'Are you sure you're really you?'

Although I'm no techno-guru, I do like many aspects of the computer world and especially enjoy paying bills online.

What was once a tedious task of writing a check, signing it at the bottom, addressing an envelope and driving it to the post office can now be accomplished by typing an amount and simply clicking on "submit."

I haven't felt so liberated since the kids got old enough to do their own math.

For a gal such as myself who runs a home office, anything that shaves time off paperwork is a blessing, and when computerized bill paying works, it's a dream. When it doesn't, well, then it's nothing short of a nightmare.

Take last Tuesday, for example. I showed up to do my paperwork at 7:30 a.m. We run a strict dress code here at our home office, and I was right in line with regulation. Although I don't clock in, I took inventory of my day and sat down at the computer sporting my flannel jammies, an oversized bathrobe, a pair of fuzzy red slippers and a large cup of coffee.

It may sound like too much to some, but here at Lori's home office, we believe in going the extra mile.

I opened the first bill, logged on to the Internet, went to the proper Web site and entered in my username and password and waited to pass through the gates of cyberspace security.

All was well until I was informed that my password was invalid.

Not to worry, I simply re-entered it, adjusted my robe for maximum comfort and waited once again for the bill-paying page to open up.

"Wrong password" popped up on the screen again, and was then followed by "Still wrong password," "Did you forget your password?" and every computer user's favorite question, "Are you sure that you're you?"

"Please answer a security question," the Web site prompted, which is the equivalent of a man in uniform saying, "We're going to need you to come with us, ma'am."

"What is the name of your first family pet?" was the security question that it chose. What kind of security question is that? Was it the name of the first dog my family ever owned or the first pet I remember the family having? More important, if I don't know the answer to my own question, how will they know that it's incorrect?

I entered "Fluffy" and the monitor went red and a game-show sized "X" popped up on the screen accompanied by a buzzer — all to let me know that I was wrong. But, hey! Thanks for playing.

Resorting to conventional methods, I dialed their number. "You cannot believe how busy we are!" said the recording. "Please check out our Web site or stay on the line for the next available representative." They then put me on hold, and to help pass the time, they played elevator music in the background. Yes sir, the only thing more irritating than an orchestra playing "At the Copa" is a recorded voice that interrupts every 30-seconds saying ever so calmly, "All of our representatives are trying to assist other customers who were here long before you, but if you can't wait, you could always go online."

I am nothing if not efficient, so while I waited for the next available representative, I opened the Alltel bill, and with the phone still attached to my ear, I promptly went to their Web site.

Wrong password, still wrong password, did you forget your password? Are you an idiot? That's not it! OK, we're blocking you out and we'll send you a text and we'll need you to enter it into the password box so that we can confirm that you're you.

Nope, that ain't it, that ain't it either. Please try again. We're sorry; the number that you're entering is so totally wrong that we can't believe it. Are you sure that you're you?

I swear it was enough to make a woman double the cream and drink her coffee straight from the pot.

You can do that in a home office.

Yet, as I sat there at the computer in my big robe and fluffy red slippers, I stabbed the keys with my forefinger and I said them out loud as if to convince the computer that this is the text that Alltel just sent me.

It was then that I realized that maybe technology isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

I slammed the phone down, blew the dust off the checkbook, wrote out a pile of checks, signed them at the bottom, addressed the envelopes and drove them to the post office.

Although I couldn't wear my fuzzy red slippers, at least they know me there.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch. com.