So now that we're all feeling that post-AW twitting angst about privacy...

Sure most of us know it's not smart to make your password your spouse's/dog's/kid's first name nor your birth date, telephone number, or, duh, the word "password," but . . .  in the "be wary what you may one day be required/coerced to reveal" vein, it might also be a good idea to ensure that whatever you do choose as that all powerful "word" won't one day come back to haunt you (even if you are old now and only able to remember just the one word for all your accounts/devices).

Albeit this little tale-of-the-day is pre-RIM's BM-me crackberry and Apple's iPhone#? (for the record I'm still using my "free" sexy-slick little Samsung slider [yeah yeah, I know, but it's just 'cause I'm holding out 'til Apple releases the iSext7 and then I'm first in line]).  Plus, it, the story, takes places before we all had 24/7 wireless internet access (yes, Virginia, there was such a time).



So, here's how it went down—I'm working from home one day (meaning the house is so effing clean there won't be anything left to do for the rest of the week and the papers have been so assiduously tackled that I could be quizzed on high school track meet stats and corn futures—"Alex, I'll take Corny Futures for $200; Answer - December delivery: what is "$7.88 for 1/2 a bushel?") and I'm thinking about either finding something unread in the house or maybe dialing up the internet (kidding; we have high-speed by this time) when the regular old house phone rings.  Being ever so cheap and thus not having that call-display thingy, I feel compelled to answer most calls despite the interruption to my very productive work day.

Hey, it's that ever-suave, charming, wonderful little-boy guy I married (why can't he remember I told him never to call and never to come home in the middle of the day in case the pool boy is servicing) husband of mine.

Me:  "what's up?"

Him:  "uh, I'm at a client's house, Mr. and Mrs. Smith and their lovely kids Jack and Jill, and we're all sitting around the kitchen table here, and we are just about to close on a deal and I need some information from my email account. So can you go on the internet and look something up for me?

Me:  "sure thing; already on the 'net; working like crazy; happy to help out.  So where do I go, what's your work email?"

Him:  "blah blah blah . . .gmail.com"

Me:  "okay I'm there, what's your password?"

Him:  silence

Him:  silence

Me: "I'll be needing to plug in a password if you want access to this info you need."

Him (and I can feel the blush):  "It's uh, it's uh, it's  B...I... uh, G...uh, T...I... uh,T...S."

Me:  "Hon, I think the Smiths can spell."




Well this was supposed to be the start of a blog about literature but this is just sometimes how the day goes. Treasure your words!