The Gratitude Assignment

So I did this assignment for my ESL class in which they have to say how grateful they are for someone. Yeah. Gratitude. Thanksgiving. Pretty sappy, I know.

It started when I read a Guidepost's article that suggested that real writing often comes from the heart, and that writing to someone that you haven't really thanked can be, well, transformational. I liked the idea, but had little idea whether it would play to international students. Would they like speaking to people in this way? What if the person they chose didn't speak English?

The suggestion included reading the letter aloud to the person you haven't properly thanked. Predictably, my students chose to write to fathers, mothers, grandmothers, teachers, and friends. I asked them to write and speak in English, but if they chose, they would be able to also speak in their language so that we could send their "letters" in the correct language.

Lo and behold, they cried as they read them aloud, and I teared up more than once. I found that their writing was better, that they were more interested in the project, and that the students were enthusiastic (in general, we had a couple who couldn't get into the spirit of speaking so emotionally--and so I had them present the letters privately with me after class in a conference room). I'd recommend this activity to any educator looking to improve writing/speaking skills.

Oh, and I wrote to a teacher in my past to give them an example. Here it is, a letter for Mrs. Leslie. And although I haven't read it to her in person yet, I think just putting this letter out in the blogosphere has some amount of power. It changes me to put it out there in the universe. It makes me know how special she is to me. Now isn't that interesting? Transformational, indeed.

Dear Professor Leslie,

I never told you how thankful I am that you taught me in 11th grade United States History. I wanted to let you know how important your class was to me and how it helped me to become a better person.

I remember how proud I was when I got a 60% or more on one of your tests (note: 60% was an A on a Mrs. Leslie test!) I studied hard to do my best and I remember how you would tell us that the tests you gave were college level. I learned how to study hard and how to be proud of my efforts. 62% never looked so good.

I also remember how you taught us to write a five-page paper every week. At first I thought it was crazy hard, but when I saw how you read and critiqued my papers, I tried my best to really think about the topics and found I enjoyed letting my mind imagine history. I even kept my essay that you graded on American transcendentalism. Above any class that I took in high school, your class prepared me most for the difficult assignments I would encounter in college.

I also remember that your clsas was different from other classes. Other teachers seemed to care more about their popularity and making classes easy for us. They were praised for letting students leave early or giving students time to just talk. But you seemed most interested in preparing us for our future contexts, and I remember thinking several times while in the college classroom how grateful I was that I had your class. I would never have been prepared for my freshman year at the university, and I would never have been able to get the grades I received in college.

In fact, I think I owe a great part of my professional career to you. I am now a teacher who tries to prepare international students for college. I help them to do exactly what you did for me. I am so thankful for what you did. You will always be very special to me.

Thank you so much again. I am not the same person I would otherwise have been, and now I have the joy of motivating others to excel as well.

Assessing my funk

So, yeah, I guess I have been in a little bit of a funk. I don't know why or when it started, but I realized that at school I have been dreading a class. Not really a good thing for a teacher to hate your students, I think. And there is this one class that I can't stand. Man, they bug! And I dread going to class to see their slack-jawed lack of enthusiasm toward whatever I throw at them. And the harder I try, the more I get the feeling they are looking at me like I'm a total idiot. They just don't respond like normal people. They're just, well, lame. (yes, I said it, and I'm deeply ashamed).

Now let me preface this by saying that usually I'm quite spoiled. Students come to my class excited a lot, ready to learn, pencils in hand, jotting down notes as fast as I can speak. I'm spoiled. I'm really spoiled. Teaching international students who look to you as a link to the American world is truly the easiest teaching you'll find. They, how do I say it, need you so much. And so you throw them a lifeline and they grab it with intensity. It is awesome.

So this love my students have for learning, based on that sheer and dire necessity, is awesome. But a conversation class of mine has been nothing of the sort. They are listless, they don't respond quickly to the simplest of tasks. I ask students to take out a piece of paper. Two minutes later I'm still barking the same order. What the crap? Have I totally lost my teaching mojo? What is going on?

