual. My husband, G, said the pressures of going for his PhD made it difficult for taking any time off, and the holidays were no exception. Besides, he didn’t celebrate Christmas. And I had made a commitment not to, either, as it was important to his family. Most of the year, I didn’t mind. I enjoyed learning about G’s family traditions.

But Christmas was coming and I so missed the traditions of my childhood. Like helping my mother decorate the tree, and wrap the presents, which was an art in and of itself.  She taught me well, where to make the creases, and how to line up the patterns on the wrapping paper, when taping it, so that it appeared seamless. I also loved baking cookies, using a recipe I had learned in my high school Home Economics class. I’d make batches of Spritz cookies, that I would then frost and decorate to my heart’s content.

But with no family in Seattle, just G, and with his insistence on working Christmas Eve and Day, there would be no holiday warmth in our home. Just another day in the life.  I knew a tree was out of the question. The symbolism was too much for him to bear.  Still, I would have given anything to decorate for winter, with snowmen figurines or a pillow decorated with snowflakes.  But G saw those things as a “gateway drug” to getting a tree, and, shaking his head, thanked me for respecting his wishes.

So there was nothing in my home except one thing. The one thing I could still hold on to. The one thing G couldn’t keep out of our house, and the one thing that didn’t cost me a dime:  Christmas music.

Two days before Christmas, one of the local radio stations started playing Christmas music nonstop, with no commercial breaks. Perfect. I took a blank cassette tape from a stack we kept by the stereo and I recorded 90 minutes of uninterrupted holiday music, which, in the still of my home, with no one around, and the lights down low, I’d play over and over. I treasured that tape.

On Christmas Eve day, G left early for the lab. I had the day off.  Around noon, I called home and spoke to my mother. She was busy preparing a turkey, potatoes, and some traditional Venezuelan foods for their meal. Christmas Eve in our family was even more important than Christmas Day itself. Everyone was there. In the background, I could hear the laughter and shouts of glee from my nieces. One of my brothers got on the phone and asked me what my plans were. I felt tears well in my eyes, knowing I didn’t have any, so I lied and said G would be home in a few hours and we’d be having dinner.  He replied with something like, “That’s great,” and ran off to chase after his youngest. They were getting ready to put their boots on and go out in the snow.

I looked out the back window into our patio. The skies were gray with no signs of snow.  Just a cold, light mist.  I turned on the TV and watched It’s a Wonderful Life, remembering how, long ago, my oldest brother had asked me to watch this film with him, as it was one of his favorites. That was long before it became a national holiday tradition. I thought of him now and wished we were watching it together.

When the movie ended, I inserted my tape into the stereo and hit the “play” button.  While Bing Crosby sang about a white Christmas, I decided to look in the fridge to see what I could have for dinner. There was some leftover cauliflower curry and a chicken breast. G was supposed to have taken the curry to eat at the lab, but in his haste to leave, had forgotten. Oh, well. It was mine now.

The doorbell rang. It was Pam from next door. Her siblings had driven in, early that morning, from the Spokane area and she was cooking dinner.

Looking past me, into the darkened room, she said, hesitantly, “We were wondering if you and G might like to come over for dinner?”

“G’s at the lab.”

Pam shot me one of her sardonic looks and raised her right eyebrow. “So Scrooge is at the lab? What else is new?” Then, with slight concern, added, “We need to get you out of here, stat.”

“Are you sure? Don’t you want to just be with your family?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s our duty to take in the riff-raff of society. So stop wasting time and come on.”

In that moment, I wanted to put my arms around Pam and hug her tightly. Luckily, I knew better and didn’t want to push my luck. Grabbing my purse and keys, I locked the door and followed her to her place.

That was the first Christmas I spent with Pam and her family, in the comfort of her holiday-festooned home, and for the next few years, while we lived in Seattle, it became an annual tradition. The scent of pine, and the aromas of her famous rhubarb pie baking in the oven, wafted through her home, while traditional carols played on the stereo. I loved all her decorations, right down to the bubble lights she put on her evergreen, and the kitschy Santa she kept by the front door. Another tradition of Pam’s was to go to the movies to see the latest Disney animated re-release (this was before VHS and DVD made it possible to watch at home). Just the four of us adults–Pam, her siblings and me–and it was pure joy.

Yep, those Christmases so inspired me that, years later, after my marriage to G had ended, I unconsciously adapted her whimsical style in my own home. Perhaps, it was my way of reliving Christmas with Pam.

Read past installments, by visiting the page, The Road Taken.

