The Lovely Mrs. Taylor is a note-writer. She writes notes to the kids, to her mother, to herself and, most frequently, to me. Most of these notes are of the "honey-do" variety: "Fix the light," or "Don't forget to pick up the dry cleaning," or "Your dog puked on the floor again! I cleaned it up! You owe me!" That sort of thing.

Because of our work schedules, we rarely see each other in the morning, so any communication between us is scribbled on Post-It notes and stuck to the cupboard door, the one behind which we keep the coffee filters. It's the only spot in the house certain to be looked at in the a.m.

That line of communication is usually one-way, from Mrs. Taylor to me. If a response is required, I e-mail her once my laptop's fired up for the day.

As I mentioned, most of her notes are "reminders" to run whatever errand I promised to run the night before. I don't mind these notes, because I really do need them. My memory - especially when it comes to remembering chores I'd rather put off until another day, or forever - is not so good.

Admittedly, a note will sometimes remain affixed to the cupboard door for several days before I actually act on it, but that's just me being a man. (Right now, there's a note reading "Fix the phone, please!" stuck there. It's been there for three days because, as a man, I'm supposed to know how to fix the phone. I don't, but I don't want to admit that to Mrs. T. Again, it's a man thing. I figure if I leave it sitting on the charger long enough, the phone will miraculously "heal," at which point I intend to claim full credit and take the note down.)

At any rate, not all Mrs. Taylor's notes are "nags."  Every so often, she'll pull a change-up and leave one that says something like "I love you" just to keep me on my toes. It's a variation of the "carrot and stick" motivational technique frequently used on recalcitrant donkeys. I should be worried that the technique also works on me, but I'm not. Hee-haw.

She left one of these "mushy" notes yesterday, next to the one reminding me to fix the phone. She must have figured it was time to apply a little "carrot." It worked, because I spent ten minutes dorking around with the phone, changing cords, wiggling plugs and banging the handset against the kitchen tiles.

Mrs. T's "nice" note read, "See you tonight, sweetie. I love you!" It was situated lovingly between "Fix the phone, please!" and "Don't forget to make the deposit."

After ineffectually banging on the phone a few minutes longer, I stuck the "love note" in my shirt pocket, got the deposit together and stuck that in there too, and headed for the bank's drive-thru.

Now, my hometown is a small one, the municipality version of Cheers ... everybody knows your name. When I pulled into the drive-thru, I saw my friend Tim, who manages the place, behind the glass. We waved; he pushed a button on the counter and said "Hello." Then he wandered off to do whatever it is bank managers do.

I put my deposit - cash, checks, deposit slip - into the little drawer, and watched it disappear into the bank. The teller on the other side, a cute girl about my daughter's age that I didn't recognize, proceeded to count out the money, pushing buttons on an adding machine as she went.

While counting, she glanced at me through the glass several times, giving me a coquettish, flirty smile. Now, being the virile, sophisticated stud muffin I am (and humble!), I'm used to getting smiles from cute girls half my age. (OK, OK, I know ... just roll with me on this one, will ya?)

I smiled back, in a noncommittal way, as she passed my receipt back through the window.

"Thanks," I said.

"I'm married," she said.

"Huh?" I said.

"I won't be able to see you tonight," she said. "I'm married."

Ever quick on the uptake, I said "Huh?" again.

"Or was this note meant for someone else?" she said, holding Mrs. T's note against the window. Even through the inch-thick glass I could read, "See you tonight, sweetie. I love you!"

Inside the bank, Tim was laughing in a very non-managerial, unprofessional fashion.

I'm just glad Mrs. T's note didn't read, "Give me all your money in a plain, brown bag!"

To contact Mike Taylor with your questions, comments, or the addresses of banks where nobody knows his name, e-mail mtaylor325@gmail.com or write via snail mail to: Mike Taylor, c/o Valley Media, Inc., PO Box 9, Jenison, MI 49429.