Passwords, PINs Are Driving Her Crazy

Back in the 60's, much of America looked forward to a game show called “Password."

The host, Alan Luddin, would pair celebrities with regular folks, and the spokesman would whisper the phrase, “And the password is . .” Hilarity would ensue as the contestants would have to guess the secret word via one word clues.

To me, there has never been a more prophetic game show in the history of television.

Why? Because today we have passwords for everything. We even need a password to retrieve forgotten passwords. Just the other day, Matt was trying to figure out what I'd done to my cell phone plan. I'd expand upon that if I knew what he was talking about, but I don't, so I'll just continue.

He hollered at me from the other room, asking what my password was. I didn't recall that I'd even set up a password for the cell phone account, so I told the truth – I didn't know. I'm sure I made one up, but I couldn't think of what it could be.

It bears mentioning at this point that he'd called my cell carrier, and after 25 minutes of enduring automated prompts, finally got a human. Again, this is a communications company; getting a prerecorded voice seems to be the antidote for communicating. But I digress.

After punching various and assorted buttons, he finally got a human. Unbelievably, the first thing out of the human's mouth was, “And the password is?” They wouldn't give him a minute of their time until he could come up with the allusive secret word. He was now on a quest to figure it out.

The Spanish Inquisition had begun; he rattled out a litany of questions.

Did I use my birthday? Nope. Not quite that dumb.

What about one of the kids' birthdays? I had thought about that, but I get confused as to their birth years so I don't use them.

How about one of the animals' names? No, because it annoys me that the kids took perfectly good animals and gave them the dumbest names in the history of dog naming.

For example, our yellow lab is named “Mae-B” (pronounced “maybe”). Now I ask you, is that really a name that reasonable people give to their dogs? I can't possibly think that there's another dog out there answering to an adverb (which can also be used as a noun).

The ferret is another enigma; his name is Ferret Fawcett. And yes, I said HIS name. Poor thing couldn't even be given a fun guy name; something like Ferret Bueller.

Matt continued with the Inquisition.

What about our street address? This time I had to think for a second; I had to assure myself that I wasn't that dumb. After a few moments, I was fairly sure that I hadn't used something that easily guessed, so I gave a shaky negative answer.

In desperation, he finally said, “Oh, dear God, tell me you didn't use your writing name, The Brunette Lucy”. After a few, terse seconds, we found that the answer to that was an affirmative.

Apparently, I really am that dumb.

At this point, having figured out my password, we thought we were finished. Matt was ready to tackle the original problem (but I still have no clue what it was).

And that's when they wanted to know what my PIN number was. Really? Not only do I have to remember a myriad of unusual passwords with twisty, turny numerals and letters, now I have to string four secret numbers together.

I'm not kidding when I tell you that Matt and I spent the better part of two days trying to figure out what number I'd used in conjunction with my cell phone password to absolutely no avail. Happily, I thought, we'd hit the jackpot when they informed us that there was a security question that would give us the secret number. Yay for secret questions!

I celebrated too soon.

Sadly, I picked the question, “What was your childhood nickname?” I had about 20 of them growing up, depending upon who you asked. We spent another day or two trying to remember what I'd used. There were a few long distance phone calls made as well as extensive yearbook research in our efforts to figure out what childhood nickname I'd decided to use.

Turns out, the word “childhood” was lost on me.

I'd picked the nickname “Tamma Lamma Ding Dong”, which is what Matt has called me for the past 24 years. I was 25 years old when he began, so it doesn't qualify as a childhood nickname.

Matt's still scratching his head, trying to figure out what goes through my head when I read things.

Passwords are set up to protect your identity while you surf the net and they advise that it be something you can remember. But not something anybody else could figure out. To me, the two sentences cancel each other out. If I can remember it, chances are, someone else can figure it out in a second or two. If I can't remember it, chances are, someone else can figure it out in a second or two.

You're supposed to infuse your passwords with a mixture of letters and numerals and use symbols in clever ways. It gives me a headache just thinking about combining the two. With my luck, I'll accidentally give a mixture of my address, phone number and birth date and the only person that'll remember which combination I put them in will likely be a hacker. Or, again, pretty much anybody else.

Email accounts are prime examples of password confusion and having too many emails is a recipe for total befuddlement. I know this because the one area of the Internet I've conquered is shopping.

No matter what store I happen to be gleefully perusing, once I decide to buy something, I need to open an account. Of course, I have to set up a password. Then, I have to link the account to an email address, which requires yet another password.

Swell. Passwords have infiltrated my favorite activity.

What they don't tell you is that once you fork over your email, all of a sudden your in box is full of ads for all manner of items. To get around this, I've set up several email accounts to give out for this purpose.

You know, you'd think I'd learn by now, wouldn't ya?

One time, I was trying to log into my account and was asked for my store password, which made me laugh really hard. Once I was done, I noticed a convenient “forgot your password?” button. Ever the optimist, I pressed it and was immediately asked for my email address. I had no clue which email I'd linked to this account, let alone what password I used to access said email account.

An hour later, I finally gave up and opened up another account.

I'm beginning to think that I'll never get a respite from passwords; not in this lifetime anyway. Maybe I'll get a break when my time on this Earth is through, and I pass on to the next world. Hopefully, I'll be looking towards the Pearly Gates, with St. Peter standing there; my eternal rest just a few short steps away.

With my luck, he'll look at me and say,

“And the password is?”