And it hits me today. It's not them at all. It is me. It is something that I have forgotten to do that I have known all along is important for a successful class. Probably no one needs to know the details of this teacher technique, so I'll just summarize by saying that I have recently sucked at assessing. By that I mean that I have been asking students to respond to assignments without giving specific detailed activities that allow them to respond appropriately and correctly. It is as if I had asked students to give me their best shot at a target, but then refused to give them an arrow to shoot with. And I'm left wondering: I've got the target, I've given them the bow. What is their DEAL?

So as happens so often with teaching, parenting, or life in general, I have gotten myself into a funk. And I have done it to myself by losing sight of an important idea. (I'm sure that hasn't happened to anyone else here, right?) I have lost sight of a particular principle while juggling dozens of others. The communicative activities have been good, the linguistic insight accurate, the cultural relevance sound, the varied activities...all my ducks have been in a row. Except for this one eensy-teensy duck that I just have let fall by the wayside ("Why?" you might ask if you are into boring details. Well, boring-question asker, it is because assessing takes up tons of time to do well and, frankly, I hate it).

So there you have it. I'm in a teaching funk! And I hadn't deliberately sought answers as to WHY my class sucked because I took the easy way out and assumed it was them.

No, I'm afraid not.

Watch Out for Personified Precipitation!

Owen lives in a whimsical world. It is filled with all the merriment and imagination of youth, and he has recently begun drawing pictures that have full blown, lengthy stories. His last picture/story involved a rainbow and raincloud that (if I understand correctly) teamed up to send mad scary rain on top of two aliens that fly in a helicopter boot (um...I don’t know either).



This perilous situation piqued my curiosity, especially since he described it with such violent ferocity. I thought for sure those aliens were in for it. So I asked him, with raised eyebrows, if it would all be okay for them in the end. His response?


“Yeah, they have wipers.”


Here is a recent picture/story. I won’t waste time telling you what's going on. Why don’t you let yourselves imagine what wonders lay within? Just watch out for alien helicopter boots. Those will get you.

Praise to the Man

When I turned 25 I had this thought (stupid brain). It crept on me slowly, descending with some sort of cosmic force that made me shudder. If it were a voice, it was an unpleasant one, said in a whisper, and full of spiteful glee.

“You’re an adult!”

It was hard for me to believe, but there it was. I tried to ignore this fact, but as I chewed the flavor of the phrase, the more I knew it to be the truth. I had just finished a master’s degree and was working full time at a language school. I was the director of curriculum and development, I had a staff of 20 teachers, and I was part of the largest private ESL school in several states. So, yes, I think there was evidence to support this “adult” hypothesis of mine.

But so much evidence to the contrary! I was living with college roommates whose diets consisted of delivery pizza and weight gainer, and I had just left an apartment complex where I had a freshman roommate. So, yeah, I thought, I’m still a kid.

My brain then countered by suggesting that this freshman roommate of mine, my proof that I was still young, was also my linguistics student in a class I taught at Brigham Young University (he got an A). Sigh. I am an old man stuck in the college atmosphere. It depressed me.

And this is why I moved out of college dormitories and found a new roommate in Brennon Davies. I found an apartment complex far from other apartments I had frequented and simply signed up. He and I were placed together out of sheer circumstance, although we both supposed that management placed us together because we were both, as far as the median age of Provo, Utah is concerned, “OLD.”

Brennon and I would be roommates for more than 7 years. Wow. I would buy my first condo and invite him to stay with me (sorry about the train, Brennon), and then would find a three-level condo just a year and a half later. Having someone closer to my age was a comfort, but I admit that dating when you are several years older than most is frustrating. Brennon and I were kings at sharing such frustrations, and I dated my brains out. For years. I’m not proud of this, but there it is. Dated all kinds of girls. And in turn, I was all kinds of men. Sometimes I was gallant. Sometimes I was shallow. Sometimes I needed to offer apologies for being less than I should. Sometimes I stood up for myself and for others. And through it all, Brennon and I would speak about it. If anyone knows my dating travelogue, it’s Mr. Brennon Scott Davies. Poor sap.

