I belong to the Percussive School of repair.
If I can't get something to work, ratle and shake the plugs to make sure the energy supply is strong.
If that doesn't help, I turn the thing side to side to see if something is out of place, check to see if something is stuck to the bottom, and shake it a little. Try again to make it operate.
If that doesn't work, I tap on a few things to see if it will unstick. Certain keys on my computer, ESCAPE, Control+alt+Delete and ENTER, are all pure black because I've hit them so much, the white paint is long gone.
If all of those remedies fail, I press and hold the power button.
I drum my fingers on the table and wait a few minutes. When we had an original Apple, I tried a couple of good smacks to the side of the monitor. My laptop couldn't take it, so that part of the percussive repitore is out.
I've been so frustrated, kicking the dumb machine seemed like a perfectly sane thing to do. Chris (who has worked in the computer industry for 25 years) can navigate and fix just about anything. I beg unashamedly for help. Mr. Calm blandly instructs, "Reboot."
That means you have to boot it first, right? Which means I have reasonable, rational reasons to a) buy myself a great pair of boots & b) kick the computer. On occasion, I've considered Russian army boots, but practicality demands getting boots that are more versatile.
Now that you understand my total lack of patience and ability with machines, prepare yourself for a shock.
I joined Facebook.
It took me hours to figure out how to do the silly thing. It rejected two different pictures. In a replay of the Three Bears, the first was too many pixels. The second wasn't enough. The third was just right.
Then the real fun began. Facebook, it seems, is a cross between Miss Marple and Martha Stewart. They investigate your affiliates, associates, and acquaintences, then want to invite every last one of them to come on over.
FB wanted to send invitations to people from Craigslist who asked what would be at a yard sale. A few years back, I bought corsets for participants to wear at a Victorian clothing workshop. Facebook suggested I befriend that company. My insurance agent, customer service reps from Sears, and the heating-and-air-conditioning company I emailed once *five years ago* cropped up on the list of "friends" I could invite. The chiropractor---now that suggestion made sense. After all the percussive therapy it took to wend through Technopurgatory, I could use an adjustment.
Y'all are free to come visit. If you are standing in awe over my new-found ability to join the modern age, I hope you're wearing a very nice pair of boots. You never know when they'll come in handy!
Love and hugs,