I feel that for the most part I am a usually calm, go with the flow, not much bothers me about the human race kind of gal. But there is a common sound that was not part of my

Trina Machacek

Sounds That Go Click

I feel that for the most part I am a usually calm, go with the flow, not much bothers me about the human race kind of gal.  But there is a common sound that was not part of my growing up which has invaded my life. This sound was not part of daily life until I was way past young enough to have developed a resistance to its incessant skin grating, nerve end burning, scratching sound that drives me nuts-o.  It is the obtrusive click, click, click of the computer mouse. That little plastic few ounces has gotten my blood pressure up and raised the hair on the back of my neck and tempted me to over indulge in either chocolate or Long Island Iced Tea on more than a few occasions. I know, I know; it is just such a little, faint, nearly nonexistent sound.  But for some unexplainable reason, to my delicate little ears the mouse click is two hundred and twenty six times worse than fingernails on a chalk board.  Now that is annoying, no matter how you look at it.  Or hear it. Did you just quiver too?

The worst thing about my predicament is that the sound doesn’t much bother me if I am the one doing the clicking.  But when my husband is computering and his hand moves towards the mouse, I feel the neurons in my brain start to surge.  My breathing quickens a touch.  I think my eyes dilate because I can see clearly that I am about to have a Trina moment and I reach for a Hershey bar.  While using the devil machine he happily clicks away with abandon.  Zipping around, click, click, click, going to and fro, click, click, click, here and there, click, click, clicking his way through cyber land. It’s a wonder I have any hair left on my head, and that he is still able to breathe.

It wouldn’t be so bad if, I tell myself, if he would just learn that every time, every single time he clicks the little gray bugger he is telling the computer to do something.  He has not learned that the more you click the mouse the more instructions you give the devil box and the more you tell the box to do, the slower and more confused it gets.  Thus the more click, click clicking you do because the box is slow, is making the box slower and gumming up the works more and more. Then he—well he blames the box, or the ISP guy, or the phase of the moon–sometimes loudly.  I might even be able to get around the click, click click if he would just stop saying “Bam!” every time he hits the send button on his e-mail. Aargh.

I am not without blame myself.  I too have over clicked my way to having to re-boot.  But more than that I have, (now I’m not justifying this, I’m just stating a fact) I have loudly, albeit one sided, discussed the fact with the devil box that it will not do what I tell it to do, the way I think it should and in the time frame that I desire.

In the 80’s we ordered a Commodore 64 computer from Spiegel’s catalog.  When it arrived I was pretty excited.  I hooked it up to the television, (this was before the devil boxes came with monitors) and half of the keyboard was dead. I remember finally getting green letters to appear on the TV screen and I typed “Let me in. Let me in.”  It didn’t let me in and it didn’t work.  I packed the whole thing up and sent it back.  It was nearly ten years later that we tried the computer thing again and by then “the mouse” had become part of the computer experience. Dang.

My 21st. century being needs to become one with the mouse.  I need to make friends with its click, like it is a cooing dove calling to me calmly and knowingly.  Why, without that click how will I ever again be able to Wikipedia the gestation period of the green and blue, sticky footed tree frog from of Southern Asia?

Just when my mouse and I are getting along, getting to a point in our relationship that I count on that simple single click (Note to you multiple clickers, it is a single click!) that knowledgeable click taking me where I need to go—the little rodent’s battery goes dead.  I know it’s a conspiracy.

Trina Machacek lives in Eureka, Nevada her book ITY BITS can be found on Kindle.  Share your thoughts and opinions with her at itybytrina@yahoo.com