We use the word nemesis loosely, as in someone or something that annoys us. But, strictly speaking, it’s one’s agent of doom. It’s derived from Nemesis, the Greek goddess of retribution. And if you know anything about the Greek gods and goddesses, you can surmise when Nemesis retributed, she left no edifice or ego standing.

A lot of things bug me, but in a contest to find a true nemesis, there’s only one clear winner, because there’s only one real candidate. It is the 21st century.

I can’t stand the politics, the music, the manners (or more exactly, the lack thereof). The cars look like boxes, the food is as fast and tasteless as the comedy. Them what read books are as rare as thems what can carry on an intelligent conversation or put a developed thought in writing. And last, but hardly least, the computer is king.

Actually, the computer isn’t king — it’s The New Big Brother. And, like the old Big Brother, TNBB is surrounded by a multitude of proles, O’Briens, Outer Party members and Parsons … with almost no Winston Smiths or Julias in sight.

Of course, I know computers have also improved the quality of our lives immensely and are a dream come true when everything works. But when it doesn’t work, they’re also a living nightmare;

Let me fess up, I admit my hassles with computers are my fault because I choose to remain a cyber-dunce, and I accept the angst and schmerz that inevitably results. And if you’d like to hear about my latest computer-driven angst and schmerz, here ‘tiz.

–

Login limbo

–

Like many things that lead to mayhem and madness, it started simply enough: I decided to check the last purchase on my PayPal account. And how difficult can that be? Well, as it turned out, it was difficult beyond my wildest imaginings.

I got on their website, hit login and everything hit the fan — on the installment plan.

The page came up with my email already there, so all I had to do was put in my password, which I did. But once I hit Enter, that page came up again, with the space for password blank.

No biggie, I figured, so I just typed in the password again. But again, the page bounced and came back, sans password. I did it a few more times, and then, confidence ebbing, I wondered if I’d put in the right password. I got out my little brown book, with my computer passwords, along with friends’ emails, jokes, puns, books I should read, historical phenomena I should look up, trivia galore — you get the idea, I’m sure.

The PP password was in there. I entered the login on the PayPal page, and then the next thing I knew, I’d stepped through the gates of Computer Hell.

First, the screen said I’d entered something incorrectly. Only thing that could’ve been was my password, but I’d put it in scrupulously, so I’d no idea how it could be wrong. A few more tries and I said Fergit it, and decided to change my password. I followed those instructions, a new password was sent to my email.

“Calloo! Callay!” I shouted joyously. Sadly, out my joy was premature, because when I tried to enter the new password, I not only got kicked out of the page, but a new notice told me my email was invalid.

“Bloody hell!” I shouted, scaring the cat and one of the dogs (the other one is deaf).

How could it be invalid if they sent the new password to it?

I put in my email again, and next came up a screen asking for my security questions. They were my mother’s maiden name and my birthplace. No way I could get them wrong, right? Wrong! Yep, you got it — the screen told me both of them were invalid, too.

I sat back and tried to think.

As confused as I might’ve been about all the other stuff, my birthplace and my mother’s name were two things I knew without ANY doubt. But yet, because I’m a computer schlemiel, I knew in my heart of heart, I’d done something wrong. But if so, there was only one way to find out, which was to go to the horse’s mouth, as it were, and contact someone in the company, DIRECTLY.

I perused their website till I found “Contact us.” I called their 800 number and a recording told me I had two choices. One was to stay on the line till an operator came on. The other was to hang up and an operator would call back within 15 minutes. Actually, I had only one choice: I was having a Nori’s coffee date with the Cosmic Kid in 20 minutes, so I decided to wait, figuring an operator would come on before then. As with everything else thus far, I figured wrong: After a 15-minute wait, I said ‘To hell with it,’ turned off my iPad and headed out.

This computer mess had made a total mess out of me. The more I thought about it, the more blurry my thoughts became, especially since all of them came back to one thing: In my ineptitude, I’d screwed up something and had no idea what it could’ve been.

Next, some 21st-century paranoia crept into my frazzled brain. Could it be all this stuff went wrong, not because of something I did wrong, but because someone stole my identity? I knew no one in their right mind would want to be me. But I also knew the internet, like the world at large, is full of peeps who are clearly OUT of their minds — right or otherwise.

I’d not only read about people having their identities stolen, I’d even known a few. And as a result, they’d had all kinds of problems with their internet dealings and even their finances. Had some cyber-schmuck hijacked my computer alter ego?

Or, worst case scenario and my ever-present underlying fear: Had I done something to screw up the works?

–

The High Priestess of ‘Puters

–

When I got to Nori’s, all this stuff was bouncing, tumbling and echoing around my mind. I was such a babbling mess I fully expected the Cosmic Kid to call 911 and I’d be carted off in a straitjacket.

But he didn’t, and I didn’t, and before I knew it, I was back home, once more with iPad in hand.

I got back on the PP website and called their 800 number. This time the recording said the wait before the return call was ten minutes, so I hung up and waited.

Amazingly, after only five minutes, my phone rang and I snapped it up.

It was, as I’d hoped, a PP operator. I told her my litany of woe, what with my computer ineptness, my invalid password, my invalid email, my NEW invalid email and for all I knew, me not merely being invalid, but — in the eyes of PP, at least — me not existing at all. I didn’t mention the failed security questions because at that point, I wasn’t sure where I was born or my mother’s maiden name, myself.

The operator told me to wait a min while she checked what had transpired with my account. She wasn’t gone a wee bit and when she came back, she had the skinny.

What had happened was PP’s website itself had been temporarily, to use precise computer terminology, FARMISHT. As I result, it didn’t matter what I did, it wouldn’t let me log in to my account. To further complicate the situation (and my delicate psychological equilibrium), every time I tried to log on, it got snottier with me, telling me all my info was invalid, thus implying I had no idea where I was born or who my real mother was. Beyond that, I had a valid password in their files, so because they were out to lunch, I couldn’t change it and so kept getting shut down on that.

Even though she explained everything clearly, because of my ignorance, coupled with my hyperventilation, I couldn’t track it all.

“So,” I said, cautiously, “none of what went wrong was my fault?”

“Not at all,” she said. “None of it was your fault.”

Instantly, my pulse and blood pressure returned to normal and I felt my furrowed forehead once again as smooth as a baby’s bottom. I was back to being the light-hearted, fun-loving, joke-spouting lad we all know and adore.

She’d said those magic healing words: IT WAS NOT MY FAULT.

Let me tell you, when your lifelong resting state is guilt-stricken, to be “forgiven,” even in something as mundane as a botched computer login, is to be in touch with the divine.

If only the rest of my guilt locker could be so easily emptied …