Strawman plans
December 6th, 2008 | 12:46 pm
When I was a child, I remember my mom and dad bickering over what our family would do one Saturday
afternoon. With four kids and a wide range of ages, it was difficult to please everyone. My mom was picky yet
indecisive, and my dad just wanted to do something.
"OK, we"ll start with a strawman plan," my dad said:"We'll go to Fat Boys B-B-Q for lunch."
Fat Boys was a chain of hole-in-the-wall barbecue joints in Florida back in the 70s that made Sonny's BBQ look
like prom night. And if you're not familiar with Sonny's, here's the best thing I can tell you about the place: Their
"salad" bar was composed of a bowl of the white parts of iceberg lettuce and two tubs of cubed cheese: one
labelled "Wite Cheese" and the other labelled "Yello Cheese." Following the cheese were many tubs of
dressing complete with oil slicks. And Sonny's was the nicer restaurant.
It was a brilliant move. My mom hated Fat Boys and also anything involving barbecue, so immediately she piped
in with an alternate plan. And so we had our afternoon at the mall.
The purpose of a strawman plan is simple: You start with something so you can change it.
My dad was always coming up with stuff like that. Another bit of advice from him came when I was in college
and deciding what to DO with my life. He said: "You don't have to decide what you want to be when you grow up
right now. You just have to do SOMETHING until you figure out what it is that you really want to do. And I still
haven't decided what I want to do when I grow up. Probably just love your mother." He was 50 at the time.
Don't think this is a schmaltzy why-I-love-my-dad piece. He also informed me and my siblings at a very young
age what to do if we're buried alive. No, it was not how to escape. He's a fatalist and assumes that there'd be no
way out. Thus, in order to avoid laying in the coffin for days while you shrivel up from dehydration and asphyxiate
from stale air, you should bite your tongue and hit your head against the side of the box until you bite your own
tongue off. You'll bleed to death in just 15 or 20 minutes. Voila: you're no longer buried alive. Don't thank me,
thank my dad.
So it was my plan to move from LA to New York City near the beginning of 2009. Why New York? Because if
you're going to be alone and living in a small apartment, you might as well be doing it in the capital of the world.
I would have 5 years at my LA job and be vested and free to move on. "Vested" suddenly becomes very
important when you're a single gal in your mid to late 30s and you start to realize that you are the only person
YOU can count on and you'd better start saving up and making plans and vesting yourself so you're not 75 and
alone in a run-down apartment eating cat food and browsing through the dumpster for dessert.
And I was headed in that direction (alone in New York not cat food), until Facebook. Or until a certain message I
received through Facebook...and then my plan became strawman.
It was a simple message on my "wall": Glen Arden Heights represent.
Glen Arden Heights was the name of the neighborhood in which I grew up in Florida. All of the streets were
named after presidential memorials. I lived on Arlington. There was Monticello, Westchester, Oak Hill, and he,
Brett Morgan, the Facebook-wall-message-leaver, lived on Hermitage. If you think back to grade school about
who you were really into, you think of them by first and last name. At least that's what I do. Brett Morgan. He was
smart. He was cool. He was a lefty.
And there it was, a message on my wall from Brett Morgan on the last day of April this year. Immediately I was
nine years old again: Oh my god! Brett Morgan just wrote me a note! Although we had gone to pre-school
(called nursery school back then), elementary school, middle school, and high school together, the last time
either of us remembers the other was the 5th grade. But I looked him up and there he was, in all of my
yearbooks, all carefree and blond and shirtless and skateboardy.
So we spent the month of May writing a string of 93 messages back and forth, all in Facebook. When we finally
decided that we were meant to meet up, I flew to Tampa to meet him for a weekend long date on June 27th. And
then we hung out for a week in July in Orlando for our 20th High School reunion. He met my parents, I met his.
Our peers at the reunion all remembered him. No one had any idea who I was, but I ended up winning the Most
Eligible Bachelorette award. Most Eligible... was meant to be the top award. But it felt a bit like a slight. 37 and
single, folks! But that's OK! I actually had a date to the reunion. And he was one of the cool guys. And all of those
high school dances I missed because I was fat and nerdy can kiss my ass.
