@becsbuddy Thanks for pointing that out and doing what you can do on your end. I generally don't (intentionally -- but who knows what whacky nonsense I may get into with the little fun tricks Mr Parkinson decides to play on me, maybe he thinks it's great fun to shoot a huge dose of novacaine on my teflon-coated brain. I nurture fantasies of the ways I might let him know of my dispIeasure with his shenanigans. He's been lnown to do things like put my phone in my pocket (which I never remember to check snd don't rember hsving put it there).

my I am curious as to hiw my number got there. I have it on my personal e- mail but I normally use just this back and forth messaging rather than my actual e- mail.
The rich irony of this miss-srep is that I spent the last 20 years of my work life hip- deep in infosec. I was a Certified Information Sytstem Security Professional and a Certified Imformation Security Manager and focused on bringing the government's info systems into compliance with the Federal Information Systems Modernization Act and with all the NIST SP-800 standards.
I vacillatte betweek giving my OCD full range and tying down every single security control known to man ( and woman) and being cavaliere about it, hoping that my info is too boring to interest anyone. And after Mr. Musk and his Merry Muskettes, those arrogant, pimpled- faced little twits, ran through the government's systems like a ragtag bunch of rabid squerrills on meth using a broken weed whacker they pulled out of someone's trash, taking every byte of personal data of everyone who has done so much as buy a single stamp , it feels like that horse has left the barn (and those litle brats may well have taken the horse with them anyway.
But I digress...Thank you again, and if tou have any idea about howe I managed to share my phone number ( so I can fix tge root cause rather than desling with it onesie-twosie basis, I would be most grateful. I'm growing increasingly stingy about my time vecause some things might require a horridly huge percentage of my remaining time on the planet --an hour for young folks is but a pittance of their remaining time, but it is a largish chunk of time for octogenarians.

In the meanwhile perhaps I ccan taunt the hackers with this:

Here are my phone numbers; some assembly may be required:

Remember this : hackers can get the death penalty in China and I have a high level of confidence that even the most fervid activist who objects to the death penalty would merrily make an exception for hackers. ( Be careful - all of the digits found below could be arranged to be President Xi's number. Wouldn't that be fun!?)

Toodles...

295-1#23-46-&80#]666]8Oo0zl

@becsbuddy I think I may know how my phone number may have gotten on my responses. I have it on my regular gmail. It may be that
, since all the byteheads at Big G seem to think that everyone wants to have changes they make in one ap should automatically be made on every app the user has. Hopefully when I face rhe music and remove it from my gmail, I can undo what Big G has wrought on their gmail account as well. Cross your fingers for me as I face down the beast snd make it yield to my actual wishes rather than
assume they know what's helpful to me. Sigh....

@becsbuddy Do you think, this would elicit a complaintif I posted it And I realize I habe pr obably out-stsupided my ownself because I'm aware that there's some way t o send things to you that aren't made pblc, but haven't yet figured out how to do that. SUPRISESURPRISE!

Today I realized something, which is that when I get around to dying (which won't be any time soon because my To-Do list is so long), it will be self-inflicted. But don't worry! I'm not talking about suicide, but rather its cousin, Stupidicide. This is when you do something so stupid that the Universe dare not leave you unsupervised for so much as a second, and is growing weary because it takes so much energy that needs to be spent elsewhere. For example, I sleep in my socks because sleep will evade me if my feet get cold. I usually have only black socks (because when every sock you have is the same, losing one doesn't matter, whereas if you have a pair of decorated socks, when one disappears, the remaining sock is doomed, and has only 2 choices: spend the rest of his life polishing your furniture; or hie itself to the nearest waste receptacle and join the other things that have become useless.
But despite knowing these brutal truths, I succumbed to the desire to wear something other than solid black and bought far too many pairs of striped socks with kitties. The background of these socks is still black, so I have exercised some restraint (which clearly was insufficient to adequately offset the danger posed by the contrast between the black background and the bright neon yellow, pink, and turquoise of the socks). So, heeding the call of nature in the wee small hours of the morning (before Mr. Sun has deigned to grace us with his presence) and remaining in my sleep stupor, I emerged from my bed and proceeded down the well worn path to the bathroom, and became dimly aware that something was drastically different from the previous excursions. I became vaguely aware of some bright stripes where my feet should be, and I couldn't outrun them, so I tried to kick them away. This, of course, didn't have the desired effect. Instead, it made me start to lose my balance, and if I had not been accompanied by my trusty cane (which I sometimes forget to invite along on these excursions), I might have fallen and hit my head on the lavatory, toilet, or bathtub. These bathroom fixtures have such boring, sedentary, uneventful lives that they may welcome the sound of an ambulance's siren. Alas, if they were expecting my ever-attentive husband to respond to my cries for help, they would have to wait a few hours, because without his hearing aids, he can hardly hear at all, and after a full day of tending to me, he is bone-tired. He has always fallen asleep just as soon as his head hits the pillow and can stay in that position until the time to wake up the next morning, hopefully getting a well- deserved break. So, this is what I mean by Stupidicide. I don't know if Mr. Webster has added him to his book yet.