The Journal of Best Practices Read Online Free Page B
Author: David Finch
visitation tonight, and Do not EVER suggest that Kristen doesn’t seem to enjoy spending time with our kids.
Opportunity for change was everywhere, I noticed. When I thought of something I wanted to address, or when I learned something in an argument with Kristen, I would write it down. Don’t change the radio station when she’s singing along. When she’s on the phone, don’t force yourself into the conversation. Don’t sneak up on her. I wrote these little gems everywhere: on loose-leaf paper, in my notebooks and journals, on my computer and phone. One particularly intense series of realizations, which ultimately led to remarkable breakthroughs in our relationship, was recorded on an envelope that I kept in the pocket of my car door.
In order to keep up with the rapid pace of inspiration, I started keeping a journal—the Journal of Best Practices. This wasn’t some huge, leather-bound diary that I kept under my pillow, as one might expect. That wouldn’t have been practical, since there was no telling where I’d be when my feverish rumination would cough up a new best practice. Rather, the Journal of Best Practices was my collection of notes. I could have called it my Nightstand Drawer of Best Practices, since that’s where most of the scraps of paper, envelopes, and actual journals ended up—but what kind of wacko keeps a Nightstand Drawer of Best Practices?
Collectively, the entries in my Journal of Best Practices would become my guiding principles. Some of them would stick. Others would not. Some would be laughably obvious ( Don’t hog all the crab rangoon ), and certain others would be revealed only after many painful scenes. Even so, the hardest work would lie not in formulating the Best Practices but in implementing them. But with our happiness at stake, that’s what I’d learn to do.
Chapter 1
Be her friend, first and always.
W hen people who know me first meet Kristen, I’ve learned not to be surprised when they pull me aside later and ask, “How is it that you wound up with someone like her?”
The question may be valid, but validity doesn’t relieve the sting of indictment. It’s a question that implies two things. Namely, that I am the walking manifestation of circus music, and while I may be qualified to do certain things, landing a good-looking, interesting woman wouldn’t be one of them. I find it especially annoying when people say this in front of Kristen. Even if it’s meant as a joke, have some class. Normally, I laugh and make little self-effacing jokes, but Kristen usually replies, “There’s just something about him, I guess,” and beams at me as brightly as she can.
Her smiling but firm reply always neatly puts the person in their place. “We’re done taking shots at my husband now,” it says. I like it because I know what she means when she says it. I understand why we’re together. I know what she sees in me, most days. So when Kristen isn’t there to defend me, I find that it’s best to explain it simply: “We’ve been friends since high school, and at some point, I won her over.”
What better way to say it? Our friendship has always served as a reminder of how happy we can be together, a mark on our compass even in the darkest of moments when we lost sight of what our marriage was supposed to have been.
As if having Asperger syndrome didn’t make me cool enough, in high school, I chose—to the exclusion of playing sports, taking drugs, or beating up nerds—to get involved in all things music. I wasn’t just in the band, I had to be in four school bands: concert, wind, jazz, and (coolest of all) marching. I wasn’t just in the choir, I had to sing in two select choirs: a cappella choir and the snazzy jazz vocal ensemble, MACH-1: Music At Contemporary Heights . . . One. I went for singing and dancing roles in the musical productions Hello, Dolly!, Annie, Brigadoon, and Little Shop of Horrors, where I learned ultra-cool techniques for applying
Opportunity for change was everywhere, I noticed. When I thought of something I wanted to address, or when I learned something in an argument with Kristen, I would write it down. Don’t change the radio station when she’s singing along. When she’s on the phone, don’t force yourself into the conversation. Don’t sneak up on her. I wrote these little gems everywhere: on loose-leaf paper, in my notebooks and journals, on my computer and phone. One particularly intense series of realizations, which ultimately led to remarkable breakthroughs in our relationship, was recorded on an envelope that I kept in the pocket of my car door.
In order to keep up with the rapid pace of inspiration, I started keeping a journal—the Journal of Best Practices. This wasn’t some huge, leather-bound diary that I kept under my pillow, as one might expect. That wouldn’t have been practical, since there was no telling where I’d be when my feverish rumination would cough up a new best practice. Rather, the Journal of Best Practices was my collection of notes. I could have called it my Nightstand Drawer of Best Practices, since that’s where most of the scraps of paper, envelopes, and actual journals ended up—but what kind of wacko keeps a Nightstand Drawer of Best Practices?
Collectively, the entries in my Journal of Best Practices would become my guiding principles. Some of them would stick. Others would not. Some would be laughably obvious ( Don’t hog all the crab rangoon ), and certain others would be revealed only after many painful scenes. Even so, the hardest work would lie not in formulating the Best Practices but in implementing them. But with our happiness at stake, that’s what I’d learn to do.
Chapter 1
Be her friend, first and always.
W hen people who know me first meet Kristen, I’ve learned not to be surprised when they pull me aside later and ask, “How is it that you wound up with someone like her?”
The question may be valid, but validity doesn’t relieve the sting of indictment. It’s a question that implies two things. Namely, that I am the walking manifestation of circus music, and while I may be qualified to do certain things, landing a good-looking, interesting woman wouldn’t be one of them. I find it especially annoying when people say this in front of Kristen. Even if it’s meant as a joke, have some class. Normally, I laugh and make little self-effacing jokes, but Kristen usually replies, “There’s just something about him, I guess,” and beams at me as brightly as she can.
Her smiling but firm reply always neatly puts the person in their place. “We’re done taking shots at my husband now,” it says. I like it because I know what she means when she says it. I understand why we’re together. I know what she sees in me, most days. So when Kristen isn’t there to defend me, I find that it’s best to explain it simply: “We’ve been friends since high school, and at some point, I won her over.”
What better way to say it? Our friendship has always served as a reminder of how happy we can be together, a mark on our compass even in the darkest of moments when we lost sight of what our marriage was supposed to have been.
As if having Asperger syndrome didn’t make me cool enough, in high school, I chose—to the exclusion of playing sports, taking drugs, or beating up nerds—to get involved in all things music. I wasn’t just in the band, I had to be in four school bands: concert, wind, jazz, and (coolest of all) marching. I wasn’t just in the choir, I had to sing in two select choirs: a cappella choir and the snazzy jazz vocal ensemble, MACH-1: Music At Contemporary Heights . . . One. I went for singing and dancing roles in the musical productions Hello, Dolly!, Annie, Brigadoon, and Little Shop of Horrors, where I learned ultra-cool techniques for applying
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