I snapped. It took a month, but fear got the best of me. When the Great Target Data Breach was announced, a lot of us took it in stride — 40 million numbers? They'll never get around to mine. Of course, Albert A. Anderson, whose card number began with 1111, probably sweated a little, but as the weeks went by and we didn't hear stories of massive fraud, we relaxed. That horse might be out of the barn, but it wasn't ordering OxyContin from a Bulgarian website.
Then came the news they'd gotten PIN numbers, as some people people call call them them. They can use my PIN number, also known as my Personal Information Number Number, at Automated Teller Machine Machines! They had e-mail addresses and phone numbers, which meant they could clean out your bank account.
Ah, but they don't have my password, so never mind — oh, there's the phone. Hello? You found my dog Hubert? Sorry, my dog's name is Harold. No, no problem — what? Well, if I was to add capitalization and a number it would be uppercase H, then 1 at the end, but I don't see — hello? Hello? What an odd call.
Hey, maybe I'd better change my bank password to Harold2.
This is why some banks have those security questions, which you can't remember. Question One: What were you wearing when you signed up for online access? Oh, for heaven's sake, I don't remember. Pants. PANTS IS NOT A VALID ANSWER. Try another question. What was the color of your grandmother's first car? Huh. No color family photos; let me think …
Oh, the phone again. Hello? What do you mean, I should just type black, you don't have all night?
I swear, these wrong numbers are getting annoying.
After the breach I changed my online banking password to something that looked like the name of a lingering disease suffered by Finns: rhjjlkkkkihhllhhrrkk. Figured I was good. Used the card at Target, and thought if there's any place it's safe, it's here; they probably have guards stationed around the data center with orders to shoot any computer that's acting suspiciously.