Blaming Myself

My new laptop has no name.  It's bigger than Lenore the Lenovo and has a lovely matte finish.  But with Queen T using my desk as her own, we haven't had time to become properly acquainted.   My mousepad keeps losing itself as I move my workspace from the dining room to the kitchen to my lap in the living room.  

And then, my mouse stopped working.

I changed the battery.  It made no difference.  I took out the dongle and blew any dust away before carefully reinserting it.  It made no difference.  I borrowed Big Cuter's mouse pad, thinking that using the Book Review section of The Times might have gummed up the works.  It made no difference.

I blamed myself.  I must have been doing something wrong.  I'm not sure why I went there, but I did, and I got stuck.  There are two people living in my house who understand modern electronics and would be delighted to help.  I only had to ask.  

Instead, I grumbled along, using the touch pad, through blogging and emailing.  I found myself trying not to scroll.  Editing was a nightmare.  I couldn't figure out how to right click on the touchpad which made inserting illustrations into The Burrow impossible.  When I couldn't show you the cover of The Color of Water

I decided to act.

I handed the mouse and the dongle and a fresh battery to my son.  He inserted and clicked and turned the mouse over and switched it on and off and said Mom, go buy a new mouse.  This one is dead.

$9.98 later, I was home with a pretty pale aqua mouse which I installed without any problem and which is happily helping me create this post.

I still feel vaguely guilty.  I still have no idea why I defaulted to blaming myself.  I resolved that this would be a year of lighthearted energy, not self- flagellation.  I'm going to have to have a long talk with myself.  After all, it really wasn't my fault.