Being with Brett Morgan felt like home. Although we had led completely different lives once we graduated high
school, we had the same frame of reference. When we talked about playing in our neighborhood as kids, it was
the SAME neighborhood. When we talked about a teacher we liked, it was the same teacher. It felt natural to be
in his embrace, to wake up next to him, to hold his hand. And although admittedly at first I had been excited that
Brett Morgan had contacted me and Brett Morgan was about to kiss me, he quickly became just Brett.
When I was about to fly home to LA after a glorious reunion week in Florida with Brett and with my family, a
small earthquake rattled the Southland. That's what they call Southern California. I watched CNN for reports of
power outages and damage and I knew it was time to leave there. I turned to my mom and said, "I'm just going
to say bye for now. I'll be back to Florida, next month. For good." My family was there. Brett was there.
I landed in LA and resigned from my job and gave notice to my landlord. I sold most of my furniture on Craigslist
and gave away almost everything else. My friend Christa and I saw most of the I-10 on Labor Day weekend,
from her place in Santa Monica all the way to Lake City, Florida, just in time to be travelling along with Hurricane
Gustav evacuees. We were in a huge traffic jam in New Orleans at midnight nipping Couvousier out of airline
bottles and crunching on pistachios and seat-dancing to Coolio and wondering about this person called Sarah
Palin who had just been announced as McCain's running mate. I recommend a 2,200 mile road trip with a good
friend. I've done it three times now, with three different friends, and it's always transformational. Galvanizing,
even.
I moved right into Brett's place. We were ambitious and in love to think that we could merge our lives together,
Brett and me. It wasn't that easy. Finding a job took longer for me than I planned, being that when I was
conducting my business of falling in love and driving across the country and making the grand gesture, the
economy completely tanked. I had never been unemployed in my life. I had never depended on other people. It
was a difficult adjustment. We were in and out of the honeymoon phase within a week. And once people are
aged 38 and are accustomed to certain things in certain ways at certain times, it becomes impossible to turn
that ship around, or even steer it slightly. Two months was all either of us could take. I had a feeling that one of
us, or both or us would be biting off our own tongue at any moment. I left on Halloween. I finally started a new
job a couple of days after that.
Is it anyone's fault? No. And sure it stings, but I'm thrilled that we took the leap. What an amazing, romantic story
we'd be if we had lived happily ever after. I recently told someone the entire story and her remark was, "I like your
style. All in."
But, you have to be all in, don't you? We have to take these risks. We should never let an opportunity at
happiness pass us by.
So now I'm here in Florida and working at a very quirky little job that feels like a transitional relationship. You
know what I mean... when you don't take anything that the other person says or does that seriously because
your heart's not really in it. The way you love someone just because you know you'll never be IN love with them?
That's this job. Nothing huge, but I did get to make up my own title involving the word "Director." Finally. I direct
stuff.
I am temporarily staying with my mom and dad and I really dig it. I can't figure out why I was in such a hurry to
leave their house the moment I turned 18. Am I George Costanza? A little. But I don't think many people get to
know their parents as adults and now that I'm here and doing it, I'm enjoying every second of it. I see my favorite
(and only) niece almost every day. I see my sister and brother-in-law all the time. And even my busy doctor
brother over in Tampa about once a month.
I'm looking for a little mid-Century modern ranch that I can completely adorn in vintage Florida kitsch, all
turquoise and orange and flamingos and alligators and fake plastic trees. I'm going to spend a lot of time with
my family. I'm going to continue this blog because I already have the URL, but mostly because I'm going to live
everywhere like it's my last year here. At least that's my plan for now.
And don't think this is a look-at-how-bold-and-brave-I-am piece, either. On the contrary: I question myself every
day. I wonder how I got here. Sometimes I cry. I think that standing alone in New York with my chin jutted into the
wind sounds way too difficult right now and it's much easier to be surrounded by people who know me and love
me. So I keep reminding myself of this:
Our goal is to discover that we have always been where we ought to be. Unhappily we make the task
exceedingly difficult for ourselves. - Aldous Huxley, The Doors of Perception and Heaven and Hell.
