Painy Neighs And Mondays

If I was Dr. Luka Kovac on ER, I might begin this little tale with a quote such as: "I almost had my mammary gland entangled in the washing machine rollers." Kind of like that time he asked Abby why she had an insect in her anus. But I'm not Dr. Luka Kovac. I'm Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

Suppose, hypothetically, one was to allow one's offspring to log on to one's teacher account before school as one was walking from one's T-Hoe into the building. For the purpose of printing a speech that was to be recorded that day.

And suppose, hypothetically, one's offspring took complete leave of his senses, and tried a different version of one's password, that gets used to log on to one's home laptop, or Amazon, or PayPal, or email in various permutations.

Then suppose, hypothetically, that as one entered one's classroom, the offspring called out, "It's still logging on." How would one know that one was suddenly locked out of one's teacher account? Except when one sat down at one's desk, to see why that contraption was taking so long to log on, even for a Monday morning, and saw the message of sudden death. This account has been locked. Which could only mean that one's offspring had tried to log in three times with the wrong password. And that one was pretty much screwed until one could contact an account administrator for unlocking.

Further suppose, hypothetically, that one NEEDED to get into that account to start the day's business of educating the future of our nation. So one called no fewer than five people in an attempt at unlocking. All with no solution, other than to reboot, which one had already accomplished twice.

And finally, suppose that one was compelled to fib a little white lie concerning the necessity of the account unlocking. "I just put in my password wrong three times. Yeah. You know, the weekend and all, using my home passwords, and I just got confused, and now I'm locked out of my account." Which would be kind of a stretch, even for the technology moron Mrs. Hillbilly Mom.

The things people do for their kids. Hypothetically.