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. . . I know I'm stupid?
A little background on my computer expertise: I DON'T HAVE ANY. I know how to perform basic system maintenance, such as cleanups, defrags, and regular anti-virus and spyware scans. I know to check for registry errors. I know the very basics about my system's hardware, mainly 'cause it's directly related to how sharp the graphics look when I want to vaporise zombies or space aliens or whatever my flavor of the week is. I know how to pound my hands flat on the keyboard while hooting like a gibbon to make words appear on the screen.
When something goes wrong, I Google. I Google like a motherfucker. And when that invariably fails to produce results, I take my entire tower downtown to a fellow whose children I've probably put through college, fork over a wad of cash, and say, "I'm a moron, Jake. Just fix it." And he lets me sit in the corner drinking soda until he's fixed whatever I've messed up.
It's a working relationship.
So when I stopped by Best Buy today on a whim because I figured, hey, more RAM is always good, I was trying my damndest to keep under the radar. See, I don't want to be THAT CUSTOMER. I never want to. You know. The one who comes in with all the questions but can't answer any herself? Invariably, I understand, we're usually there to pick up "that game for my husband/boyfriend/son", but it's somehow sadder when we're there for our own devices and are just as useless with our information.
I make my way towards the computer section of the store in a roundabout way, nonchalantly feigning interest in displays for cellphone cases and canned air. I do not, under any circumstance, want to be approached by an employee, because I don't want anyone to know how desperately clueless I am. I mean, I think I know what my RAM looks like, and I'm willing to drop a hundred bucks on something that may or may not work on my system in perfect ignorant bliss so my husband can roll his eyes and tell me I got the wrong thing when he comes home from work. Oh yes, I've danced this dance before, sirs and madams.
So I'm examining the rows of little ram sticks now, figuring I have at least a one in three shot of bringing home something that might be what I want, when an employee wanders over. Let's call him Ted. Ted wants to know if I'm finding everything okay.
"Oh sure, you know, I'm just getting some RAM." I say in a worldly sort of way, as though I purchase RAM every other day in between building motherboards from scratch.
Ted wants to help. Ted wants to know how much RAM I have, and what I want it for.
Ha! I know the answer to that, at least. "Like . . . a gig. Yeah, I've got a gig of RAM. I just want to be able to play some of the newer games without turning down all the settings so they look like a handful of sand on my monitor. It's cool, y'know, I got it."
Ted doesn't seem convinced, but is far too polite to say he thinks I'm full of crap. Ted wants to know how old my computer is.
DAMN IT TED LEAVE ME AND MY STUPIDITY ALONE. ALL I WANT ARE SOME RAMS.
. . . is that even the phrase?
"Uh. Geez. I don't know. Like, a few years? Maybe? I think I got it off someone. It runs XP. I just need another stick of RAM, maybe speed things up a bit. Thanks." I give him my best disarming smile. It's cool, man, check me out, I'm a nerd; look at my Spider-Man t-shirt and my glasses! Yeah, I'm one of you, and we all know computer stuff, right? Yeah, check it. I even know my RAM is DD-something. That helps, right?
Ted wants to know how many RAM slots I have (what the hell, Ted?) and whether they install "down or up".
I take a wild guess at both, taking home the gold in the Vague Championships.
And then he asks it. The question that always makes me sound like an idiot.
"Well, what graphics card are you running?"
I examine my shoes. The ceiling. The lady in checkout one picking her wedgie. Anything but meeting his eyes as I start to ramble uncomfortably. "It's . . . uh, my husband got it for me for Christmas. I think it's a good one? The box was like, um, yea big," and here I hold my hands apart a ridiculous distance no graphics card has ever been manufactured in, "and I think it had a lady on it in a metal bra. Maybe she has red hair? It could be brown."
Ted wants to know if I mean the ATI Radeon series.
Hell, Ted, it should be apparent that I don't know anything now. Why are you prolonging my suffering?
"I dunno. Maybe? Probably?" I sigh. "Look, Ted, thanks. Thank you. But you are so talking to the wrong girl about this stuff you have no idea. I don't want to keep you. I'm just going to buy whatever, okay? I swear I won't blame you or anyone else but myself if I mess it up."
Ted assures me this is his job. I know better. I know he's probably thinking I shouldn't even be allowed to have a computer. He wants to confiscate mine and give me some rocks and maybe a twig to play with instead.
"Ted, seriously. Look. Is this the most expensive one you have? This . . . this RAM thing, here? I'm going to buy the most expensive one. I WANT TO GIVE YOU MY MONEY." I cover my face with my hands. "I just . . . I just want to blow up some zombies. Okay?"
Ted is giggling at me now. He tries a little more to get something more specific out of me, but the best I can manage in response to his increasingly technical questions is "I don't know" and "It's possible?" He spends a good fifteen minutes with me trying to coax something more than mush out of my mouth. I feel bad for taking up his time with my unintelligible nonsense. I want to put my purse over my head and leave the store in shame.
Finally, he talks me away from purchasing the ninety dollar stick of RAM I'd be leaning towards and getting a special 2 gigabyte stick for half that which can be installed "down or up". Whatever, Ted. We both know I have no idea what you're talking about. He assures me that if it doesn't work, I can bring it back within thirty days to exchange it.
Ted is good at his job. As it turns out, I got the right type of RAM with his help after all, and was even able to install it myself. (I'm a little insulted at how incredulous my husband seemed when he called from work, I think.) I called the store to tell his boss he'd done a good job. I'm sure he was out back laughing himself stupid at me.
Thank you, computer geeks, for dealing with people like me who probably shouldn't be allowed within fifteen feet of these things.
