The Smart Aleck Press is publishing this edition of finallyfridayblog.com  late due to unforeseen circumstances: The Christmas holiday. There are those of you who would argue that because of the annual nature of the event, we might have seen this coming. Instead, we’ve experienced whiplash when our collective heads turned around and noticed, “OMG, is it here already?!?”

Not only was the holiday here, it’s gone. Not unlike a hit and run. First you’re cruising along, shopping for yet one more perfect “thing”, then the day arrives and panic sets in. There’s no time to give in to such a childish response because everyone descends from out of state, out of town, out of nowhere. They mean to enjoy the holiday and here you are with the goods to make it happen.

Women everywhere who host these holiday get-togethers know what I’m talking about. Did this relative get one of those things that you so diligently shopped for? Did everyone’s plate have the right amount of the foods so carefully prepared from some celebrity chef’s cookbook? Is it cold? Is it hot? Are there drinks? Where do you store your ice? Did you put out the snacks and who the hell forgot the sour cream? You have a scathingly brilliant idea. Let’s call trimming the tree a family bonding experience. There, now you can cross that off your to-do list. The music that runs through my head during most holiday seasons is a line from Chuck Berry’s song, “Run, run, Rudolph.” Sometimes is does feel like a marathon.

But now, it’s done. We can sit back on our laurels and survey our handy work. I didn’t buy laurels this year, so I am sitting in a recliner. As I do so, the smile slowly spreads, taking in that everything is complete. Even if it isn’t, there is no more left that I’m willing to do. Everyone has been fed, gifted and wished happy holidays with love, lightness and Chapstick on my oven-dried lips.  The house is clean. Dishes washed. This is the real meaning of peace  in the land. Next week we can go back to regular television.

In the meantime, I’m going to sit back and breathe. Oh, and eat leftovers.

Google wants to know if I have password fatigue. They have no idea. With the constant insistence that “there’s an app for that” I have ended up with a password list that’s longer that a CVS receipt. It’s not like you can pick one work, then change a letter at the beginning, or the end or something. Heaven forbid you have a password that looks like it’s been used before. It’s like your mother-in-law, who never forgets one single thing you’ve ever said about her darling one who’s sitting on the couch watching football. In my defense, all of my passwords are original, unrelated, organic and free-range. I thought for a while I would start with a password that has a number after it and change that number when it was time for a new one. Oh no you don’t! Google is having none of that. They want something fresh, new and exciting. No mention is made of free-range, but you know they’re thinking it.

Who of us hasn’t wracked our brains trying to remember the names of our first pet, our last pet, our favorite pet? What about the pet that I had when I was 15 and dating the boy with acne who tried to kiss me in front of the neighbors’ house?

There are so many inane questions one can answer to use for a password. We are dutifully warned not to make it easy to guess our password. No using QWERTY! The identity thieves are lurking behind every comma.

Experts recommend a different password for every log in situation. Also, that you shouldn’t write them down. If you’re going to remember that many passwords, Alzheimer’s would seem like a blessing. Why can’t there just be one root password, from which all other passwords flow. Something easily remembered, not easily forgotten, not in common use in your current life, with a capital letter and a special character. Not any special character. You have no choice about that. It’s only the special characters that they parsimoniously dole out because the wrong special character has unimaginable, dire consequences. Sort of like the boys I dated in high school.

I just want to use the internet for important things. Celebrity gossip, checking my horoscope and Wordle. Although I’m currently boycotting the New York Times because their app doesn’t work well. I had a good password for that one, too! There is Pinterest, ordering shoes and purses. Yes, we’re all familiar with my QVC addiction. (The first step is admitting you have a problem. Yeah, I got it.) It’s not like I’m spying on anything, trading state secrets or would ever recognize a nuclear code. After all, I don’t live at Mar-A-Lago.

I would just like to get in, get out and slam Candy Crush. Such is not to be. Much like the errant child in grade school without complete homework, I have to fess up and say, I forgot my password.