Brennon’s travelogue, by the way, throughout my entire 7-year run, was pretty much non-existent. He’d go on the occasional date, but not generally more than that. We would spend some time discussing the reasons for this, but ultimately, it seemed to me that the guy just wasn’t picking the bat up off his shoulder, and I would tell him so.

But a funny thing happened on the way to the rodeo. I found a beautiful woman outside of Provo who happened to have three kids from a previous marriage--now THAT’s thinking outside the box. (Yes, Provo, you’re a box). And I got married. And, as a result, left Brennon to fend for himself. I felt bad. I even felt a little guilty. Shoot. I still feel guilty just writing this.

We spoke about a year later when he visited his old/my new hometown in Mesa, Arizona, and we chatted at a Wendy’s. What a difference a year makes. He had been dating a girl, was now dating another, and was unsure if that relationship was one that would last. He seemed a different person. He was, well, a lot more like I was. He was taking swings, being different people. Trying his brains out. It was all rather surprising and shocking. It couldn’t be the same guy! And then my brain gave me another thought. Stupid brain.

I think I held him back.

In all our discussions about what Brennon should do, one that I never fully realized is that I might be crimping his style. I was gregarious, a little brash, always talking to those who visited our apartment, whether he was interested in those who came to visit or not. I was the owner of the property, the guy who would sing a song, the guy who loved to talk and take over a conversation. He and I had always discussed how the other roommates were always going after the girl he was interested in, but what I think is more true, is that I demanded to be the alpha male of the apartment, which made it impossible for him to show off all his own awesome. I was a big ‘ol butinsky. And yes, the more I chew on this, the truer it becomes. It doesn't escape me that even in this post, which is supposed to be about one of my closest friends, I mostly prattle on about me. So let me at least end this right. Ahem.

Here is a tribute to Brennon Davies, who has a lot of awesome all on his own. Musician, friend, and the man who has listened more to me than anyone rightfully should. For your sheer endurance and long-suffering, I praise you! Here’s to a man who dedicated himself to the gym and lived off of Subway sandwiches for three years. Here’s to a man who was determined to lose 100 pounds and so he did. Here’s to the man who convinced me to grow the only beard I’ll ever grow. Here’s to a man who knows how to appreciate the grandeur of mountains, the beauty of a storm, and the splendor of a winter skyline.

And I totally want to hear about your engagement. Give me a call. Maybe I’ll listen for a change.

Satisfyingly Surprising...Welcome to Greer, Arizona

If you weren't at the Greer family reunion, this post will probably seem a little odd.  But I simply don't have time to elaborate.  So here is a post for all you Greer attendees:

One of the great things I love about reading a good drama is the satisfying surprise.  What I refer to is the moment wherein something totally surprising happens that makes absolute sense.  "Oh my gosh," you think and then say, "I didn't see that coming, but it fits so marvelously that I wouldn't have it any other way." (yes, apparently you speak to yourself and use words like marvelously).

This sometimes happens in real life, and the pay off, like in a drama, is also pretty awesome.  It is, like I said, satisfyingly surprising.    

So here are some satisfying surprises that I got at my latest family reunion:

1. Troy is an animal at jump rope.

2. Adam gave me a big hug.

3. During our Biggest Loser Competition, Breckyn kept up with the boys with 100 push-ups.  It was one heck of a gutsy performance.

4. Lana and Porter sang a perfect duet with impeccable comic timing (actually, that one isn't surprising at all.  Just satisfying.)

5. Quinn's big entrance to Conner's magic act.

6. Tony encouraged Mya to employ eye-for-an-eye morality. The conversation: 

    M: Tatum just threw a ball at me.  

     T: Well, what about that?

     M: (blank stare)

     T: So what could you do about it?

     M: (slowly smiles as an idea falls upon her) I could...throw a ball at her?

     T: (throws hands in the air) Well, there you go.  

7.  Livy ran an entire mile and discovered what it means to be sore.

8.  Troy is an animal at jump rope.

9. Dian, I hear, walked all the way to the other cabin, and then had to do dishes while she was there.  

10. I (Shane Dixon, novel snob) liked reading "Tennis Shoes Among the Nephites."  I actually learned stuff from it.  Holy crap. 

