Sometime last month, I stopped paying my bills.

I hadn't intended to stop paying them, per se, I had just run out of checks on my personal checking account, and hadn't wanted to write checks from our joint account. Not that I had actually used all of the checks I had for my account. More like, I couldn't find them.

I know that the last check I wrote was numbered in the 1700s. I also know I have a couple checkbooks lying around with checks in the 1800s. They were around here somewhere, I couldn't find them anywhere.

Two months ago, I lost my passport. Over the next two months, I've lost maybe another half dozen things, the loss of which have only frustrated me more, the more I lose.

Now, here was the worst part about losing those checks: I knew they were around here somewhere. I know, because I hid them.

I was so clever with my hiding spot that, well, even I couldn't find them.

So, I had a hundred checks around here somewhere, and I wasn't paying my bills until I found them, and I couldn't find them.

Not that I haven't looked for them. I've found two stashes of checks for the other accounts we have, but not for my personal account. I found checks from accounts closed years ago, but not those checks.

Nothing like being so clever that you fool even yourself.

Quite accidently, and incredibly loudly, I found the stash of checks this evening. Happy, happy, joy, joy, I can pay my bills.

Or, rather, keep the bill collectors at away.

So, when watching West Side Story, I have always wondered how strange that people on the street would suddenly burst into a brilliantly choreographed dance and perfectly harmonized song, and the people around them don't immediately run away in fear of the singing freaks.

However, today, except for the choregraphed dance, I did exactly that. I spontaneously burst into song.

I can't say I've ever done that before in my adult life. Well, never outside private moments with Kris, that is. And certainly not without unbelievable amounts of personal embarrassment.

I've been memorizing the periodic table recently. I've found a lot of patterns in the table that have helped me memorize the elements, and have created several mnemonics to further help the memorization (CoMe BacK to CaliForia ESpecially if you're FroM MarylanD, and lead (PB) makes you BI POlar, are two).

To really help, however, I've started writing a song to help me out.

When a client saw the periodic table on my clipboard today, she asked how the song was going. I chuckled, then burst into song, singing it as far as I could, as far as I had written it.

Afterward, I realized how embarrassed I should be about the whole episode. Other than as the fat lady in the Viking Opera, I don't think I've ever sung in public before.

Yet, I wasn't embarrassed at all. What is this world coming to when I can burst into song without embarrassment?

Of course, you haven't seen me dance.

"You'll be happy to know I'm drinking only three and a half cups of coffee."

Me, happily, "Really? You found the optimal amount of grounds to make only four cups of coffee?"

"No, my travel mug's full."

When Kris and I started dating, things progressed as normal. Few months here, few months there, and before long we were helping each other with the laundry.

Well, sorta helping.

More like "helping."

See, it took me all of two times of folding his laundry before I learned how wrong I was folding all of his clothes.

Folding clothes is by far the worst part of doing laundry. Gathering clothes, dumping them in the machine, transferring to the drier, carrying them to the livingroom to be folded, no problem. Folding the clothes? Problem. Can't stand that part.

As a result of the dislike of the clothes folding, I fold them as quickly as possible: shirts get two folds, pants get three folds all in the same direction, underwear never gets folded, and as few items are put on hangers as possible. The process works for me.

But not for Kris.

He prefers his clothes oddly folded like you find in retail store: one sleeve folded over, the other sleeve folded over, the bottom folded up and the top folded down, each direction folded into thirds. Four folds.

I believe in halves. Two folds, each in half, done.

No, no, no, Kris said. Why do you think the stores fold the shirts into thirds, so that there are no creases in the front.

Say what?

I can't say I've ever thought, "Huh, there's a crease on the front of my shirt. I guess I'll be branded a social outcast for the rest of my life."

Pants are another thing. Fold in half lengthwise. Hold the waistband, fold in half at the knees. Grab the fold and fold in half again. Two easy motions folding down.

Not for Kris.

Legs go on the inside. Fold down, then turn 180° and fold in half again, so that the legs go in the inside.

Two folds, but that turn, that turn!

We eventually negotiated three folds for shirts, one arm folded, the other arm folded, fold in half. The shirts sit taller in the drawer than I like, but Kris is happy there are no creases in the middle of the front of the shirt.

Not that I use drawers.

If I could only get him to lighten up on the pants.

I found our dinner tonight both strange and comforting. I'm not sure why, but it felt like a scene in a movie.

"One main character heads out to dinner, meets up with the other main character, a good friend, at a brightly lit, worn, hole in the wall restaurant with big windows looking in.

It's raining outside. The two of them talk in hushed voices about their secrets, the rest of the room fading into irrelevance.

Later, they talk easily, laughing about the recent changes in their lives, the choices made, the balance both have achieved, and the tragedies recently escaped.

To casual observers, the two are old friends. To each other, mutual experiences, hidden to the world, forge an easy friendship, closer than either have admitted to each other."

Or some other crap like that.

Good to see you tonight.