The Minnesota Farm Woman

I recently purchased a laptop computer.  My desktop is getting old, and I wanted the convenience of surfing the web or blogging while sitting out on my deck enjoying the sunshine, if spring ever gets here.  In order to go wireless, one must purchase a thing  called a router. This is plugged into an outlet and into the modem, which is the technical term for the little thingy with green lights that the internet company provides.  The carton said it took “only three easy steps” to go wireless. Easy I can do.  I should have known, though, that anything that is described as “easy” will quickly deteriorate into “#$@&*!”   Not to be argumentative, but I think there were four steps. The first one was opening the box. It took two hands, a sharp kitchen knife and two band-aids just to remove the shrink wrap.  Then, of course,  I didn’t have an extra outlet in my office/exercise room/guest bedroom.  This house was built in the days when the only computers that existed filled big rooms at NASA headquarters.  I had to dig around in the basement to find an extra power strip, then crawl under the desk amid dust bunnies, stray popcorn kernels and I’m sure,  large hairy spiders just waiting to bite. Forty minutes later, I’m finally ready for the three easy steps.  Wait! Where are the directions? The box contained only the router, a bright yellow cord, a disc and a drawing showing me how easy it is to plug things in. I am a college graduate and a woman.  I would much rather read the directions, but surely I can follow pictures.  The picture showing the back of the modem had three plugs. Mine has six. I tried all of them, each time waiting for a big “zzzzzzt” and my hair to stand on end.   I put in the disc. It kept prompting me to unplug the router, which meant crawling under the desk again. The box said “Helpline 24/7”.  This is just a question from a simple country woman, but if it is so easy, then why do they need a helpline?  I looked for the toll-free number. It was not on the box, in the box, on the disc or under the desk with the bunnies and big hairy spiders.  I did an internet search from my old computer and finally found the help desk number and dialed. After 20 minutes of waiting, I got a helpline guy in a foreign country. He was friendly, but he didn’t speak English very well, except for saying  “I don’t know yellow cord” and “Not to worry!”  He had me unplugging wires from the back of my desktop, not my laptop.  Me:  “This doesn’t make sense”  Him: “Not to worry!”  Finally, after an hour of trying, I was wireless. (I’m not counting the tangled pile of wires next to my old computer.)  He then had me enter a series of numbers and letters,  getting me to the administrative area of the company’s web site  in which I am sure they were downloading all of my personal information so their government  can clean out my bank account and steal my identity.  Won’t they be surprised to find out that my own government has already cleaned out my bank account since I just paid my taxes, and if anyone wants my identity, it it time to clean out the chicken coop and it isn’t a pretty job.    I thanked him and hung up, only to realize that with his “help”, I have now disconnected my old desktop, which I wanted to keep.  Sigh. This time I called my local internet provider.  We were done in five minutes. The helpline guy had a Minnesota accent.  I know there are those of you out there who think that speaking Minnesotan is not exactly speaking English, but I felt such a sense of comfort  when I said “Thanks” and he answered, “You betcha.”