I just spent an hour and a half teaching a couple of senior citizens how to use a computer for the first time in their lives. It was not an easy task. Eighty-five year-old mother and her son arrived at the reference desk (to which I've been relegated, since every other librarian has decided to take today as a vacation day, including the boss) with a brand-new Priceline.com card in hand and wanting to know how to go about using it. A friend had given it to her, with only the instructions to "Go to Priceline."

They didn't know what a mouse was. The didn't know what the space bar was. I think the son may have been nearly illiterate, since when I would ask him to type anything at all, including his own address, his mother would begin to spell things very slowly into his ear.

As you might imagine, it was an agonizingly drawn-out experience. In order to use Priceline, the lady needed an email address, of which - of course! - she had no knowledge or understanding. I was just this close to reverting to Greg-speak to get through the situation, but we all managed to escape with our sanities intact, more or less. A few interesting exchanges during the process:

From the son: "Are these the kind of computers that can see nekkid ladies?" Then, "Can you show me a nekkid lady?"

From the mother: "I don't want nothing to do with computers! And I'll be dead pretty soon, so I won't have to learn them, either!"

The son: "Do they sell beer on here [Priceline]? I'd get me ten six-packs!"

Me: "Just click on the box that says you agree not to do anything illegal with your email address."
Him: "Like what?"
Me: "Like...threatening the president."
Him: "Are these the kind of computers that can threaten the president?"

Him: "Mom, we need the credit card number now."
Her (at what seemed to be the top of her lungs): "FOUR...OH...TWO..."

After an hour and a half of learning to scroll, point, click, and type, they had finished their shopping. Their list? Three bottles of multivitamins and nine rolls of paper towels. He says he's coming back to use our computers some more (probably to find those "nekkid ladies") and that he'll be sure to come find me for help.

Can you hear me cringing from there?

I'm exhausted to the point where I'm having trouble handling these situations today. Last night we had a baby shower for one of my dearest friends, who I've never actually met in person. The group of friends who attended met a little over a year ago on a listserv, and we've been close ever since, though none of us belong to the original list. Anyway, Gina is going to be giving birth any day now, so we threw her an online shower. It was great fun, and we all had a blast, but after a day of strenuous cleaning (see? I'm keeping my promise!), it was just the thing to push me over the edge. I needed far more sleep than I ended up getting.

Oh, in case you were curious, I got her a Maya Wrap sling. Everything's in place now, and we haven't heard from her in a few hours, so perhaps the baby is on his way as I type.

Just the thought of wrecking was enough to make me actually do it. Interesting, no? If, at the moment, I could manage the mental effort, I'd try to turn this into an allegory about life and fear of failure. Consider yourself off the hook, at least for now; I'll leave the philosophizing to the people who can do it in places other than in bed and at times other than three in the morning.

The fall knocked the handlebars drastically out of alignment, skinned my knee, and bruised my palms. I'm merely grateful that I managed to keep the fall from turning into a skid into the path of the swiftly oncoming vehicles. Cockeyed handlebars are one thing; cockeyed kidneys are another thing altogether.

Besides, if I had killed myself, I'd never be able to talk Eric into buying a bike. He's just that skittish.