11. Adam can totally do squats.

Feel free to add to the list!

Smooth Like What?

So I really want a haircut. Nearby is a barbershop. Harmless enough. I enter said barbershop. Great. Sit in a chair. Awesome. Then, after several minutes, I start to notice details. For example, every barber in there looks 16. A bad sign, I'm at a barbershop school and these guys obviously don't know what they are doing. But my barber seems nice enough, and hey! Five dollar haircut. Frugality often overrides reason in my book, and today seems like adventure day.

I DO THIS KIND OF THINKING A LOT: I've never done this. Could be fun.

MY WIFE DOES THIS: I've never done this. There's a reason.

He drapes me, cleans some instrument or other, and I notice that everyone around me, seems, well, ethnic. That's cool with me, thinks I, I'm ethnic myself (don't laugh). I'm just hangin' with my homies at the barbershop. Some other barber dude gives me a look while he blows kisses to his hot latina girlfriend. She is too busy looking in the mirror, but that doesn't seem to effect his ego. He does some kind of pucker thing with his lips and struts his sagging low riders out of view.

My boy-man barber then points me to a chart (see above), and I further realize I'm in a place that caters only to black hairstyles. If you put on your thinking cap, you might think that this would be the appropriate time to back out. But you're wrong, sparky! Adventure time has called. I pick hairstyle number, well, you wanna guess what I went for?

Actually, I tell him to surprise me, cause I'm smooth like that. And today, I'm doing something I've never done.

So I'm teaching again.

I have pretty mixed emotions about it all, to be honest. First of all, I LEFT education because I was afraid I wouldn't be able to support my family. A lot of those fears still remain. It is so hard to put in my all, do my best, and quite frankly, be paid so little in exchange. It is hard to come to grips with the fact that my friends in college, many of whom looked up to me as the scholar and the brain, are making double or triple what I make. There are positives about working at ASU, and I do see some possibilities that I don't need to mention now, but all of my past college success stuff (magna what?) kinda haunts me.

And then there is Chieko Honda.

I thought about her this week as I was speaking to students. It was nice to remember her story. As I was speaking, I fell into that natural teacher cadence that I had forgotten I had (like riding a bike?) And more importantly, as I shared her story I remembered why I had developed that teacher cadence in the first place. (Side note: If I ever speak teacherese to you and you find it unnervingly irritating, feel free to slap me. Thank you.)

The English lesson of the week focused on several individuals that had overcome trials. I love teaching this lesson to ESL students for so many reasons. For one, ESL students face tons of adversity. They leave their countries and come at the prime of life, and they often sacrifice all kinds of comforts that most people who never leave a country take for granted. Take this comfort for example: the comfort of saying what you think. Trust me, if you learn a foreign language, then saying precisely what you think is not a luxury you get to have. Yours, au contraire, is the arduous task of being asked difficult academic questions and inevitably sounding five years old.

"What do you think about the American Dream in relation to international students?" I might ask.

Or how about, "Why should adversity also create a possibility for success?"

I like to push students with didactic, open-ended questions. And their answers? Give them an hour, and they'll compose complex thoughts that prove they have strong opinions and great cognitive skills. But ask them to produce on the spot and their answers get predictably juvenile.

"Adversity sometimes good."

"Adversity bad. I think, bad."

They tell me things are good. They tell me things are bad. And if you pay attention to the eyes, you'll see that it pisses them off to no end that this is all that they have. Can you relate? Imagine having all these complex and beautiful thoughts and being told to limit those thoughts to 2,000 words. Yeah, it'd suck.

"I think very good adversity, it make stronger the person because..." The student trails off at because, not because she has nothing to say, but limited resources with which to say it. Time and vocabulary run out like the proverbial hour glass. And then you end up looking dumb. At times like these I praise my students for their efforts, then glide along in my perfect English in an attempt to bail them out.