Comments
December 6th, 2008 | 12:46 pm
When I was a child, I remember my mom and dad bickering over what our family would do one Saturday
afternoon. With four kids and a wide range of ages, it was difficult to please everyone. My mom was picky yet
indecisive, and my dad just wanted to do something.
"OK, we"ll start with a strawman plan," my dad said:"We'll go to Fat Boys B-B-Q for lunch."
Fat Boys was a chain of hole-in-the-wall barbecue joints in Florida back in the 70s that made Sonny's BBQ look
like prom night. And if you're not familiar with Sonny's, here's the best thing I can tell you about the place: Their
"salad" bar was composed of a bowl of the white parts of iceberg lettuce and two tubs of cubed cheese: one
labelled "Wite Cheese" and the other labelled "Yello Cheese." Following the cheese were many tubs of
dressing complete with oil slicks. And Sonny's was the nicer restaurant.
It was a brilliant move. My mom hated Fat Boys and also anything involving barbecue, so immediately she piped
in with an alternate plan. And so we had our afternoon at the mall.
The purpose of a strawman plan is simple: You start with something so you can change it.
My dad was always coming up with stuff like that. Another bit of advice from him came when I was in college
and deciding what to DO with my life. He said: "You don't have to decide what you want to be when you grow up
right now. You just have to do SOMETHING until you figure out what it is that you really want to do. And I still
haven't decided what I want to do when I grow up. Probably just love your mother." He was 50 at the time.
Don't think this is a schmaltzy why-I-love-my-dad piece. He also informed me and my siblings at a very young
age what to do if we're buried alive. No, it was not how to escape. He's a fatalist and assumes that there'd be no
way out. Thus, in order to avoid laying in the coffin for days while you shrivel up from dehydration and asphyxiate
from stale air, you should bite your tongue and hit your head against the side of the box until you bite your own
tongue off. You'll bleed to death in just 15 or 20 minutes. Voila: you're no longer buried alive. Don't thank me,
thank my dad.
So it was my plan to move from LA to New York City near the beginning of 2009. Why New York? Because if
you're going to be alone and living in a small apartment, you might as well be doing it in the capital of the world.
I would have 5 years at my LA job and be vested and free to move on. "Vested" suddenly becomes very
important when you're a single gal in your mid to late 30s and you start to realize that you are the only person
YOU can count on and you'd better start saving up and making plans and vesting yourself so you're not 75 and
alone in a run-down apartment eating cat food and browsing through the dumpster for dessert.
And I was headed in that direction (alone in New York not cat food), until Facebook. Or until a certain message I
received through Facebook...and then my plan became strawman.
It was a simple message on my "wall": Glen Arden Heights represent.
Glen Arden Heights was the name of the neighborhood in which I grew up in Florida. All of the streets were
named after presidential memorials. I lived on Arlington. There was Monticello, Westchester, Oak Hill, and he,
Brett Morgan, the Facebook-wall-message-leaver, lived on Hermitage. If you think back to grade school about
who you were really into, you think of them by first and last name. At least that's what I do. Brett Morgan. He was
smart. He was cool. He was a lefty.
And there it was, a message on my wall from Brett Morgan on the last day of April this year. Immediately I was
nine years old again: Oh my god! Brett Morgan just wrote me a note! Although we had gone to pre-school
(called nursery school back then), elementary school, middle school, and high school together, the last time
either of us remembers the other was the 5th grade. But I looked him up and there he was, in all of my
yearbooks, all carefree and blond and shirtless and skateboardy.
So we spent the month of May writing a string of 93 messages back and forth, all in Facebook. When we finally
decided that we were meant to meet up, I flew to Tampa to meet him for a weekend long date on June 27th. And
then we hung out for a week in July in Orlando for our 20th High School reunion. He met my parents, I met his.
Our peers at the reunion all remembered him. No one had any idea who I was, but I ended up winning the Most
Eligible Bachelorette award. Most Eligible... was meant to be the top award. But it felt a bit like a slight. 37 and
single, folks! But that's OK! I actually had a date to the reunion. And he was one of the cool guys. And all of those
high school dances I missed because I was fat and nerdy can kiss my ass.
