As I’ve written before, on Sunday, I spent a good 45 minutes
that I’ll never get back on the phone with “Cynthia”, a kind and patient lady
from LL Bean’s Mastercard customer service. I’d received a letter asking me to
update my information but when I tried to access my account online, I couldn’t
get there.
On Wednesday, after waiting a few days for whatever Cynthia and I set in motion to settle, I tried again, this time with “Jonah.” He and I bounced from one browser to another, cleaned out cookies on my computer, and tried having my go in by way of my iPad. No luck.
Knowing the logical answer to most
problems is to go eat something, I took a break for lunch and then tried again.
This time another kind and patient
lady. While entering my password for the gazillionth time, she pointed out that
some characters wouldn’t work (a fact also point out in a large paragraph on
their website). Suddenly the skies opened, birds sang, and I realized I’d been
using a forbidden # sign. I asked her to apologize to my good friends Cynthia
and Jonah.
When I’m out galloping around (or, more
realistically, walking quickly) on the pickleball court, I never know what time
it is. If I’m stuck somewhere, wondering if this meeting or gathering or event
will ever end, the only solution is to root around in my purse for my phone.
And I have no desire for an Apple watch.
Then I remember the watches that have
been sitting in my drawer since I retired over 10 years ago. Genius! I’ll take a
couple in and have new batteries put in them.
I trotted into the jewelry store and
produced my watch and my story. The jeweler grimaced. “You haven’t changed the
battery in years?”
I smiled brightly and said, “Uh-uh.”
remotes, and anything else I can lay my hands on because as anyone knows who’s ever opened an old flashlight and found acid oozing over the insides, batteries do age.
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