And so I began to share a story about a Japanese girl with several strikes against her. I met her while I was just a young teacher in Provo, Utah, and I liked her immediately. She was vivacious, thoughtful, and deeply introspective. Precisely the kind of student that couldn't give you an answer quickly only because the wheels were turning ever so carefully. She had long black hair with streaks of white, the only indication to me that she might be older. While I loved her energy and desire to learn, over the course of that first semester it became obvious to me that English learning was particularly challenging for her. She took the college English entrance exam, TOEFL (the one I'm in charge of preparing her for), and failed. I got worried. In my MA classes we had just discussed how some students simply never progress beyond a certain level of linguistic awareness. They just get stuck. We call it (it almost sounds like some sort of insult) "fossilization."

Predictably, 4 months later, she failed the test again. Another semester. Then a third time. By the fourth failure, I believed intervention would be necessary. English schools are often as expensive as universities, and I could see the sands of her hour glass slipping away. But instead of intervening, I decided to watch. She just seemed so determined. She paid her tuition, she studied, and she kept taking that stupid, stupid test.

Eight friggin times. That's right people. She took the test eight "holy-crap-who-does-that?" times. And she passed on the eighth. Tons of time. Tons of money. Tons of depression. But what a payoff. I remember being exultant when I was told. It was as if I had passed. I felt vindicated. "I told you so, people!" I felt like shouting, "I knew I could do it."

And it was then I questioned that fossilization ever HAD to happen. My one-person reasoning: If Chieko Honda can pass that stupid test, I'm going to just shut my mouth and consider the nature of possibility. That is what Chieko Honda represents to me, after all.

Possibility. It is a fantastic word. It is what I see in every student. It is what I believe. And where does that possibility lead?

In Chieko's case, quite a distance. She graduated from college, became a research assistant, and is now pursuing a graduate degree. It should be really tough. She has to take this ridiculously hard test you might have heard of: the GRE. It makes the TOEFL look like the festival of flowers and bunnies (ever been? its nice...)

So you think I should bet against her this time? I can't. I won't.

Because "can't" and "won't" just don't mean anything to her.

Yesterday we blessed baby Crew, Porter and Lana's youngest and the newest addition to the family.  I got to hold him for just a second and contemplate all that holding a newborn helps you contemplate.  New life.  New opportunities.  New possibilities.  New anxieties.  And since I'm mentioning new anxieties, does anyone else think about how easy it would be to end a newborn's life (ie: falling, squeezing, just leaving him alone...?)  For Pete's sake, you could just snap him like a twig.  It's like holding a Christmas ornament or that crappy ash tray you made for your non-smoking parents.

Is that wrong-headed of me?  Am I no longer allowed to hold the baby?

Moving States

So yesterday was my first anniversary.  And, of course, it was Easter.  And that made me think (you knew it would).  

First, I thought of how Christ's resurrection is a defining event in human history, and my anniversary is a defining event in mine.  

Second, I thought of how Christ's resurrection is a ransom, a deliverance from an inevitably miserable fate.  Um, yeah.  I'm sure you can see where I'm going with that...

It's true.  My life with Dixie is literally a deliverance.  I was taken from one state of being to another.  From online dating (please don't judge me) to joint filing.  From going-to-the-gym-after-work to please-pick-up-a-gallon-of-milk.  From condo to apartment.  From single to holding her hand as I fall asleep.  

Yeah.  That's deliverance.  

And then there's this Saturday.  I can't wait.

Private Eyes are Watching Me

So this post is about being an example and how it is hard to take the pressure of it all.  It is so different being a role model to 3 children.  I find myself constantly checking myself.  The fact that the kids say crap has me very worried.  It sounds, well, wrong from a child's mouth.  Even when it is an innocent repeat like Morgan said to me yesterday.  

"That's crap," I said.

"What's cwwwaap, Da-ee Shane?"

"Um, nothing Morgan."

And Livy will zero in on all kinds of my bad behavior.  I tend to clap my hands to announce to the children that all actions should be suspended.  It is quite effective.  They stare awestruck when I strike them together (that is, my hands, not the children).  And I'm obviously doing a scary face, because several times Owen has slapped his hands together and made these ridiculous angry eyes.  I almost told him how ridiculous he looked, until I then realized he was mimicking me.  