A little background on my computer expertise: I DON'T HAVE ANY. I know how to perform basic system maintenance, such as cleanups, defrags, and regular anti-virus and spyware scans. I know to check for registry errors. I know the very basics about my system's hardware, mainly 'cause it's directly related to how sharp the graphics look when I want to vaporise zombies or space aliens or whatever my flavor of the week is. I know how to pound my hands flat on the keyboard while hooting like a gibbon to make words appear on the screen.
When something goes wrong, I Google. I Google like a motherfucker. And when that invariably fails to produce results, I take my entire tower downtown to a fellow whose children I've probably put through college, fork over a wad of cash, and say, "I'm a moron, Jake. Just fix it." And he lets me sit in the corner drinking soda until he's fixed whatever I've messed up.
It's a working relationship.
So when I stopped by Best Buy today on a whim because I figured, hey, more RAM is always good, I was trying my damndest to keep under the radar. See, I don't want to be THAT CUSTOMER. I never want to. You know. The one who comes in with all the questions but can't answer any herself? Invariably, I understand, we're usually there to pick up "that game for my husband/boyfriend/son", but it's somehow sadder when we're there for our own devices and are just as useless with our information.
I make my way towards the computer section of the store in a roundabout way, nonchalantly feigning interest in displays for cellphone cases and canned air. I do not, under any circumstance, want to be approached by an employee, because I don't want anyone to know how desperately clueless I am. I mean, I think I know what my RAM looks like, and I'm willing to drop a hundred bucks on something that may or may not work on my system in perfect ignorant bliss so my husband can roll his eyes and tell me I got the wrong thing when he comes home from work. Oh yes, I've danced this dance before, sirs and madams.
So I'm examining the rows of little ram sticks now, figuring I have at least a one in three shot of bringing home something that might be what I want, when an employee wanders over. Let's call him Ted. Ted wants to know if I'm finding everything okay.
"Oh sure, you know, I'm just getting some RAM." I say in a worldly sort of way, as though I purchase RAM every other day in between building motherboards from scratch.
Ted wants to help. Ted wants to know how much RAM I have, and what I want it for.
Ha! I know the answer to that, at least. "Like . . . a gig. Yeah, I've got a gig of RAM. I just want to be able to play some of the newer games without turning down all the settings so they look like a handful of sand on my monitor. It's cool, y'know, I got it."
Ted doesn't seem convinced, but is far too polite to say he thinks I'm full of crap. Ted wants to know how old my computer is.
DAMN IT TED LEAVE ME AND MY STUPIDITY ALONE. ALL I WANT ARE SOME RAMS.
. . . is that even the phrase?
"Uh. Geez. I don't know. Like, a few years? Maybe? I think I got it off someone. It runs XP. I just need another stick of RAM, maybe speed things up a bit. Thanks." I give him my best disarming smile. It's cool, man, check me out, I'm a nerd; look at my Spider-Man t-shirt and my glasses! Yeah, I'm one of you, and we all know computer stuff, right? Yeah, check it. I even know my RAM is DD-something. That helps, right?
Ted wants to know how many RAM slots I have (what the hell, Ted?) and whether they install "down or up".
I take a wild guess at both, taking home the gold in the Vague Championships.
And then he asks it. The question that always makes me sound like an idiot.
"Well, what graphics card are you running?"
I examine my shoes. The ceiling. The lady in checkout one picking her wedgie. Anything but meeting his eyes as I start to ramble uncomfortably. "It's . . . uh, my husband got it for me for Christmas. I think it's a good one? The box was like, um, yea big," and here I hold my hands apart a ridiculous distance no graphics card has ever been manufactured in, "and I think it had a lady on it in a metal bra. Maybe she has red hair? It could be brown."
Ted wants to know if I mean the ATI Radeon series.
Hell, Ted, it should be apparent that I don't know anything now. Why are you prolonging my suffering?
"I dunno. Maybe? Probably?" I sigh. "Look, Ted, thanks. Thank you. But you are so talking to the wrong girl about this stuff you have no idea. I don't want to keep you. I'm just going to buy whatever, okay? I swear I won't blame you or anyone else but myself if I mess it up."
Ted assures me this is his job. I know better. I know he's probably thinking I shouldn't even be allowed to have a computer. He wants to confiscate mine and give me some rocks and maybe a twig to play with instead.
"Ted, seriously. Look. Is this the most expensive one you have? This . . . this RAM thing, here? I'm going to buy the most expensive one. I WANT TO GIVE YOU MY MONEY." I cover my face with my hands. "I just . . . I just want to blow up some zombies. Okay?"
Ted is giggling at me now. He tries a little more to get something more specific out of me, but the best I can manage in response to his increasingly technical questions is "I don't know" and "It's possible?" He spends a good fifteen minutes with me trying to coax something more than mush out of my mouth. I feel bad for taking up his time with my unintelligible nonsense. I want to put my purse over my head and leave the store in shame.
Finally, he talks me away from purchasing the ninety dollar stick of RAM I'd be leaning towards and getting a special 2 gigabyte stick for half that which can be installed "down or up". Whatever, Ted. We both know I have no idea what you're talking about. He assures me that if it doesn't work, I can bring it back within thirty days to exchange it.
Ted is good at his job. As it turns out, I got the right type of RAM with his help after all, and was even able to install it myself. (I'm a little insulted at how incredulous my husband seemed when he called from work, I think.) I called the store to tell his boss he'd done a good job. I'm sure he was out back laughing himself stupid at me.
Thank you, computer geeks, for dealing with people like me who probably shouldn't be allowed within fifteen feet of these things.
!
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