Free The Journal of Best Practices by David Finch

goodness, what do we have here? Man oh man, I don’t care how many times I’ve said it, I don’t care how many bowls I’ve eaten, I don’t care if it’s served hot, or cold, or stirred up in the pot there . . . I’ll say it again, boys and girls: I love a green bean casserole. Who’s with me?” While that line may have garnered Letterman a bass-guitar rip and a rim shot, it got me only a few uneasy chuckles and an extra helping.
    I thought I’d come up with a clever strategy, something that I could use in any social situation, but Kristen quickly put an end to it. At home, anyway. It was for the best. Every time she opened her mouth, I would talk-show her to death. “What, am I on set now?” she’d ask. “Can I talk a few minutes longer or do you need to go to commercial?”
    I now use the technique only when Kristen’s not around, mostly for business meetings and phone calls. I’ve even expanded the idea to include behind-the-scenes preparation and research. Successful talk-show hosts always have their material ready—they do their homework and are well-versed in their subject matter. Before any important phone call or meeting, I now take an hour or two—however long it takes, really—to think about and research whatever subject I’ll be discussing. It’s also helpful to script out a number of possible conversations, using what I feel would be potential questions from the other parties: What do you hope to achieve in this meeting? Who should be involved in this decision? Is the sombrero idea really necessary? It helps me to organize my thoughts and to feel more prepared. More confident.
    I use a similar strategy to sort out complex personal issues, often when I’m in the shower. If I need to get to the bottom of something—my true feelings about capitalism, for instance—I interview myself. I become the host and the guest simultaneously, and usually by the time my segment comes to an end, I’ve made a number of profound personal discoveries.
     
    Kristen, the kids, and I were driving to my parents’ house one afternoon a few months after my diagnosis when I pointed out what I felt was the final stumbling block in our quest to improve communication. Namely, I worried that by talking more, we would uncover things about ourselves that were best left unexplored.
    “Like what?” she asked.
    Without going into specifics, I told her that I knew at some point I’d have to talk about some difficult things: my own feelings of inadequacy, feelings of regret for not being the husband I thought she should have, feelings of disappointment in our marriage. Thoughts that had been occupying my mind for months—some of them for years—and I didn’t want to carry them around any longer. They were a burden, and I didn’t know if I should consult her, or a doctor, or what.
    “Okay,” she said, carefully applying some eyeliner in the visor mirror. Apparently my revelation was nothing earth-shattering.
    “The thing is,” I continued, “I don’t know how I can sort out these things without talking to you, and if I can’t resolve these particular issues, then we’ll always be facing the same problems over and over.”
    She adjusted the visor and checked her lipstick. “You have to understand that if there’s something that’s really bothering you, then you can always—no matter what—come to me and discuss it,” she said. “We both have issues, and that’s why we’re doing all of this. So we can talk about it.”
    “Right,” I said. “I’m just afraid that if I open all these doors, then you’re going to see some pretty heavy things and . . . you know . . .”
    “And what?” she asked, closing the visor. She was looking at me now. Out of nowhere, my eyes started watering up. She grabbed my hand and held it in her lap. “What is it?”
    “I’m afraid that if I bring all this shit to you, you’re going to think I’m a total freak and leave me, and I swear to God, I can’t do this without