So anyway, I've told Livy if I clap my hands, that she is allowed to call me on it.  That was stupid.  She is religiously observant and deadly obedient, and she lets me know that I've made a mistake.  I was in another room and clapped my hands last week.  

"Owen!" I shouted.  

Livy came in and looked at me as a teacher might to a pupil.  

"Daddy Shane, you told me to tell you that you can't do that."  

"Yes, Livy.  Thank you.  You're absolutely right."  Owen is able to respond appropriately too by wrinkling his brow, to which I respond.  "I'm sorry, Owen."  Owen smiles and continues the behavior for which I was infuriated.  He is the BEST at forgiving quickly.

Luckily, it isn't ALL bad to have kids be observant, and in fact, it led me to capture a picture of Morgan that I have posted below.  

You see, since I have a bad knee, I'm not much of a two-knees-on-the-ground kneeler when I pray.  So I generally stick my good knee out for balance and then fold my arms.  It was to my surprise to see all of the kids try to attempt it.  There have been some unsteady children during prayers as a result, but I have been patient enough not to clap my hands and give them my angry eyes.

Bummers

I'm at home with a sick family and so I'm reflecting on all the crappy stuff that has happened to me this year. Here's a small list for your viewing enjoyment:

Wrath of the Pink Eye:
Associated with this 3-week bummer I catalog the following humiliating events:
1. I wore an eyepatch.
2. After 3 hours of waiting in lines (with the pink eye) I was asked to disassemble the frame on my motorcycle so they could read a serial number. It was 110 degrees outside and I had to do it with tools that someone from the DMV gave me. I cut my hand. Then they told me to go to a different DMV. And then, I was kicked out of that DMV because of my pink eye. And the DMV still wouldn't register my vehicle.
3. My wife wouldn't look at me.
4. My father-in-law saw me, stepped away in horror, and said something that I can only translate as "uungh."
5. I wore an eyepatch.
6. I interviewed for several positions while with pink eye (I am proud to report that I was hired twice even looking as I did)
7. My insurance, for some crazy reason, wouldn't cover pink eye. A doctor's office demanded 175 dollars and, when I refused, they said they'd do it for 80. I left untreated.

The Rear-ender
While driving to a doctor's office (to sell a copier) a series of misfortunes befell upon me. Forsooth!
1. I had a stomach virus I was recovering from.
2. I was rear ended on Interstate 17.
3. The lady who rear ended me had no license.
4. The lady had no documentation.
5. The lady had no English.
6. But the lady DID have an insurance card--from a company I had never heard from before.
7. I translated her end of the story for the policeman. He cited her for, well, dumb driving, and then wrote out a police report. I was now late for my meeting to sign papers with the doctor, and the squirts had remanifested itself. Not proud of it.
8. And the silver lining: I got the sale. As a result, back at work I became the stuff of legends. "That Shane crapped his pants and STILL made a sale."

Take that, world. Take that, indeed.

An Inadequate Tribute

Last week I had a chance to remember Clement Joe Slowey, my grandfather. Here is a picture that shows a couple things I loved about him.





Notice his smile and his wave. Classic Grampa Joe. When my family would come to visit, he always had that smile and that same closed-finger wave. Looking at this picture I can almost imagine I am approaching him and hearing him say his patented, “ho hoooOOO!” I felt warm all over when I heard it—his wordless expression was a sign that he was excited for our arrival.

Grampa Joe always seemed to move young to me. He was almost, oh, I don’t know, spritely for an older man, perhaps a function of his height (he was about five foot seven), or more likely, a result of his energy. He was an avid reader, inventor of a board game, a birdwatcher, a storyteller, a banana bread baker, and the most sincere giver of prayers I ever heard. He always began his prayers by talking to God as if He himself were in the room. “God,” he’d say in a colloquial tone, “it sure is nice for us to be together…”

Time softened Grampa Joe. Toward the end of his life he would take me aside and speak to me one on one, grabbing me in a one-armed bear hug, bringing me close to his eyes, and telling me how proud he was of me and my brothers. And then he’d get misty-eyed and tell me again.

