Last week I spent fifteen minutes virtually stalking an old boyfriend.  Why? you might wonder.  Well, I had my reasons, and to my family's great relief, none of them had anything to do with paternity.  He and I were an item for several years after college.  When he moved south for graduate school, we split up.  I wasn't ready to become a country and western cowgirl; he wasn't happy as a grunt in a small company filled with managers who didn't trust anyone with a moustache.  We lost track of each other in the early eighties, although I heard about him through a friend for another ten years. I started my stalk by going to a site that reveals a person's exact age, city, and state of residence if you type in their name and approximate age.  (It helps if the person has an uncommon name, as he does.)  Bingo!  He's still on the West coast and I'm still a year older than he is.  (Drats!) Then I typed my ex's name into Google and HotBot.  Eight pages of results came back, which I ranked by plausibility: maybe, no way; could be; hieroglyphics; possibly; WHAT?  The site was titled "Dead Wrestler's List."  Naturally I clicked there first and did a "find in page."  To my relief, the deceased athlete's first name didn't match that of my ex or either of his brothers.  And it's a good thing, too, because I couldn't quite picture him leaving the business world for the glamour of the ring. Here's a sampling of what I found at the other sites: 1.  a photo of a girl who I believe to be one of his nieces, beside her award-winning school science fair entry. 2.  the text from a lawsuit in which his name appeared because the defendant had twice consulted with him about the matter under litigation. 3.  an announcement about dance lessons given by his youngest brother and sister-in-law, and a photo of this same guy in front of a booth at a professional exposition. 4.  a cast list from a school production of The Music Man, featuring another presumed niece in a key role. 5.  a listing of top finishers in a horse show that includes a teenage girl sharing his last name -- a daughter? -- who placed in the top eight in four different events.  (I also learned the name of her horse; I may conduct an Internet search on him later.) 6.  his and his wife's names on a list of people who endorsed a candidate for county supervisor and on the list of donors to his region's Arthritis Foundation. 7.  a newsletter article in which his non-dancing brother spoke about how he was offered the job of his dreams. 8.  an East coast college faculty directory that included a female with his last name who is an assistant professor of pharmacy.  Since he had no sisters when I knew him -- and I'm sure I checked all the closets in his parents' large home -- could his mother be in the Guinness Book of World Records for Oldest Woman to Bear a Future Pharmacist?  (Another potential Internet search.) 9.  a bibliographical entry with his name as co-author of a paper published several years ago in a professional journal. I was amazed at how many personal details I came up with, especially given all those daily e-mail spam solicitations to "Find Out Anything About Anyone for only $9.95 (or $19.95 or $99.95)!"  Would a spy company be able to tell me something juicy, such as whether he wears boxers or briefs, or when he had his last root canal?  Were these things so important after all?  Perhaps...but I'm too sane (and cheap) to take this any further.  Besides, if I think back really hard, I may already have inside information on the boxers/briefs question. The bottom line is that I got what I was after and then some.  I found no evidence of any major scandals, even though he works (or worked) for a large organization that has made headlines recently.  I saw nothing that placed him at the Academy Awards or on the Jerry Springer show.  There was not a word linking him to any current or past California cult activities.  And to my complete surprise, no professional sports arena has been named in his honor.  Yet. The day that happens, he's likely to receive an e-mail from me, telling him that I've got the goods on his entire family.  I might gently suggest that he grant an old girlfriend a few prime seats to the event of her choice.  Either that or I could alert the general world, on this very web site, about his underwear preference.  And given my reputation as a benevolent stalker, I won't even charge him $9.95 for the information. AUTHOR BIO: Look left.

