“HAVE YOU TRIED PICKLEDONGS4?” I heard myself screaming into the phone.

I knew that wasn’t the password, but by this time it was beyond salvaging the situation. 10 minutes prior I had picked up a phone call from my mom on her cell phone. Mom’s cell phone may as well be a drive-thru speaker box for all the understandability that comes in and out of it. Combine that with the fact that she was calling me from an Apple store in the middle of a mall, and you’ve got some sacred geometry going on there. 

Mom and dad had just purchased a mac for mom. The Apple store was doing the set up for her.  When they got to the “what is your email password” part of the machine, all hell broke loose.  Mom wouldn’t know her password, to anything, if it were tattooed on her eyeballs. That is why we have them all written down on a stickie note at the house. AT THE HOUSE, NOT THE LOCATION ANY OF US WERE IN RIGHT NOW. And here’s the best part of all of this.  My dad?  Who was there with her?  Had bought a mac for himself last year so he knew and knows that these bits of information are key to the handy setting-up of the new computer.

So mom called me. And I was sitting at my desk screaming lunatic phrases into the telephone right here at the office. And I do mean screaming.  And we all know the awesome kind of passwords that mom’s pick, right? Especially little old Amish ladies who fancy themselves a little rebellious. 

I sounded like I was auctioning off a set of kitten, dog, horse, and butterfly themed sweaters to benefit recovering alcoholic hookers.  

I swear to kittens, the next time I’m at her house I’m changing all of her passwords to SNOOTCHIEBOOTCHIES42. If I’m going to be written up at work, I want that in the report.