Being with Brett Morgan felt like home. Although we had led completely different lives once we graduated high
school, we had the same frame of reference. When we talked about playing in our neighborhood as kids, it was
the SAME neighborhood. When we talked about a teacher we liked, it was the same teacher. It felt natural to be
in his embrace, to wake up next to him, to hold his hand. And although admittedly at first I had been excited that
Brett Morgan had contacted me and Brett Morgan was about to kiss me, he quickly became just Brett.
When I was about to fly home to LA after a glorious reunion week in Florida with Brett and with my family, a
small earthquake rattled the Southland. That's what they call Southern California. I watched CNN for reports of
power outages and damage and I knew it was time to leave there. I turned to my mom and said, "I'm just going
to say bye for now. I'll be back to Florida, next month. For good." My family was there. Brett was there.
I landed in LA and resigned from my job and gave notice to my landlord. I sold most of my furniture on Craigslist
and gave away almost everything else. My friend Christa and I saw most of the I-10 on Labor Day weekend,
from her place in Santa Monica all the way to Lake City, Florida, just in time to be travelling along with Hurricane
Gustav evacuees. We were in a huge traffic jam in New Orleans at midnight nipping Couvousier out of airline
bottles and crunching on pistachios and seat-dancing to Coolio and wondering about this person called Sarah
Palin who had just been announced as McCain's running mate. I recommend a 2,200 mile road trip with a good
friend. I've done it three times now, with three different friends, and it's always transformational. Galvanizing,
even.
I moved right into Brett's place. We were ambitious and in love to think that we could merge our lives together,
Brett and me. It wasn't that easy. Finding a job took longer for me than I planned, being that when I was
conducting my business of falling in love and driving across the country and making the grand gesture, the
economy completely tanked. I had never been unemployed in my life. I had never depended on other people. It
was a difficult adjustment. We were in and out of the honeymoon phase within a week. And once people are
aged 38 and are accustomed to certain things in certain ways at certain times, it becomes impossible to turn
that ship around, or even steer it slightly. Two months was all either of us could take. I had a feeling that one of
us, or both or us would be biting off our own tongue at any moment. I left on Halloween. I finally started a new
job a couple of days after that.
Is it anyone's fault? No. And sure it stings, but I'm thrilled that we took the leap. What an amazing, romantic story
we'd be if we had lived happily ever after. I recently told someone the entire story and her remark was, "I like your
style. All in."
But, you have to be all in, don't you? We have to take these risks. We should never let an opportunity at
happiness pass us by.
So now I'm here in Florida and working at a very quirky little job that feels like a transitional relationship. You
know what I mean... when you don't take anything that the other person says or does that seriously because
your heart's not really in it. The way you love someone just because you know you'll never be IN love with them?
That's this job. Nothing huge, but I did get to make up my own title involving the word "Director." Finally. I direct
stuff.
I am temporarily staying with my mom and dad and I really dig it. I can't figure out why I was in such a hurry to
leave their house the moment I turned 18. Am I George Costanza? A little. But I don't think many people get to
know their parents as adults and now that I'm here and doing it, I'm enjoying every second of it. I see my favorite
(and only) niece almost every day. I see my sister and brother-in-law all the time. And even my busy doctor
brother over in Tampa about once a month.
I'm looking for a little mid-Century modern ranch that I can completely adorn in vintage Florida kitsch, all
turquoise and orange and flamingos and alligators and fake plastic trees. I'm going to spend a lot of time with
my family. I'm going to continue this blog because I already have the URL, but mostly because I'm going to live
everywhere like it's my last year here. At least that's my plan for now.
And don't think this is a look-at-how-bold-and-brave-I-am piece, either. On the contrary: I question myself every
day. I wonder how I got here. Sometimes I cry. I think that standing alone in New York with my chin jutted into the
wind sounds way too difficult right now and it's much easier to be surrounded by people who know me and love
me. So I keep reminding myself of this:
Our goal is to discover that we have always been where we ought to be. Unhappily we make the task
exceedingly difficult for ourselves. - Aldous Huxley, The Doors of Perception and Heaven and Hell.
Comments