Yes, it happens to the best of us.  The Webmistress of TechnoCursed.com is here to say that it is possible for the technokarma of the universe to come together, however briefly, and work for the greater good.  Or in my case, for $37.02. It all started with a form letter received by my husband's business from the Illinois Department of Revenue.  The letter indicated that his request for a refund of withheld income tax would not be processed without the proper forms for 2000 and 2001.  A Ms. Helen L, Tax Specialist, signed the letter and included her phone number and address at the bottom.  Her office hours were shown as weekdays, 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.  With my cell phone and paperwork in hand at 7:55 a.m., I thought I'd make my first attempt at straightening this out directly. I know about form letters.  I was certain Ms. L was as far from a real person as the Pillsbury Doughboy is from a trapeze artist.  I expected to leave a voicemail message that would never be returned.  I also expected that halfway into my message, my cell phone would receive signals from Mars and begin roaming the solar system, at $4,321 per eight-second interval for the remainder of the call. The phone rang twice and a friendly voice answered, identifying herself as Ms. L.  Wait-a-minute.  A government employee is answering the phone BEFORE her stated office hours?  Had I misdialed? I explained the problem and she listened with patience, asking me for the various tax and tracking numbers, and keying them into her computer.  I was ready for her to tell me that their system was down and she'd have to call me back next month.  However, within five minutes, she gave me more information than I could glean from the dozens of contradictory papers we'd received from three different governmental agencies.  I knew I had found a gem in Ms. L.  We were actually getting somewhere.  I didn't want us to be disconnected--ever. Each time there was a brief pause while she checked the next screen, I'd say, in a half-panicked voice, "Are you still there?" and she'd say, "Yes," and I would sheepishly explain that I'd been having trouble with my cell phone lately.  ("Lately" meaning since the day we bought it.) When I originally made the call, I was under the impression that our state income tax refund was being held up because of this tax glitch.  She explained to me that the problem was with a refund my husband requested nearly a year-and-a-half ago when his last employee left the business--total amount: $37.02.  I almost laughed with relief.  If he and I had to spend hours digging out two years' worth of old tax forms from our not-quite-organized filing system, I would rather skip the whole process, celebrate my freedom at Dairy Queen, and let the state use the money to fill a highway pothole. I told Ms. L that I wasn't sure I could find the necessary documents, but at least now I understood her letter.  She reassured me that it wouldn't be so hard, and in fact, she needed only one year's figures, given what I had told her.  She asked if I still had the form she'd sent.  I did.  Then she said that she could access the quarterly numbers for the form, and all we'd need to do after that was have my husband sign it and send it back to her. I thought my cell phone was playing tricks on me.  Did she really just say that she'd feed me the required information?  At first I thought: if she already has these figures, why did she send the request in the first place?  But she was being so nice and efficient about everything that I simply wrote the numbers onto the form as she dictated them. There's no question in my mind but that Ms. L is saint material.  She had a genuine interest in my husband reclaiming funds that were rightfully his.  I thanked her profusely, offered to buy her a Starbucks the next time I found myself in the vicinity of the state capitol 200 miles away, and we hung up. I considered, for a moment, the nature of this triple techno-coup: >  I avoided an unwanted game of voicemail tag; > The state's computer system provided all the   information I needed; and > My cell phone worked flawlessly for the first   time in its miserable little flip-top life. Perhaps, I thought, I am indeed TechnoBlessed.  And then, like the poor victim of Love Potion # 9, I went through the house and kissed every single electronic gadget in sight.  At the VCR, my saliva short-circuited the fuse box, leaving me completely in the dark.  TechnoCursed again. AUTHOR BIO: Marilyn D. Davis is the Webmistress of TechnoCursed.com.  There's a whole page about her, if you're interested. Or just check out her other Web sites: All She Writes.com and Naked Humorists.com.

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TechnoBlessed -- For Ten Minutes by Marilyn D. Davis Despite the Web site name to the contrary, Marilyn D. Davis believes it is possible to be TechnoBlessed.  But every techno-silver lining has its cloud.

Yes, it happens to the best of us.  The Webmistress of TechnoCursed.com is here to say that it is possible for the technokarma of the universe to come together, however briefly, and work for the greater good.  Or in my case, for $37.02. It all started with a form letter received by my husband's business from the Illinois Department of Revenue.  The letter indicated that his request for a refund of withheld income tax would not be processed without the proper forms for 2000 and 2001.  A Ms. Helen L, Tax Specialist, signed the letter and included her phone number and address at the bottom.  Her office hours were shown as weekdays, 8 a.m. to 4 p.m.  With my cell phone and paperwork in hand at 7:55 a.m., I thought I'd make my first attempt at straightening this out directly. I know about form letters.  I was certain Ms. L was as far from a real person as the Pillsbury Doughboy is from a trapeze artist.  I expected to leave a voicemail message that would never be returned.  I also expected that halfway into my message, my cell phone would receive signals from Mars and begin roaming the solar system, at $4,321 per eight-second interval for the remainder of the call. The phone rang twice and a friendly voice answered, identifying herself as Ms. L.  Wait-a-minute.  A government employee is answering the phone BEFORE her stated office hours?  Had I misdialed? I explained the problem and she listened with patience, asking me for the various tax and tracking numbers, and keying them into her computer.  I was ready for her to tell me that their system was down and she'd have to call me back next month.  However, within five minutes, she gave me more information than I could glean from the dozens of contradictory papers we'd received from three different governmental agencies.  I knew I had found a gem in Ms. L.  We were actually getting somewhere.  I didn't want us to be disconnected--ever. Each time there was a brief pause while she checked the next screen, I'd say, in a half-panicked voice, "Are you still there?" and she'd say, "Yes," and I would sheepishly explain that I'd been having trouble with my cell phone lately.  ("Lately" meaning since the day we bought it.) When I originally made the call, I was under the impression that our state income tax refund was being held up because of this tax glitch.  She explained to me that the problem was with a refund my husband requested nearly a year-and-a-half ago when his last employee left the business--total amount: $37.02.  I almost laughed with relief.  If he and I had to spend hours digging out two years' worth of old tax forms from our not-quite-organized filing system, I would rather skip the whole process, celebrate my freedom at Dairy Queen, and let the state use the money to fill a highway pothole. I told Ms. L that I wasn't sure I could find the necessary documents, but at least now I understood her letter.  She reassured me that it wouldn't be so hard, and in fact, she needed only one year's figures, given what I had told her.  She asked if I still had the form she'd sent.  I did.  Then she said that she could access the quarterly numbers for the form, and all we'd need to do after that was have my husband sign it and send it back to her. I thought my cell phone was playing tricks on me.  Did she really just say that she'd feed me the required information?  At first I thought: if she already has these figures, why did she send the request in the first place?  But she was being so nice and efficient about everything that I simply wrote the numbers onto the form as she dictated them. There's no question in my mind but that Ms. L is saint material.  She had a genuine interest in my husband reclaiming funds that were rightfully his.  I thanked her profusely, offered to buy her a Starbucks the next time I found myself in the vicinity of the state capitol 200 miles away, and we hung up. I considered, for a moment, the nature of this triple techno-coup: >  I avoided an unwanted game of voicemail tag; > The state's computer system provided all the   information I needed; and > My cell phone worked flawlessly for the first   time in its miserable little flip-top life. Perhaps, I thought, I am indeed TechnoBlessed.  And then, like the poor victim of Love Potion # 9, I went through the house and kissed every single electronic gadget in sight.  At the VCR, my saliva short-circuited the fuse box, leaving me completely in the dark.  TechnoCursed again. AUTHOR BIO: Marilyn D. Davis is the Webmistress of TechnoCursed.com.  There's a whole page about her, if you're interested. Or just check out her other Web sites: All She Writes.com and Naked Humorists.com.