The Road Taken: Girl on the Run

Published November 15, 2011 by monicastangledweb

Pam and I worked at the station, though in different departments. At first, I didn’t know what to make of her, but if I had one word to describe my first impression of her, it would be, intimidating. Add to that, a deep, throaty laugh, reminiscent of Cruella De Vil. And just like Cruella, she was not the type to care what you thought of her, or make any effort to meet you halfway. Nope. If she had been Cruella, I probably would have been quick to hand her the Dalmatians.

Pam wasn’t what I’d call beautiful, either, but she was stunning in a take-no-prisoners sort of way. Her nose, rather elongated, had a slight bump along the ridge, and her dark eyes penetrated into you when she spoke, always with a seemingly mock air of disapproval. She was tall, slender, with long, thick chestnut hair that cascaded down her back, the kind of hair I’d wished for when I was a kid. A definite, stark contrast to my thick, stubby curls, which my mother had long taught me to wear pixie short, for ease in maintaining those damn, knotty locks.

Pam could tease you mercilessly about the most innocuous things. Like the time I wore a brand new yellow cashmere sweater to work. All day long, the sweater shed relentlessly, leaving a trail of yellow lint wherever I went. By the end of the day, Pam had dubbed me Lint Woman. I never wore the sweater again, but too late. The name stuck with me for years, used not only by her, but by everyone in the office.

On the surface, we couldn’t have been more unalike, Pam and I, and yet that didn’t stop us from becoming fast friends. I managed to pass the test, or whatever it is Pam does to determine a person’s measure. I had no idea what she saw in me, as I was a basket of insecurities and generally reserved around new people. Perhaps, it was that I got her biting wit and her sharp intelligence. Who else would refer to her brother’s girlfriend as the Succubus? Her strong, assertive presence thrilled me. It even emboldened me to say what was on my mind, without fear of repercussion or worry that Pam, or our other friends from work, would think me stupid. Which was a far cry from G.

Every now and then, G and I would go see a play. I preferred frothy comedies or musicals. G liked them too, but mostly he favored seeing dramatic plays with a message. I dreaded those, only because, when they ended G would want to engage me in what he called, a thoughtful discussion on the play’s symbolism and meaning, in order to determine how well I’d understood it. Even if I had enjoyed it, I’d find myself at a loss for words, stuttering as I desperately tried to put two thoughts together that made any sense.  Inevitably, he would scold me for lacking the depth to probe deep into the meaning of the drama. Thankfully, now that he was working on his degree, he had little time for the theater.

So with G in the lab most days and nights, Pam became my sidekick, and I, hers. And our favorite pastime was shopping. She took it to a whole new level for me, showing me her panache for retro and whimsical kitsch, and taking me to shops in little, out-of-the-way places I would never have considered. Suddenly, I was learning the in’s and out’s of antiquing. Our world revolved around the next best find, and Pam had plenty of ideas on where to search it out. I loved her sense of style, which I endeavored to make mine, too.

On this particular day, with Rick having become a distant flicker of disappointment in my heart, we boarded her red roadster and headed south on the I-5. Pam said there was plenty of shopping to be had in Portland, Oregon, and, best of all, no sales tax on clothing.  Well, having never been there before, I was excited about the prospect. This would be my therapy. My way of getting over “it,” whatever “it” was or had been. Far from the distractions of my life.

I scribbled a note for G and left it on the kitchen counter, certain he’d see it when he arrived home late that night, making a beeline for the fridge. He’d probably expect me to have left dinner prepared for him, as I often did, wrapped in saran wrap, and ready to pop in the microwave. Earlier, I had thought of preparing chili con carne, something relatively fast and easy to make, but I had run out of time and changed my mind.  It was either cooking or packing for my weekend getaway with Pam. Packing won.

Which is why, I left the note next to the empty Pyrex dish and, at the last minute, placed a can of minestrone soup in it. There. Dinner. I shuddered to think what my mother-in-law would say if she knew how I was taking care of her son.  Oh well, the soup would have to suffice.  I looked at the note, I’d written.

“G,

Pam asked me to go to Oregon with her. Back tomorrow evening.

Later,
M”

I scribbled out “Later,” and wrote over it, “Love.” Then, locking the front door behind me, I squeezed my duffel bag into the trunk. Pam put the car in gear, and we were off in a flash.

Face it, I liked this freedom. Best of all, I got to spend it with Pam.

Read past installments, by visiting the page, The Road Taken.

