I woke up yesterday from a very confusing dream, something about packing for a trip to Sri Lanka. In the dream I was concerned because I wasn’t convinced Sri Lanka is still called that. Plus apparently I had decided small clams would be a killer accessory because I was also very worried I wasn’t packing enough of them.
So I staggered to consciousness, or what passes for it around here, still irritated about the clams and turned on my phone. Boom. Texts, emails, voicemails, missed calls, apps I didn’t even know I had, all chiming in frantically. I was, as the youth of today would have it, blowin’ up up in here.
Turns out my email had been hacked and some sleazacious Nigerian impersonator had blasted out a message that I was out of town and in dire need of help.
It was touching how many offers of assistance flooded in. Actually, they weren’t offers of assistance so much as cries of “What the fuck?” People I’ve been out of touch with for years. My barber. The contractor from my house in New Orleans. A cat sitter I haven’t employed in the last decade. Plus several friends savvy enough to warn me that it looked like I had been hacked. I publicly thank them all.
Plus it was such an old chestnut of a scam. “I’m out of town and my sister needs a liver transplant.” What? That’s only barely better than the Ivory Coast prince whose father deposited a vast sum and blahblahblah. Who falls for these things after all this time? Well, besides my father, probably, but he doesn’t have email, which is a good thing since otherwise he would be trying to figure out where I picked up a sister.
I spent a very cranky afternoon changing passwords and such and now my email seems so traumatized it now longer accepts incoming messages. Fine I don’t want to talk to anyone anyway.
And why is it always Nigeria? What’s with that?