‘Reset This’
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The curse of modern-day existence assaults me daily. One website or another nagging me for a new password. I can barely remember what I’ve had for breakfast and they want me to use a unique password for every stinking site. I’m not even sure of what ID I’ve used for these sites, let alone the passwords. If I only had to make up a new one I’d be fine. But they expect me to remember something I’d made up six months ago when I was annoyed and bothered by their constant whining, ‘reset your password’.
My all-knowing millennial children tell me to use those password banks. I do. I just can’t remember their passwords, so they are useless to me as well.
When the whining climbs to a fever pitch I generally make up passwords like, ‘heresyourfuckingpasswordasshole’, or
‘takeyourpasswordandshoveitwherethesundon’tshine’. After which. they inform me, ‘weak password, needs capitals and numerals.’
You don’t want to know what I make up next.
I try to write down passwords and IDs every time they have to be changed. That worked out pretty well in the beginning. Now, I have little scraps of paper floating around in my desk drawer with notes on passwords I used five years ago. None of them are correct, so I don’t know why I save them. But, I’m scared to toss the scraps, just in case.
On January 2nd I received another whiny-ass message from my local bank insisting on another password change, which was just changed last month because I’d forgotten it again and they thought I was trying to break into my $246.78 account. A ‘reset your password’ message appeared on my log-on screen, just as I was about to settle in for the day.
After a barrage of colorful language and slamming my mouse on the desk a few times I tried to comply. I really tried. However, I couldn’t remember what email address I’d given the bank to communicate with me. They sent me a notice on the screen informing me that my three attempts had been exceeded and I would have to get in touch with the bank to get a new password.
Shit. I hate using the phone. I hate talking on it. I hate having to answer it. My mother called me last week before my second cup of coffee and I didn’t even wait for her greeting before I shouted into the phone, “I don’t need a fucking car warranty. Go to Hell.” She probably won’t be bothering me again anytime soon.
Instead of calling my damned local freaking bank, I was going to pay them a visit and give them a list of passwords to insert into special places. I grabbed my coat and car keys and broke the speed limit the seven miles to my “local bank”.
When I arrived I was ready to do battle. I spied the customer service office with the nameplate, ‘Mr. Thompson’, and plopped myself right outside the door- I mean, right outside the door. This guy wasn’t going to lunch until he talked with me about their problem. I had hefted the chair directly in the path of his egress.
When the unsuspecting dupe opened his door he practically tripped over me. Surprised, he asked the most foolish question ever, “Can I help you?”
Duh. No. Just getting a suntan here. “What do you think?” I snarked back at him.
“Um, why don’t you come into my office?”
“Good idea. Why don’t I.” I walked into the office and slowly shut and locked the door. His eyes turned into golf balls as I did that and I said, “See what happens when you spend too much time on the golf course? Your eyes turn into little white balls.”
Just kidding. But he did look frightened, which is what I was going for. I did not sit down. Instead, I towered all four feet and ten inches over him on the other side of his desk.
“So, this morning I got a message from your branch that said, ‘reset your password’. I’m not going to do it. I just gave you a new password last month. You can’t make me change it because I’ve just memorized it.”
“Oh, yes, I can see where that can be annoying. However, it is our policy to request a password change twice a year. I have no control over that, Ma’am.”
“Really? You have no control over that.” I snarled as I walked behind his desk and spun his chair around to face me. “If you have no control over it, why did they tell me to contact my local branch? You are my local branch, are you not?”
“Um, yes, Ma’am, but we can’t change your password for you. You have to do that.” He said through trembling lips as his hand snaked out, reaching for the phone.
“Oh, no you don’t. You don’t get to call the help desk. You will do the reset password thingy for me or you’ll be very sorry.”
“I’m sorry, I just can’t do that. May I leave now? I’m late for lunch.”
“No,” I mocked him, “You can’t leave now. Either do what I want or I’m going to call the police and tell them you sexually harassed me.” With that, I tore my blouse, popping three buttons, and fell to the floor.
The poor fellow had no idea what to do, so I helped him decide. “You either reset my password right now or I start screaming.”
He pulled up my account and began typing furiously on his computer, one eye on me in case I tried something. “There. Done. Your browser will remember it.” He told me, sweat dripping down his sideburns and onto his computer keyboard.
“Fine. Thank you, young man. Will you help me up?”
He hoisted me up off the floor and I straightened myself out before exiting his office. I grabbed my cane off the back of the chair in the waiting area and hobbled slowly out to my car. I think my hip was dislocated from the fall. Hey, I’m seventy.
As I walked away I heard him shout, “Don’t forget to answer the customer satisfaction survey.”