If you read the last post, you know that I just got my first smart phone. Woo-hoo!
If you did not know that, go read this.
In the five days I have owned a smart phone, I have already asked a platoon of lovely Vodafone Filipina Ladies (VFLs) at the mall approximately 10 billion questions.
They have been enormously pleasant and supportive, despite today’s exploding ink pen incident and the fact that I broke the Giant Vodafone Password Generating Computer in the Sky.
I discovered the ink-related tragedy when I went to the mall for another edition of “Smart Phone … Stupid Owner … Question Time”.
As I pulled my smart phone out of my pants pocket, I realized that my knuckles had turned dark inky blue. Just like the top of my pants pocket. Stupid fragile Bic pens.
On the positive side, my brand new smart phone had a lovely, smudgy blue “motif” that Apple will doubtless patent and then charge obscene amounts of money for.
Unfortunately, the “motif” was spreading down my arm, so I had to leave my stylishly blue-smudged smart phone with the VFLs and go clean up in the mall toilet, along with the street people.
Upon my return, the lovely VFLs were still smiling. They had even gotten the trendy-but-globby blue ink smudges off my new smart phone.
Yay! So Question Time could begin!
“Why can’t I sign into MyVodafone accounts. They are, after all, MyVodafone accounts, as per the name, right?”
The Head VFL (HVFL) patiently explained that, yes, they were MyVodafone accounts, except, actually, there was only one MyVodafone account. The other widget thingees on my smart phone were not related to Vodafone, even though they were red.
So it seems you need a unique user name/password combination for EACH different company; you cannot use the password generated by the Giant Vodafone Password Generating Computer in the Sky for everything on line.
Obviously, some engineer did not think this through, which in actually fact, means the problem that began two days ago is really his fault.
I had excitedly used that secret Vodafone password to create accounts and log-ins throughout the internets, occasionally changing one or two characters, just to be internet safe. And at times, when the sign-in process took more than 10 seconds, I’d bail out about halfway through, which apparently you should not do.
I figured, look, I now have a smart phone, like a grown-up! It will handle all this passwordy sign-in stuff automatically, so no worries! Technology will finally be my friend! Yay!
Except it was not.
I was unable to sign in to any of the dozens of my new semi-created interweb accounts with the red logo widgety thingees.
All I could really do with my new smart phone, with the cool blue smudgy motif, was use it to play fetch with the Crack Puppy, which was a drag.
Stupid smart phone.
So, here I am at the mall, trying to explain to the HVFL what I have done to break the Giant Vodafone Password Generating Computer in the Sky and single-handedly bring my internets to its knees.
I am met with a look of total disbelief.
I have seen this look countless times during my 25-year marriage to my methodical Asian wife, who does not understand my core philosophy of “being random”.
The HVFL tried really hard to sort things out using her computer. But she decided I had to be “escalated”. (It has been suggested that I put “Escalation of the Problem” on my business cards).
The HVFL rang the secret internal Vodafone Escalation number to discuss how I broke the Giant Vodafone Password Generating Computer in the Sky, apparently with all my incomplete passwords and stuff.
As their conversation went on, and on, the HVFL, God love her, was shrinking before my eyes; she began to rest her weary head on the glass display case.
It was a sad thing to behold.
But then it happened.
I gently nudged the HVFL to show her that, somehow, perhaps miraculously, one of the various passwords I had been trying while waiting
actually logged into my account.
“How did you do THAT?” she asked in her lovely-accented English, before making several comments in Tagalog, which prompted her Filipina colleagues to back away slowly.
Anyway, everything was fixed, so Question Time could begin!
I was thrilled. But after maybe another 5 minutes of questions, for some unknown reason, the lovely HVFL seemed to develop a headache.
She didn’t say anything, but the wrinkle lines around her eyes were getting deeper and darker, and her breathing was labored.
When I started complaining that the SD video card and car charger should have been included in the free smart phone package, but were not, I noticed that a little vein started to protrude from her temple. I could actually count her heartbeats. So cute.
Finally, because I am such a special customer, and soon-to-be smart phone guru, she sold me the SD video card and a phone charger for a total of $10, wished me a good day, and then crawled under her desk.
I will join her there tomorrow for Question Time. I can hardly wait.
Because I now love technologies and my smart phone.
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