I know, I’m always griping about my information-technology issues.

I have much to gripe about, but that’s no excuse. We’re all burdened by technology problems, whether screen messages are urging us to renew our security plan or pestering us to try a new search engine or telling us our laptop wants to update when in fact it wants to snatch Word off the screen and hide it in an undisclosed location.

Losing Word is not unlike losing language itself, which is why I was motivated to scramble around and locate it. Still, Word once stood around in plain sight, like a person at the airport holding a sign with my name on it, and now it has to be coaxed out of its hiding place several times a day. Sometimes it sneaks away even when I’m using it, and I have to go yank it out again.

But never mind all that.

Today’s problem isn’t my laptop. The problem is the charging cord. Even I, a person who uses electronic devices daily but understands their inner workings about as well as I understand what’s going on inside my dog’s head, knew the cord was the problem.

Just Thinking:Food is for eating, not to behold

I could see it, for one thing. The cord was torn, near where it connects with the laptop. See that crack, and the exposed wires inside? The damaged cord was alarming my laptop, which was shooting me a series of increasingly urgent warnings: Low battery! Dwindling power! See this picture of an empty battery? Help, help!

My first line of defense was, of course, to hold the torn part of the cord together with any fingers I wasn’t using to type. I had hoped this maneuver would allow the laptop to charge or to charge more efficiently than it could with the break gaping open.

It may have worked, sort of, but even I understood that holding the cord together was a stopgap measure at best, like dealing with an emergency dashboard light in the car by keeping my hands on the wheel in places that hide the light from my line of vision.  

You need a new cord, I told myself. I was proud of my mature response to the problem. I’m also proud when I call the dentist without having to be nagged into it by my mother, who has been gone since I was 19. Responsibly, I separated the charger from the laptop and the wall outlet and took it with me to a department store.

I had a plan, and it went like this: I would show the broken cord to the helpful employee in the electronic-parts department.

“I need a new one of these,” I’d say.

The employee would pluck the correct box from its wire hook. I’d pay for it and be back in business again.

It didn’t work out that way, though, because the helpful employee didn’t materialize. There I was, ready to recite my line, but no employee approached to give me my cue. A sign on the counter read, “No photo service available today.” That was the store’s gentle way of saying, “No service is available today, period.”

I wandered the aisles, looking at headsets and wireless mice and gaming keyboards and screen wipes. I peered at memory-foam wrist rests, surge protectors and screen stands, but I didn’t see anything that said, “Replacement laptop charging cords.”

I might as well have been carrying a live duck, looking for a sign that read, “Live duck components here.” 

I’ll wrap the cord in electrical tape, I thought grimly, marching to the exit, my broken cord dangling from my fist. I’ll seal it in Play-Doh. I’ll mend it with Jessie the yodeling cowgirl bandages.

If necessary, I’ll make a pilgrimage to the place where we bought the laptop, but I will wander electronic-accessory aisles no more forever.

Thus far, the electrical tape appears to be working. My husband wrapped the cord tightly while I pushed the broken parts together as if willing them to meld magically. My little battery picture is still a mere outline of itself, though. If only I had a steering wheel to block it from my sight.  

Email Margo Bartlett at margo.bartlett@gmail.com.