We just got home from signing stuff at the bank.

When my turn to sign came, I could hear the "Final Jeopardy" theme playing as two sets of eyes watched my slow cursive of K-A-Z-Y-N-S-K-I.

It's the z that throws me. Nobody writes a cursive efficiently—at least nobody who has been signing their name with perfectly average letters for almost 30 years. The cursive z is a very pretty letter I must say, but it takes a bit of attention to detail to really pull it off well.

I bite my lower lip and furrow my brow in deep concentration. I readjust my tripod grip, and force my fingers to relax away from the tight grasp that has come on with my sudden anxiety over the next letter.

I start the upward arc to continue from the a. I get a little excited and tell myself to pause, breathe, and return to the task with intention. I get a little punchy when I get to the loopy tail, and I need to pull in the reins again. Too fast and it'll get all pointy, and nobody likes a pointy z: they're just uncivilized.

When I've finally finished that last upward swing, I have beads of sweat on my upper lip; my tongue is hanging out of the corner of my mouth. The rest of the signature flows without incident.

When I look up, my face is flushed and my eyes are glassy. I did it, and my z was a masterpiece. I pass the pen to Nick. He signs what looks to be a K, some squiggly lines, and a dot at the end. He smiles as he hands the document back to the banker.

"Laura hasn't learned how to get through this last name yet."

The banker questions, "How long have you been married?"

Nick looks at me and thinks a moment. "About seven months."

"Ah. Wives don't figure out to forge their husband's signatures until they've been married at least two years."

Listening to their exchange, I sat perplexed for three reasons:

1. Nick doesn't have a signature for me to forge. He has a squiggly line and a dot.
2. Did the banker just give us a forgery pointer?
3. Nobody complimented me on my perfect z. Didn't they see?

I met Nick on a cold January day. I was charmed from the instant I saw him—and mainly because he was nervous. I had had a few…interesting…first dates in the months leading up to that day. The men were pretty and knew it—in and of itself, that's okay. What's not okay is that many of them made sure that I was also aware of just how pretty they were, how much of a catch they would be. While I can tell you that I was entertained by the egotism (it was so ridiculous…I've heard of peacock comparisons before, but that was my first time seeing it in action), I was downright bored with those dates. If they had fodder for conversation beyond how much they could bench press, they didn't bring it to the table.

Meeting someone who wasn't 110% sure of himself on day one was a nice change. You know how this ends. We went on more dates, we adopted a cat, and then we got married. However, I noticed something along the way: he's decidedly unsuave.

This was actually very good for me. When I was younger, I was overly sensitive and words offended me easily. I valued words and gave them a lot of weight. A person wouldn't say something if they didn't mean it, after all.

I still value words, but I'm not so closed to the idea that not everyone realizes the power of words or possesses the wisdom to choose them carefully.

Even though I had come to this conclusion on my own (because Nick's actions are extremely loving and eloquent even though I want to put him in a headlock every time he opens his mouth), the class I took on communication styles last year solidified my theory. I am so irritated by people who communicate like Nick (I call it foot-in-mouth disease) because they are the polar opposite of my communication style, and thus the only communication style of the four that I cannot identify with.

Loving Nick made me a better communicator, and this has profited me in all aspects of my life.

But what does all this mean? Well I'll tell you: Nick needs to work on his game.

A few years ago for Valentine's Day, I gave him a red button to help him out. It's faintly reminiscent of the Staples "easy" button, except a kitschy come on line spurts out when you push this one.

"I wish I had a shovel, because I sooooo dig you."
"Did it get brighter in here, or did you just smile?"

It's pretty much the cheesiest thing you've ever heard.



At the time, he threw it in the back of his closet because he was self-conscious of his ineptitude and by being outdone by a talking button. Last weekend, the button reemerged, and he placed it in a place of prominence by the front door. He really seems to be eager to work on his shortcomings, because he presses the button every time he walks by (which is often).

I have never had cause to regret my words...but I might be, ever so slightly, regretting the impulse to buy that damn button.

The title is quite literal. I am not talking about life phases, memories, or any other figurative parallel to passageways.

No. I mean doors. Solid oak. Hollow-core. Steel.

I am a regular multitasker; I am almost constantly juggling multiple thoughts and projects at once. The problem is that I am not very good at it, and something usually suffers. On the face, I suppose that I appear empty-headed at times (like when I put the bleach in the refrigerator and the milk on top of the washing machine), but the reverse is true: head too full ... cannot ... process ... anything ... else…

Always, it is the more menial of the tasks that suffer.

When I lived in a college dormitory, one of the girls down the hall gave me such a hard time because she'd always walk by my door and see my key hanging out of the lock. I was inside and already lost in something else. She always threatened that one of these times she'd just take the key, and then I'd learn my lesson…but she never did, so I never did. I blame her—LeeAnne was her name.

I know this particular failing of mine, and I have spent many years honing my skills as a process-driven person instead of relying on memory (which is usually compromised when my thoughts wander). Once you have a process down, a person goes into autopilot. There is actually some science to this involving the basal ganglia functionality in the human brain, but I doubt you come here for brain trivia.

Ever get to work and not remember the commute? Same idea. Follow the same sequence of steps repeatedly for various tasks, and you'll hit them every single time (even if you don't give it conscious thought). This mostly works, except that conscious thought helps with some of the finer details (ahem...bleach versus milk). For a simple process like locking doors, it's pretty successful.

Unfortunately, I do not find myself leaving by the front door all that often. I park in the attached garage and enter the house from there. I do not have a committed process for exiting the front door. Additionally, when I leave by the front door to go for a run or an evening walk (the common reasons I use the front door), I am usually leaving Nick at home to watch the fort (and whatever is on ESPN). All I really need to remember to do is turn the knob before pulling the door open, and I've got that process covered. Now.

Tonight went against all of my usuallys. Nick was fishing with friends at my dad's pond. My cousin stopped over on her way home from work. After deciding that the weather radar looked too ominous for a short walk, we decided to get subs for dinner. She was driving, so we left through the front door. I remember thinking that I needed to grab my house keys (she was also paying, so I didn't need my purse). I remember that thought, but I left the house without my keys and without locking up. We were back within 10 minutes. Approaching the door, I mumbled in shame as I realized, "I didn't lock the door."

I got over it soon enough. We had subs to eat, and that was just another process that I had to execute (one that I knew a lot better than locking the doors)!

However, as my cousin headed to the door hours later to leave, her forehead creased as she tried in vain to open the door. I peaked over to make sure she was turning the knob and noticed the deadbolt was locked. She became still and looked at me like I was the most empty-headed person in the world (see above). "Let me get this straight. So you remember to lock the door once we're home, but not when we're gone!?"

Peeved, I huffed, "Well, duh. If the bad guys are going to get in, I'd rather they do it while I was gone instead of while I was here." That stopped her.

"Oh. Well, that makes sense." She shrugged and left.

I didn't dare tell her that I have a better process for closing the door from the inside than for closing the door from the outside. That just sounds crazy…and a little empty-headed.