It is a feature of some email service providers, not all... but gmail does track login history, so you dont' want to be logging in directly even if you have the pwd
It is a feature of some email service providers, not all... but gmail does track login history, so you dont' want to be logging in directly even if you have the pwd
I didn't know this either. I thought as long as they didn't have a header notice, saying "You last logged in: _________" thing, you were okay.
All you have to do is know the USERNAME AND PASSWORD of the email account.
THEN just setup your mobile phone to receive POP/SMTP messages from the account. You NEVER have to LOGIN to the account, as the email ALWAYS COME TO YOU!!!!
Me - 32 Her -30 Married - 7 Years Together - 9 Years No Kids 05/21 - Bomb 6/8 - Exposed 7/9 - Re-Exposed 06/11 - She Filed
LOL. I happened to log on today and then I happened to stumble onto this thread. I've read some of the posts -- not in any particular order -- but I love what I read! I especially liked Allen's comment about the "affair buster Wiki." Allen, you need to do this. It would be a blast.
Anyway, I'm not as technologically advanced as most of the rest of you, but here is my class-act addition to Intel gathering. Hope somebody can get a laugh out of it.
Title: What happens to a WAH's brain cells after seeing his wife drive past him, just as he is about to meet a bonafide prostitute for "dinner and a date?" And ... two days after he sends his wife a much-watered down support check, saying he doesn't have any more money to give.
First: The spermlike brain cells in his brain start bouncing up and down, going faster and faster, and his heart rate reaches about 100, almost as if he's already having sex with his used-up and washed-out, sorry-excuse for a woman. Only difference is, instead of feeling ecstasy, he starts freaking out. (Who says men who use prostitutes don't have any emotional issues???)
He thinks:
OMG, she saw me. And I only have two minutes to get where I need to be. What am I going to do? OMG, OMG, OMG! Better just sit here in the parking lot and see if she turns around, or comes back or anything.
Should I call the police? H_ll no! Can't do that. What if they start asking me questions like, where am I going, what am doing, who am I planning to meet, etc., etc.? Can't have the police knowing what I'm about to do now, can I?
Wait a minute. I can just call them and tell them that she's following me. I yi yi, can't do that. They will ask me where I am and come here to have me file a report, and I don't have time for that.
OMG, better call the date and tell her I can't make it on time. Nope! Can't do that either. She told me only to text! OK, I'll text her.
Enter: the cell phone. He presses the keys and texts his "date." I am holed up in a parking lot. Can't make it on time. Sorry! Should be only about ten minutes late.
She texts him back: Better abort mission. Why don't you just come to my "studio" and we'll forgo the dinner.
So, off he goes to eat out-of-canned meal.
Two hours later, he leaves, and on his way home, he receives another text from her. Did you see your wife? Is she still around, following you?
He texts her back. No, haven't seen hide nor hair of her. Maybe I should report this.
They each text back and forth in a flurry of messages, trying to figure out the best way to handle it. Finally, she gets tired, and drops the ball. He is left to his own devices to figure out what to do next. "Oh, I'm home," he thinks, all tired and exhausted, more from the adrenaline of the chase than the ecstasy of the mission. I'll call the police tomorrow and report her. Off to sleep he goes!
