Bmo Pad: Fill & Download for Free

Hackers.“Passwords just slow me down,” says Claudia on Warehouse 13, as she presses six keys and is in. Michael on Burn Notice hacks a guy’s bluetooth cellphone using a Pringle’s can, a USB cable, and some random corporate desktop.The implication that EVERY system can be hacked, and quickly, is both ridiculous and actually kind of dangerous. I work in tech support and I’m constantly having to reassure them that, unless they are in a movie or television show, they don’t have to worry about someone hacking their desktop and using the monitor like a camera and YES I HAVE GOTTEN THAT CALL.And the thing that’s annoying me is that you could accomplish the same amount of sounding badass with a little bit more technical accuracy and actually, perhaps enrich the viewing audience.“Yeah, man, dude uses the same email and password for his cloud storage as he did for that porn site I hacked last year”“Yeah, it’s the same password he used for BigMart Online, just the last three letters aren’t BMO. Got it on the third try!”“Would you believe the arrogant clod didn’t enable two factor authentication and his password was ‘maga2020!’?”“Oh, I sent him a fake email saying his account was suspended, and it sent him to a site where he gave me his old password and his new one, and I just set the new password for him and now he’s got no idea I’m in his stuff.”“Wait, this is an old cold-war era manual pad entry. Try 00000. Look, you don’t want to know.”With the exception of the last one— which is a nod to a terrifying fact about the nuclear arms race— every one of these things has a basis in actual fact. (I have personally helped a friend’s family get into a dead relative’s computer using the password ‘jesusislord’ on the first try, just based on the decor.)And the thing is, it might actually teach people not to do things, rather than worry about ridiculous scenarios that don’t happen.

At 42 I met a woman of 22, “Ms X” at the local rock climbing gym. For some months we joked around whenever we’d meet, and I suppose did something like flirt. But this woman was a serious participant with a sharp wit, also something of a tomboy, and I imagine she found the idea of flirting moronic. Especially with a man two years shy of twice her age.I gradually got to know her on a platonic basis; we’d belay each other at the gym, go on climbing-camping trips, usually with 6–8 other climbers aged 20–50. We had nothing going on between us that I was aware of. We were just two folks out of large group of climbers who knew each other and sometimes traveled far, overseas included, to climb. It was rare for climbers at our gym to sleep together, because no one much wanted to shit where they ate. But it had happened to me once before, and though making for some uncomfortable moments, had passed, and that woman and I were able to remain cordial.So it went, until one hot summer night, when Ms X, a mutual female friend around her age, and I went for beers and burritos after a hard climb. We had a hilarious old time, talking openly about our various failed relationships and countless idiots and psychopaths we’d all dated.At around 1am, I invited them back to my bachelor pad. I lived on the ground floor of a cool old house a few blocks away, and they came up. It was a school night, but no matter. We smoked a joint, got well baked and the mutual friend was soon snoozing on my sofa, leaving Ms X seated at my computer, doing something useful to it for me — she worked as an IT tech at a downtown white-shoe law firm.I should back up here to explain what else had already caught my imagination about Ms X. Not only had she fled her religion-stupefied parents back east in the Maritimes at age 20, but had come to Toronto more or less penniless, on her own, having only attended secretarial college post-high school. Once here she’d realized that being able to type, use MS-Word and file alphabetically does not a great career make, and so had worked crap jobs and taken to going to the local big-box book store to crib notes from computer manuals for the various software programs used in the legal industry. This was in about 2001, before the internet had everything under the sun freely available on it.With the knowledge gleaned from doing that, she’d managed to get herself this job at this firm, a place with hundreds of the smartest, attack-dog litigators and so on in the country. Ms X was that driven she’d BS’d her way into a good paying gig there with no paper qualifications. I loved it.Moreover, she spoke in complete, articulate sentences, read law books and the classics — meaning she actually sounded enough like an intelligent young female lawyer that she fit right into the firm’s highbrow culture. She also dressed well, looking comparatively snazzed up in that professional environment, in spite of her far lower (than a lawyer) income.The most remarkable thing about her, however, was she did all this while also being a chronic pothead. By chronic I mean, wake and bake, blunts at coffee and lunch time in the BMO tower’s underground parking garage with another woman on her tech team — the full-on daily stoner package.I had a lot a respect for all of it. I’m no stoner, but I’m self-taught, a high school dropout, and had gone through my share of struggles to achieve what I had. I could barely handle more than a puff of weed before either falling asleep or drifting off in my own thoughts to the point of social isolation or embarrassment.She was, of course, very attractive: Blonde, with wild curly long hair, very fit and perfect skin, ever-so-slightly bucktoothed such that she flashed her clean ivories whenever she smiled, which she didn’t often do, being already toughened up and self-protectively cynical about the hard old world as she was. Oh, and she was perpetually clad in Lululemon when at the gym. Youch.As she gazed into my computer screen, I tapped her shoulder, then lowered my face to hers, lips ajar. She looked up, a bit shocked at the gesture, set her lips in a similar pose and moved her face toward mine. In an instant we’d crash-landed into my bed. I heard the other girl let herself out at some point later. We went nuts on each other for hours. It had been ages for us both.She roused herself early the next morning, scooting off home to shower and change, making it to work on time.I assumed it would be a one-off event, me being 42 and not at all believing that a female her age and I could seriously amount to anything like viable. Problem was, I already liked her, cared about her, felt invested in her welfare — at first as a friend and now as her (potential) lover. The other aspect of her that was lust-inducing was that prior