Tales of the 4-Plex

With the warmer weather this time of year, and with daylight continuing past dinnertime, our windows and shades are wide open so that we may enjoy the benefits of summer. Our senses are engaged by evening breezes, the occasional smell of a rainstorm, and as we move closer to August, the sounds of crickets.  Open windows blur the lines between outside and inside, and as you fold laundry or watch TV, you can't help but notice what some of the neighbors are up to. For example, the couple on the north end has new twin babies. The guy who regularly walks his dog in the yard doesn't always pick up the poop. The little girl across the way enjoys wearing princess dresses, predominantly pink, while her father favors tight fitting bicycle lycra.

Clyde and I are most entertained by the college students who rent the middle unit. We have no idea how many live there, because there is an endless stream of young faces going in and out. We are especially intrigued by two attractive young men who regularly hold hands as they come up the sidewalk. It's great that they are comfortable enough with themselves and their housemates, not to mention the neighbors, to openly express their relationship. Times have certainly changed.

This past week, the students welcomed yet another couple of housemates.

We know because we overheard them through the open windows. One of that hand holding couple stood on the front walk and gave the tour to a couple of newcomers. He indicated their patio and grill, pointed out the hose, discussed street parking, and described a couple of neighbors by name as he pointed to the different condos. When it came time for ours to be pointed to, we very clearly heard him say, "And two older men live there."

Ouch.

He didn't say it in a mean way. He wasn't disrespectful. He just said it as if it were a fact.

Olympia Dukakis as Mrs. Madrigal

I realize we are, in fact, older than he is. I also understand that our actual ages are way beyond his youthful comprehension. Who at 23 can accurately comprehend what it is to be in your 50s?  It's not that I expected he would describe us as "two hot guys," or anything like that. I might have hoped he thought of us as the nice "gay couple next door." I may have even fantasized that I was Mrs. Madrigal in Armistead Maupin's Tales of the City books, inviting the tenants in one by one, lighting up joints, and exuding a nurturing, sage-like wisdom as I listen to their problems.

I don't suppose he would think me younger if I walked up to him, shook my finger in his face, and lectured that not long ago, I was his age. I was hot. I stayed up late. I had boyfriends. I militantly came out to my friends and relatives. I went to marches on Washington. Hell, because of me and all the generations of lesbians and gay men before, he is free to hold hands with his boyfriend outside. I wonder if he's ever even heard of Tales of the City.

Don't worry. I won't say anything. I have to face it. My bald spot is older than my neighbor. I go to bed at 8:30 when he's just on his way out. I couldn't live his life if I wanted to, and in fact, I don't really want to. I am comfortable as one of the older men next door. Now what can I do to get that guy to pick up after his dog?

So Many Passwords, So Little Brain in which to Store Them

It has come to my attention that we are using more passwords than ever, but the space in our brains isn't growing to accommodate them all.

I have passwords for my computer at home, my computer at work, and voice mail systems at each place. I use a password for online banking, to select Netflix movies, and to access a range of accounts from the power company to my credit card. I even have a password for making insurance premium payments online, something I do twice a year.

Why do I need a password to make insurance payments? If someone else wanted to pay my insurance premium, I wouldn't have a problem with that.

I don't think I should need a password to look up information about my gym membership, benefits at work, or the cat's microchip.

The only institution that hasn't made me use a password is my church, but I'm sure we're getting closer to collection plates with keypads on them, a safeguard from tithing hackers.

And how are we supposed to remember them all? If I don't use a password very often, I forget what it is. When I need it I have to click on the "forgot password" link and have yet another one emailed to me. Of course, to get the email, I need, you guessed it, a password.

Passwords are also getting harder to remember because they come with so many requirements. In some cases, you must use a combination of capital letters and small letters, a mixture of letters and numbers, and/or symbols that aren't letters or numbers. God forbid they make any sense so you can remember them. To ensure security, don't use the name of a family member, a city, a pet's name, or your birthday. And for God's sake, don't write them down because a crook might steal them.

It's worse when the password is assigned to you. Our new wifi came with a password that has approximately 27 random letters and numbers. I guess the neighbors won't be piggybacking for free on our internet.

Meanwhile, the worst finally happened. I walked up to an ATM machine and inserted my card. The screen prompted me for a PIN number. I reached for the key pad and my hand froze. I drew a complete blank. To save my life, I couldn't remember that number, one I've been using for years. Nothing.

Like the hard drive on an old, overloaded computer, my brain had crashed.

I didn't get any cash that day. I didn't even get my ATM card back because the machine wouldn't release it without a password. But my account was safe, gosh darn it.