So You Bought a New Computer..

So, you're 'over the hill' (that's 40 in youthspeak), and you've bought your new computer.

After 20 minutes, you managed to locate the manual, ever-so-conveniently packed on the end marked "THIS SIDE DOWN." Despite the manufacturer's best efforts at obfuscation, you have deciphered the Japanese-to-Dutch-to-English translation buried behind the Spanish and French instructions, and discovered that friendly message in fine print on the back page "No Cables Included."

So, technophobe that you are, you are stuck with going in to your local big box electronics retailer chockfull of 20somethings ready to do battle... errr, help you. You have your Geek-to-English translator in-hand, bribed your neighbor's 12-year-old to come in as technical backup, and taken pictures of the sockets on the back and front of the nice gray box known as your CPU (but fondly referred to by members of your household as R2). You leave your house with hopes of making this a single trip.

Upon arrival at the MegaCircuit TechnoMart, the thunder coming from the music department is nearly being overwhelmed by the sounds of gunfire from the gaming department and the explosions from the home theater section. Despite this auditory onslaught and your fight-or-flight reflex kicked into DefCon 5, you eventually find the section marked "COMPUTERS."

And then you are almost required to wander around the cable section, pictures in hand, printed in full-color, life-size versions, in an attempt at self-service, even though you pass a sales clerk, engaged in a conversation with someone of approximately their same age and edgy hairstyle, overhearing a conversation that may as well be ancient Sumerian for all the good it does you.

Finally, you locate what you think are the right cables, but since even the 12-year-old isn't certain and the translator was useless, you stepped up to the side of the clerk, hoping that they will notice you, despite the obvious fervor from their conversation about latest megagigaflop video processor with parallel-processing-doodle display capabilities.

Finally, the clerkdroid will notice your presence - but do not, under any circumstances, attempt to engage it in communication first. "Yes?" is all the response your obvious dismay will elicit. "Is this all I'll need?" you answer, passing the instructions, the pictures, and the 12-year-old over to them, in the hopes that the clerkdroid won't make you feel any more idiotic than you already do.

"No, you're going to need..." and your eyes glaze over as they go into their dissertation of why what you picked is not only wrong, but stupid.

"Just give me what I need, all right?" you answer, hoping above hope that your credit card isn't maxed out, because you've heard that these guys sometimes work on commission, and that you could be taken for a ride just like the time you saw Albany when you took a cab from LaGuardia headed toward Manhattan.

A basket is magically produced, and the clerk scurries around, gathering cables, plugs, switches, and a box that you are just sure isn't made for the computer, but is salvage from the Death Star.

Getting home with your purchase, you unload and sort it all. And realize that you left the instructions back at the store.

And you have had a 12-year-old smirking at you for the last 45 minutes.