to our tryst she’d had almost no sexual experience, and certainly none that was remotely good — according to her own descriptions of things. And boy, had she risen to occasion that night, beyond any fantasizable expectations.Hell yes, I felt more than a little dirty that next day. I am not naive about how the world views these things. I have a measure of self-respect. I also have a lot of old friends who’ve known me since I was a boy. I knew if I went ahead with this, it would be huge arse-pain explaining and defending it, especially to my single female friends in my age range. Except there were none of the classic extenuating circumstances that usually infest such relationships; I had no serious money, no house, no car, nothing fancy to offer this woman by way of a lifestyle upgrade. If she was going to be with me, it wasn’t going to be on any sugar daddy platform.Thus, I decided that next day to let her hold all the cards in terms of any continuance of our dalliance.She’d asked for my number though. And sure enough, after I climbed with her and our gang a couple of days later at the gym, she’d called late and asked to come over. I welcomed her in and we dove into another otherworldly night of unhinged weed-fueled fornication. She was a fast and aggressive learner, wanted to catch up on everything she’d been missing, and I was keen to stand and deliver as best I could. Our physical chemistry was on the order of “once in a lifetime”. There was no resisting her from my end, and she seemed to be of similar mindset.And so it began. I was soon sleeping with her 3–4 nights a week. And, naturally, when such a thing rolls out, there’s more than sex going on. Two parties necessarily begin to get know one another. After several weeks, I could not find a single good reason to end it. I was having the time of my life. She’d come over, roll up a few joints, get me absolutely wasted, then rattle my brains out — sometimes ‘til dawn. She even had some kinky black lingerie she’d picked up working retail at La Senza, prior to joining the firm.By now, other climbers had become aware of things, not by way of my flapping mouth, let me reassure you. None of the climbers had a problem with it. No, the shit only hit the fan when I took her up north to an island owned by a family I knew. I’d been going there since the 1960s, sometimes spending my entire summer there as a kid. I’d also had history, some 20 years’ prior, with one of the two sisters, “Ms Y”, in that family. They were wealthy, but all fun, bohemian artist types, so I thought “Ahh, they’ll let it go.”No sir, they did not. As soon as Ms Y pulled up in the boat and saw me waiting on the dock with Ms X, the claws came out. Worse still, this was to be a big three-day party weekend, with lots of people staying on the island in the two houses, the boathouse and in tents, a great many of whom I knew, men and woman my age, plus Y’s entire family, her mother included. Yes, I’m an idiot.It was tense. Especially when Ms Y’s sister showed up (she was around my age) with her two daughters, both older than Ms X. These were some pissed off ladies. And I suppose rightfully so.Until, that is, Ms X once again rose to the occasion. First she charmed and made everyone laugh with her rapier wit, then set to helping out in a big way in the kitchen with the preparation of a massive dinner for around 25 people and also in the postprandial clean up, as did I.By the next day she was being treated as one of the girls, though I was still on everyone’s shitlist. I kept my mouth shut, made myself useful, chopping wood, doing dishes, making sunset sangrias and helping launch the various boats, canoes, etc. It could’ve gone a lot worse, plus we ended up with the private room in the otherwise crowded boathouse so we were able to make quiet sweet love nights.It went on for several months. A certain part of me knew it couldn’t last. I was finally cluing in on where the trouble might rear its head; she had barely lived, I had lived a very large life of global adventures, overseas residences, big relationships, with all the alleged maturity that ships along with that. This thing I had with her, while fun and exciting, lacked substance and maturity.But damn it if it wasn’t half-bad at the same time. Put it this way: I’d had far worse relationships with women my own age.The inevitable happened on a camping trip with a bunch of climbers, when Ms X and I shared a tent and she informed me over a giant reefer that she had strong, “serious relationship” feelings for me. She asked how I felt about her. I can’t recall exactly what I said, but remember thinking that I’d best be honest. I meant not to hurt her, but whatever I said didn’t go over too well. It was the beginning of the end, an end that took several more months.Now that the “this won’t last” cat was out of the bag, I decided I should support her moving on from me. I told her outright if she wanted to see other guys she had my blessing. And she did. She started a very slow-growing relationship with a guy near to her age, another climber, a man I didn’t know who was new to the gym. She had the nous not to tell me much about it. We slowly parted company, occasionally spending nights together until she decided she liked him and wanted to make something of it. And so tapered off our sleepovers.I gave her my full thumbs up, though doing so did cause pain. It’s hard to explain the feelings I had for her by then, but above it all, I decided the only class move was to be selfless. I wanted her to have a great life — whether or not her time with me counted as a stepping stone to it.She took off on a weeks-long climbing trip with him, gently letting me know upon her return that he was now her man and that we were 100% officially done. I’d see them in the gym and found myself tongue-tied and aching of heart. I suppose that indicates that I did love her. I know I certainly cared for her; still do.She’s in her early forties now, lives near Vancouver, BC, is single and a serious mountain woman — ultra-fit climber, mountain biker, skier, hiker and yoga beast. She’s self-employed as a project manager in the tech industry, living alone in the house she recently bought.I‘m happy she carved out an interesting life, on her own terms. None of it surprises me. I have no regrets. I hope she doesn’t either. Why would she?I hooked up with my wife about three years after Ms X and I ended it, some 16 years ago.A couple of months ago, two of my old male climbing mates visited her to climb. They sent me a selfie of the three of them, her with a big old grin. She still looks 100% as fabulous and they tell me she’s as tough as a redwood and suffers no fools.I love a happy ending.