And so this last week my brother Craig, whose special relationship with Gramps deserves more time than I can offer here, got into the warm water of the San Diego Temple baptismal font. My father joined him to serve as proxy for my grandfather. And so, as Mormons do, my brother baptized my father in behalf of my grandfather. It is our tradition, a Mormon belief, that all need baptism and that all can accept baptism, even after they have died. And so it was this belief that brought my oldest brother and my father to that place, dressed in white, my father rising out of the water after being fully immersed. I couldn’t attend, but that evening I imagined how it must have felt for Craig to lift my Dad out of the water, my grandmother looking on. She explained to me in a phone call later that week that she felt my grandfather's presence throughout the week. I don’t doubt it.

Grampa Joe: banana bread baker, birdwatcher, world traveler, husband, cancer fighter.

Grandfather.

HohoooOOO to you Grampa Joe. I’ll see you soon.

Until then: DDAD.

identities gained, identity lost

Married life kinda gave me a left hook.

Six months ago, I decided to take the plunge, not realizing it would submerge me into so many identities that I would feel as if I didn't have any. From one day to the next I went from Provo's patron saint of single life (they were building a statue, I swear) to a father of three and a husband of well, you know, her.

Her.

That girl that everyone talks about. That girl that laughs and you hope it is because of something you said. That girl that has her choice of guys. The one that knows how to play with you, knows how to talk with you, and knows how to live. That girl. Yeah. Go ahead and think it. I'm lucky.

So about that plunge and left hook. It isn't that I expected things to be perfect. I expected that things would change and change drastically. I just didn't expect me to seem less me.

So here's the scenario. I'm sitting with Dixie's family who(m) I finally (FINALLY!) feel comfortable with. I can laugh with them, I can listen--I've even performed a song or two. We're family. So I find it the strangest feeling when, that night, I don't have anything to say. I just sit there like a big doofus watching other people be funny and share and laugh. When I open my mouth, I hesitate. I'm like the guy that arrives late at a dinner party and doesn't know if the joke he opens his mouth to share was already told. I'm the guy who tries to break in with an "um," "well," "uh," but is just a step late, a step behind the flow of traffic. I'm the guy that thinks of something to say about one topic when the conversation is already two topics further down the line. It is then I realize that I don't recognize myself. I've never been that guy.

You see, as a single guy, I had all these conversations--ALL these stories. I was, and I hate how superficial this is going to make me sound, I was smooth.

(James Bond here pretty much represents my relative smoothness level at the time)


Oh yes, I could tell a story. Oh yes, I could be funny. Oh yes, I knew just how to relate to that group. I had read all the books they read and knew all the theories that they were learning in school. For Pete's sake, I was teaching at BYU and gave assignments in the stuff they wanted to talk about. So, as a result, I could command a crowd and lead a discussion. And all of this because I was so intimately acquainted with Provo single life. Wanna know something sad about me? While most Provo residents experience single college life for 2-4 years, I experienced it for twelve (I hang my head in shame).

But at least, at LEAST, I knew what the heck I was doing.

And now I'm here.

From one day to the next, I don't know what the heck I'm doing--although I will give myself some credit--I'm doing it all with gusto. I'm a repairman, a painter, a fort-maker, a grilled cheese flipper, a cockroach killer, a ward clerk (thanks a lot, Tony), a bedtime storyteller, and , of all things, a copier salesman. I mean, really, a copier salesman? Who wants to talk to me about copiers over dinner? "The Xerox 5225 comes with a 100-sheet duplexing automatic document feeder." Ugh. I bore myself.

And I'm constantly doing instead of thinking now. I'm picking up toys, running errands, taking Livy to school, packing lunches, making 50 phone calls a day to businessmen who don't want to speak with me. I haven't had a coherent thought in 6 months.

And why endure the shame of my uncoolness--my unsmoothness? Why in the world would I let myself get so punch drunk with left hooks?

Have I mentioned her?