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Passwords
© By Abraham Lincoln
Passwords drive me nuts. I have a notebook filled with pages of
passwords. In spite of my writing them down at the time I use a new
password I manage to get them all messed up. I get so frustrated that I
have threatened to toss my relative new iMac computer on the floor and
stomp on it.
I have at least one episode a day where I can't seem to choose the
correct password to get into the program I need to get into or to get
out of the program I am already in.
Sometimes I will go through a routine to enable me to find the right
password and open the key to the treasures inside. When all else has
failed and just before I pitch the twelve hundred dollar iMac on the
floor, I begin writing down, one after the other, all the passwords I
can remember, and check each one to see if that particular one works.
When none of them work then I am left with little alternatives. I can
pitch the computer or get my wife to come over and sit down in my
steaming hot seat and solve the problem. I must admit that she fixes my
problems more often than I like to admit.
To me that is like having her get out of the car, take off her shoes
after I promise to buy her a pair of new nylons, and find the car jack
under the spare in the trunk, and take off the lug nuts on the wheel
and change a flat for the spare in the trunk.
I just don't like for people to know that she has to mow the yard
nowadays and she has to fix all the meals nowadays and that she does
all the washing but I told her she no longer has to get the iron out
and iron my jeans and shirts.
I am so old now that I can no longer see the pleats in my jeans anyway
and hardly anybody I know ever comes here except close friends who know
I am off the rocker more often than not.
It used to be that I could reach over the front seat of my automobile,
say, “honey,” and lay my right hand on her left knee and that touch
alone would cause her leg to jump up and down like she had something
worse than a nervous twitch.
Nowadays when I reach over I never even come close to her knees before
she smacks me upside the head and screams, “NO!” so loud that the
granddaughter will look out the side window thinking we are either in
the side ditch or about to sink in a lake — in either case she is ready
to bail out.
I have used the old passwords, “honey,” and “sweetheart,” — that got me
everything and then some, but she doesn't seem to care if I use them
now or not.
I used to give marriage advice to those people who used passwords; if
they promised not to let the word get back to my wife. I feared, if she
found out, she'd leave me like fleas leave a dead dog.
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