Based in Texas, Words is a blog by Kari Lynn Collins. Her posts explore life, mostly through laughter.


I did not sign up for this

I did not sign up for this

I didn’t sign up for this. 

I didn’t sign up for a lot of things I’ve done here at my job at the Iowa Park Leader in the last 34 years, but I definitely didn’t sign up for this. 

Karma and I are going to talk about this week over lunch when I wake up from my nap.

But this week ... This mind-boggling, clarifying in the worst of ways week ... Confirmed to me that I was probably secretly hired 34 years ago to complete one particular task. Fix my stupid email.

It began a few weeks ago, when gmail and yahoo accounts began kicking my messages of news, advertising and jokes back. Somebody told me on the phone this week that was called a bounce. 

Then, AOL email joined into the party followed by a few others, effectively clogging up my emails with reminders that my emails are not welcome in far too many mailboxes.

I’m getting bounced at the rate of about 15 to 20 per day, which sounds way more fun than it actually is.

So, if you haven’t gotten an email from me recently - No, I’m not on vacation, I’m sitting on the phone talking to the 62nd IT person at AT&T, giving me the 62nd version of what is going on. 

More to the point, many of our e-subscribers are not getting their issues. I cannot email proof to several clients and it appears my email has been blacklisted due to some nefarious and mysterious reason.

Every person I have talked to about this particular issue - an issue in which I have no particular or even unparticular expertise, less than none, actually – has led me down a rabbit hole filled with   the horrors of what my nightmares are made of.

I can barely pronounce email, and thought I was dealing with a branch of the government when I first heard the words DNS and other initials I was too stunned to write down.

I have no business dealing with this.


The first person I talked to said it would be easy. After learning that would not be the case,  I called him back and he said “no can do”, except in more technical, email-y terms to impress me and remind me who I was dealing with. 

So I called another, who referred me to another and  their specialist kindly walked me through part one of this quagmire to finally identify that AT&T is hosting my email and can probably - hopefully - fix what some soulless individual did. 

And I hope this soulless individual who hacked my email has karma that will make them spend numerous hours of their life trying to fix something while speaking to someone else who might or might not have the information they need, only in a completely foreign language.

Do I sound bitter? I am bitter.

I owe apologies to our E-Subscribers, several advertisers - Dana Ross, Tami Ligon and a few law offices among several others, and the friends who missed out on the wickedly funny things I (used to) send on a daily basis.

I don’t know if it’s fixed yet, because I’m still  in the process of single-handedly meeting every member of the AT&T tech department, because apparently customer service is a big deal to them. Also, I think they secretly listen to people such as myself scream obscenities into the phone during the recorded prompts in-between the meet and greets.

I just described my Tuesday to you. 

Suffice it to say, I have a cauliflower ear that is probably not covered under the injury portion of our AT&T account, and if you’re going to learn about it it won’t be by email.  

This is all I’ve got. 

So far, the first person I talked to at the aforementioned mega-phone/internet/God knows what else company confirmed they had my account and that there was indeed a problem that needed more expertise than he could offer. Only the more expertise I got, the less likely they were able to even find my account. That’s where I left it. 

After a lot of coffee and soaking my phone ear in a vat of Icy Hot, I’ll be back at it until my email is fixed or I have a lithium drip.

I have no idea which way this is going to go.

I’m positive the notes on my account read like a Hoover FBI file, and you may never hear from me again via email. Because nobody knows who has my account and even when they do know, they find out they don’t. I’m on my seventh or eighth hour of dealing with this, and frankly I am sick of technology and trying to act like I don’t hear the snickers of the people who have forgotten more than I will ever know about all the initials behind the virtual router of Oz.

I hand write my kids letters these days. Now I remember why.

34 years of change. And counting.

34 years of change. And counting.

Ghost Books and Goat Rodeos

Ghost Books and Goat Rodeos