Stroke addled?

“Three hours shot to Hell, but the Arrowhead Mills puffed-corn cereal is ordered from Walmart*.”
So I said to my sister-in-law in FL on her landline voicemail.
I call my sister-in-law “Amazon Lady.” Not the “Amazon-Lady” at the Canandaigua YMCA, musclebound and striding about like Arnold Schwarzenegger — although she’s a nice lady.
My sister-in-law is expert at fiddling the Amazon website, a surfeit of contorted machination.
“Here I am calling you again,” I said. “Last time was also because of Amazon.”
We have deduced I have various problems with Amazon.
It appears I have two accounts, one under an e-mail I still use, and a second under an e-mail I left long ago.
If I hit my Amazon bookmark, and enter the password I normally use, it logs me into my ancient account.
So it’s fairly active. I ordered corn-puffs through it recently.
But my “Subscribe-and-Save” dog-food is via the more recent account.
Subscribe-and-Save is Amazon’s thingy where you sign up for something every month or two, like dog-food or Huggies.
It took an act of Congress to deduce I had two accounts. Like why is there not a Subscribe-and-Save on the ancient account, the only one that logs me in, so I (we) thought it was the only one I had.
My more recent account doesn’t like the password from my ancient account, so won’t log in.
So, what to do?
Set a corrected password for my recent account, set up a new Subscribe-and-Save on that account, than vaporize the ancient account and discontinue the Subscribe-and-Save on that.
Easier said than done!
Resetting a password is usually easy. Request a password reset, and Amazon gives you a code that proves it’s actually you.
Really? Suppose some ne’er-do-well has hacked my e-mail?
Moving ahead, Amazon e-mailed me a code.
It bombed!
Call Amazon Lady.
A while ago I had Amazon Subscribe-and-Saves for puffed-corn cereal and puffed-rice.
Amazon ran out-of-stock for puffed rice — I had to buy it at Lori’s Natural Foods. (That’s their jingle, readers; via YouTube.)
I decided to try online elsewhere. Mighty Walmart* had it.
They also had puffed corn, so cueing our Prez to Amazon: “You’re fired!”
Last February I needed corn-puffs, but Walmart* would no longer log me in. All-of-a-sudden my usual password was invalid.
Switch back to Amazon, but it’s my ancient account because my valid password logs into that.
But I (we = Amazon Lady) don’t see my dog-food Subscribe-and-Save. It’s on the other account.
“I don’t really wanna Subscribe-and-Save the corn-puffs,” I said.
Plus Amazon is always sending me into the ozone. Their site is so packed I can’t crunch it.
This is the bane of a stroke-survivor: encounter Amazon’s 89 bazilyun buttons, and lock up.
“So call Walmart* and reset your password for them.”
Not that simple. Telephone calls for me are difficult. It’s called aphasia, a common stroke-effect.
I hafta serenade each person I call asking for patience during my stony silences while I try to get words out. And if I ask for a repeat.
I’ve found I usually get understanding, but if I don’t ask I often get anger (I have).
So I called Mighty Walmart*.
They e-mailed a reset code.
“Nothing yet. This is what happened before. Lemme look in my junk.
Nothing from Walmart*.”
We tried again and again; at least four more times.
“Nothing from Walmart*,” each time.
Then I happened to notice five “Customer-Service@Walmart” e-mails in my junk.
“Whoa!” I exclaimed. “Here I am looking for ‘Walmart’ instead of ‘Customer-Service@Walmart.’”
SLAM; password reset, corn-puffs ordered from Walmart*; Amazon fix delayed.
“You did good,” I told the girl. “Parrying a 73-year-old stroke-survivor with slight aphasia. Make sure your husband knows.”
Looking back at all this, three hours of precious time lost, I wonder if my long-ago stroke affects my ability to parry stuff like this.
I seem to make better sense of things writing out this blog. Not confronting a screen, or a service-rep counting seconds.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke. It slightly compromised my speech. (Difficulty finding and putting words together.)