It started out like any other trip to the book store. I packed up my daughters, promised them each a book, and we headed out to the “big” book store I wrongfully love called B&N. Why wrongfully? I’m pretty sure there’s a boycott attached to the store somewhere, something I once supported, and probably still do. And, while I paused for a moment to reflect upon exactly why I wasn’t supposed to go to B&N, I needed two more books for school and the book store that’s 5 minutes from me sucks.I have my priorities. Off we went.

We arrived (thanks to Dr. Nightmare) and headed to the kid section to find books so that The Twitches would joyfully follow me around, coveting their new treasures, while I figured out where mine were shelved. It was an awesome plan. I was on a mission, and two books awaited their fates within my grubby hands. Ready, set, go.

While The Twitches were oogling the Elmo books (ugh) in the children’s section, I saw the B&N computer. This is the computer that would verify what my earlier, online search had assured me of: the books I needed were indeed in stock, and I hadn’t just wasted time on a wild feminist goose chase.  “Hooray!” said the time management freak in me, gleefully stuffing more study/blogging minutes into our pockets.  I stroked the computer and typed “Jane sex” (the first word and a half of one of the books, not just a random Jane fantasy) and hit enter.

Nothing.

I noticed the computer was on the “kid book” tab, so I clicked “books” and again typed, “Jane sex.”

Nothing.

I looked around and smiled at the woman who was standing three feet behind me, hoping she was not waiting for the computer, and tried again: “Jane sexes it up.”

There it was, smiling and winking at me. It even had directions; it was waiting, nestled snugly between the bosoms of cooking and Christianity. Stoked, I click “print map,” because of my super power that enables me to get completely lost in my own bathroom, hence, Dr. Nightmare’s guidance to a book store that is 6.4 miles away and wait for the little receipt to tell me which way to head, but there was…

Nothing.

There was nothing. The screen stopped responding. Nothing printed. The Twitches have now wandered a shelf away to the train table and I can’t see them. The screen is frozen and all I can think of is that if I move from this spot to find my children, the computer will suddenly unfreeze and the screen, in 78 point red letters, will say something to the effect of:

And then, a piece of paper would print out with my name, address, phone number and the login for this blog. My life was over in that moment. OVER. DONE. I was headed to 11 o’clock news fame. GAAH!

I casually walked away from the computer, checking out the newest children’s classics and surrepticiously looked back at the computer screen, hoping to at least have a dramatic, slow-motion scene where I ran to clear those heinous words I had typed.

Nothing. It was still frozen, mocking me in its freezingness.

After a few more moments like that, I decided that I was just going to let the torches blaze and move on to actually find my own books and get the hell out of Dodge… in my Dodge. I looked back once more and saw the computer laughing at me. It was in on the joke with the produce scale, but I  moved on. I found my books, bought them and found my way back home thanks to Dr. Nightmare. Mission accomplished.

For the next three months, I have to somehow balance my in-depth studies of women’s sexuality in my normal reading places, like sitting outside of the school office, or at the playground, or my very own couch where everyone will eventually be able to read the titles of my books. Hilarity is imminent, so buckle your seat belts and grab a filty martini.  Its on, bitches.