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Adventures in Netstalking  by Marilyn D. Davis   Be wary of how much information is out there for you--or others with far worse intentions--to find.  Very wary.

Last week I spent fifteen minutes virtually stalking an old boyfriend.  Why? you might wonder.  Well, I had my reasons, and to my family's great relief, none of them had anything to do with paternity.  He and I were an item for several years after college.  When he moved south for graduate school, we split up.  I wasn't ready to become a country and western cowgirl; he wasn't happy as a grunt in a small company filled with managers who didn't trust anyone with a moustache.  We lost track of each other in the early eighties, although I heard about him through a friend for another ten years. I started my stalk by going to a site that reveals a person's exact age, city, and state of residence if you type in their name and approximate age.  (It helps if the person has an uncommon name, as he does.)  Bingo!  He's still on the West coast and I'm still a year older than he is.  (Drats!) Then I typed my ex's name into Google and HotBot.  Eight pages of results came back, which I ranked by plausibility: maybe, no way; could be; hieroglyphics; possibly; WHAT?  The site was titled "Dead Wrestler's List."  Naturally I clicked there first and did a "find in page."  To my relief, the deceased athlete's first name didn't match that of my ex or either of his brothers.  And it's a good thing, too, because I couldn't quite picture him leaving the business world for the glamour of the ring. Here's a sampling of what I found at the other sites: 1.  a photo of a girl who I believe to be one of his nieces, beside her award-winning school science fair entry. 2.  the text from a lawsuit in which his name appeared because the defendant had twice consulted with him about the matter under litigation. 3.  an announcement about dance lessons given by his youngest brother and sister-in-law, and a photo of this same guy in front of a booth at a professional exposition. 4.  a cast list from a school production of The Music Man, featuring another presumed niece in a key role. 5.  a listing of top finishers in a horse show that includes a teenage girl sharing his last name -- a daughter? -- who placed in the top eight in four different events.  (I also learned the name of her horse; I may conduct an Internet search on him later.) 6.  his and his wife's names on a list of people who endorsed a candidate for county supervisor and on the list of donors to his region's Arthritis Foundation. 7.  a newsletter article in which his non-dancing brother spoke about how he was offered the job of his dreams. 8.  an East coast college faculty directory that included a female with his last name who is an assistant professor of pharmacy.  Since he had no sisters when I knew him -- and I'm sure I checked all the closets in his parents' large home -- could his mother be in the Guinness Book of World Records for Oldest Woman to Bear a Future Pharmacist?  (Another potential Internet search.) 9.  a bibliographical entry with his name as co-author of a paper published several years ago in a professional journal. I was amazed at how many personal details I came up with, especially given all those daily e-mail spam solicitations to "Find Out Anything About Anyone for only $9.95 (or $19.95 or $99.95)!"  Would a spy company be able to tell me something juicy, such as whether he wears boxers or briefs, or when he had his last root canal?  Were these things so important after all?  Perhaps...but I'm too sane (and cheap) to take this any further.  Besides, if I think back really hard, I may already have inside information on the boxers/briefs question. The bottom line is that I got what I was after and then some.  I found no evidence of any major scandals, even though he works (or worked) for a large organization that has made headlines recently.  I saw nothing that placed him at the Academy Awards or on the Jerry Springer show.  There was not a word linking him to any current or past California cult activities.  And to my complete surprise, no professional sports arena has been named in his honor.  Yet. The day that happens, he's likely to receive an e-mail from me, telling him that I've got the goods on his entire family.  I might gently suggest that he grant an old girlfriend a few prime seats to the event of her choice.  Either that or I could alert the general world, on this very web site, about his underwear preference.  And given my reputation as a benevolent stalker, I won't even charge him $9.95 for the information. AUTHOR BIO: Look left.