I am one forgotten password away from a stroke. Legit.

If I have to remember one more password I may Thelma and Louise myself off the 14th Street Bridge and into the Potomac River. My book signing and launch is coming up, so I figured maybe I could do that immediately following the event. Some cheese and champagne, a little erudite conversation, followed by my little electric car hurtling into the muddy waters for all to see. Please, don’t ruin it for the tourists with any rescue attempts.

Here’s the thing. A long time ago I had trouble remembering my password to my round padlock on my high school locker. Three numbers, but you skip over one and reverse the dial, before selecting the last number, or some lunacy like that. I remember breaking into a cold sweat in the high school hallway, because I was trying to look cool with my Kevin-Bacon-in-Footloose spiky hair and my slick Trapp-ah Keep-ah (it was Massachusetts), but I knew, in front of everyone, I was going to be locked out of my own locker at least twice a month. Is it 16-21-45 or 45-21-16 or 21-16-45? I could remember it for a week or so, but somehow, numbers would eventually jumble in my head, doubt would set in, then hesitation, and that’s when the frantic guessing would commence.

Now I need a password for everything but the toilet (and I’m sure that is coming), and they keep moving the target on me. In the early days your password could have been your mother’s maiden name. Then it had to be letters and numbers. They it had to be lower case and capital letters. Then you needed symbols. Then you were not permitted to use actual words, or passwords you used before. Then they made you look at a picture and find the fucking traffic light. To prove you’re not a robot. Then fingerprints. And drawn patterns. There are days I feel like the computer dude on a team of spies; you know the guy, he’s the one who only had four seconds to crack into the mainframe and disable the laser alarm system so that Tom Cruise can rappel from the ceiling and steal the bad guy’s computer chip or some shit.

But I am most certainly not the computer dude. I am just a human being trying to pay my bills, or write a blog or send an Evite. So why do I feel like that nervous high school kid every time I am staring at a prompt for my password? Why am I resetting passwords I just reset hours — sometimes even minutes — before? What’s my motherfucking screen name for the site I order frozen meat from? I just want some hamburger, man. Why can’t the site where I check the weather validate my email? I crave validation. Yes, please, I beg of you, fucking validate me. But alas, it is all a jumble of numbers and letters and sweaty fingers across biometric scanners.

I dream of a day when we all have one user name and one password for everything. I already have mine picked out: Footloose, 16-21-45.

Today’s rant was fueled by JACKHAMMER chardonnay, which was pleasantly oaked, with a hint of sweetness without being cloying. If it’s jack hammering anything, it’s your taste buds, which will be surprised by its creamy complexity. Dryer wine lovers need not apply. It’s a solid B+. Approximate price: $16

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