Call me Ishmail. No that’s already been done. Call me something else. Call me something hale, something hearty, something manly. Call me something that men will raise mugs of ale and women will swoon in syllabic enchantment as it passes lips.
Call me Pookie.
MyEx did.
It’s OK. I called her that too. Later we called each other other things. Pookie was our team name for each other. Yeah, if we were a 2010 Olympic team, we’d be team Pookie. Our flag a rabid one-eyed teddy bear bearing the insignia “Don’t ruffle me.”
For a while after the divorce, the whole pookie thing became a hook in my crawfish—or however that craw thing goes: it didn’t sound good. It’s not that I denied my pookie-dom. I was the pookie. MyEx may have been a pookie too, but she was no longer mine, and that name belonged to me. She couldn’t keep it.
The Pirate Queen and I, we have nicknames, and no, they’re not “The Pirate Queen” unless you’re talking about me on “Dress Up Fridays,” then yeah, sure. As for The Pirate Queen, She’ll settle for “My Queen” but prefers “Mistress.”
Crack!
The point is we’re all Minotaurs. No, not as in nicknames, I mean really. We all surround ourselves with real mazes of names, nicknames, and passwords and we can’t keep them straight. We create titles for anybody and anything, hoping to make them endearing, significant, or in some cases: memorable. What happens when the corridors of our maze stretch beyond our memory, though? What if the names and words are titles to things no longer in our life? That’s when some Theseus with his ball of twine enters to ruin our day.
My latest Theseus bears an apple—or is an Apple. Recently I bought a new computer. Like any new computer wielding Robotaur, mine needed walls of pictures, music and documents rebuilt, recreating my maze of yore. One corridor down the path of recreation was called ITunes.
A file that didn't survive the old computer was my iTunes library file. You know the one: the file that saves playlists and tells the iPhones and iPods what’s naughty and what’s nice. Without it, a few of my iPhone apps were lost, irretrievable down some black corridor. I also couldn’t access any music purchased online.
Great Caesar’s Ghost!
OK, that isn't what I said, but I thought I’d add an old world feel. Play along. It’s one of those name things I talked about earlier. Besides, I only needed to authorize my new computer through iTunes to access my purchased music. The rest, I could work around.
Like any other Rob epic, this simple story takes a tragic turn. No slaughtering of young lovers, or queens sleeping with sacrificial white bulls, but the smooth seas of Rob did turn dark with foreshadowing.
The first step in my saga: log into ITunes---or try to. I type the names. They tell me that my account is "deactivated." I ask “why?” They tell me that I’m persona non-grata (that’s a Latin nickname for Michael Vick visiting the ASPCA). I email Apple for more details. After fifteen minutes they haven’t replied. I’m done waiting. “Patient,” is not a Rob nickname.
On the iTunes site, I find a "chat" link, so I do. I mean there are some things I'd like to chat about, right? I talk to Mel C. I'm not convinced that Mel C. isn’t an online name for computerized answering machine. She takes forever to reply and her replies seem generic. Maybe she was multitasking. I dunno. She gives me a link. I follow the link. It says that my account is deactivated because of too many incorrect password attempts. I don’t remember forgetting these names, but OK.
The link page says all I need to do is log in and have the system send me a new password.
Piece of cake. That’s a nickname for “tempting fate.”
I give Apple my ID. They tell me that if I have access to my AOL account, I can have it sent there (My AOL account belongs to MyEx. OK, so no...) or I can click another link that will let me work it through an online method. I choose option 2.
It asks me my log in.
I type.
It asks me my birthday.
I type.
It asks me my security question: "Who gave you your ipod?"
I type in: MyEx.
It tells me no.
Now I remember the event clearly. It was my birthday, and MyEx was the giver.
I have to log out and try again. This time I answer: "My wife."
Nope.
"MyEx’s full legal name?"
Uh-uh.
"Rumplestiltskin?"
nice try.
Fine. So I go back and talk to Mel C. She tells me "Oh, boy, you're fucked." Ok. I paraphrase. She really said, "Oh, well you'll have to open a new account."
"Uhm, but what happens to all my music that I purchased?"
"It stays attached to your old account."
"And I can't use it."
"Nope."
"So let me get this straight: You'll send billing receipts to my current email account, but I can't have my password sent there?"
"You can try the customer service phone number." Mel knows a riled minotaur when she hears one.
"OK."
I try customer service. There I learn what Apple has known all along: I am not the minotaur. I am a rat in his maze. The computerized service minotaur agrees, and it's chasing me down blind alleys.
"What is your problem?"
"I can't access my iTunes account."
"Please stand by"
...
"What is your problem?"
"I can't access my iTunes account."
"Are you using a Mac product?"
"No."
"Please go online and search our database...goodbye."
I am Theseus of the telephony world, and I forgot my ball of string.
I try again, get through to the Mac question and change my answer.
"Please stand by."
...
"What is your problem?"
AHHH! I think this is where a blood vessel bursts in my skull, allowing the ichor river of knowledge to flow where it hadn't passed before.
I hang up and return to the password reset program.
"What is your log in ID?"
I type.
"What is your Birthday?"
I type.
"Who gave you the iPod?"
The Pookie.
"Your account has been reactivated."
Two years ago, that would have hurt like a spear through my bittersweet memory pickle. After the divorce, I’d demanded “the pookie” namesake back. It belonged to me, locked in a hidden maze, never spoken again. Now, two years later, Apple forced me to open it up and share. Today, it took me an hour to stop laughing. Maybe that’s what it means to be the pookie. Maybe the pookie means “free to move on.”
Call me pookie.