The Road Taken: Euphoria

Published October 18, 2011 by monicastangledweb

I have a plastic container. I keep this container burrowed in the back of the closet that I share with G. It is mine.  One of two filled with letters, poems and countless journal entries. G and I have been married almost two years now. He is still steeped in graduate school, classes, research, late night study groups.  I am a graduate school widow. I might as well be single and living alone.

We left the treehouse for a two-bedroom condo in this place.

G and I had moved out of the tree house and into a condo we’d purchased in the Northgate area, about 10 minutes north of the campus.  Fifteen in traffic. It stresses him to be so far from the school, since he has to be there all the time.

But it is our own place, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, on two floors. What more could we want? On this particular Saturday, G had left early for the lab, as usual, and I am organizing. One of my favorite pastimes.  I pull out my containers to see what I can trash, what I can consolidate.  Every letter my mother has written me is here, so are the letters of my friends from school, my friends from Maryland, my friends from camp.  I’ve kept them all.  Even notebooks and composition books from elementary school, I find these hard to discard. My life is in these containers.  Here, too, are letters G had written me when he was already in Seattle and I still in Maryland.  Folder after folder, I open and lose myself, once again, in memories of old friends.  Which is when, I come to a folder marked, simply, “R.”

“R” is for Rick. It has been quite a while since I’ve thought of Rick. Even longer since I last saw him. Two years. And now, I feel my heart aching all over again, for him. My yearning for him hasn’t abated one bit. Here are my journal entries, poems I’d written about him. About us. Euphoric, is how he made me feel. I’d never felt that way about anyone, not until I met Rick. His passion for life was contagious and here on these pages is the proof.  Proof of what we had, of what he meant to me, and what I meant to him.  His notes, his desires.

There are aspects of him I shall never forget. Like the slight Southern twang in his voice.  His honesty and warmth, the love in his heart, and the longing sensation I’d get when he smiled at me. The memories of the days we spent together, so short, so fleeting, still feel fresh. And now, the memories are all that are left.

Rick slipped in and out of my life seamlessly, barely noticed by anyone but me. We were like children, exploring, touching, testing the limits of our senses, in ways I have not tried since. There were no boundaries, no fears. While I may be comfortable and settled with G, I felt challenged and delirious with Rick. Suddenly, everything was new, waiting to be discovered.

I pulled out the journal I’d kept then and opened to a random page, more than two thirds in. There it was. Remember? The one full day we spent together. It was all documented here, page after page of a recollection of a singular, cosmic day where we were as one and nothing else in the world mattered. That was the day we went to the zoo in search of Jimi Hendrix. That was the day I will never forget. A perfect day, and in the end, how I hated saying goodbye.

We met one more time at a cafe in the University District and finally faced our truths: my marriage and his yearning to keep running. Running towards the next adventure. Running to see the world. I wasn’t ready to give up on G, having only just begun, and Rick’s journey, his restlessness was too real, too strong. We held hands as we poured over our words, finding no relief in the conclusion. I held my tears back as long as I could. One last hug, one last kiss on the cheek and one final memory of walking away. Away from Rick, away from joy and the promise it held. Away from me. I watched him leave until he became a pinpoint on the horizon, until I could no longer see him. He was gone and, as I got back into my car, I let the tears wash over me.

And now, reflecting on the day at the zoo, and what happened after I returned home to G, I know I did the right thing. I had already gone too far on that road and needed to return to the one I’d started with G. He was waiting for me, after all.

So, there is only one thing left to do. I gather the poems, the journal entries, and Rick’s notes to me. One by one, I destroy them all.  No trace, no record. Wouldn’t be right for anyone to see this, especially G.

For, G had returned home early the day Rick and I went to the zoo, to surprise me. He was sitting at his desk, his back to me, in the dark, with only his desk lamp on. He didn’t see me open the door. He was quietly playing solitaire, and it made my heart lurch. Is this what we’d come to, so soon after marrying? This was my husband. We were just starting out. I was young. G was young–and so was Rick. And just like that, I knew what had to be done.

As I sat in our condo, with my boxes of letters and mementos, tearing up the evidence, I keep two items:  A short story Rick wrote and gave to me, and a poem I wrote for him about the night we missed class.  All the memories, all the wonder and delight between us, reduced to these two items.

But closing my eyes, I can see once again. Rick. And, there I am, by his side. We’re running, hand in hand. He looks back at me, his face flush with joy as he pulls me along. Almost there! My feet skimming the ground, barely touching. Just around the bend. Feeling light, light and free! We are as one, and we are laughing. Yes! I close my eyes and I am once again, euphoric.

 

Missed a chapter? Read past installments, by visiting the page, The Road Taken.

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