I bought a new computer mouse the other day. Ruined it the same day. I blame the pandemic.

Problem: My wife's mouse for her work laptop stopped working. As the hunter-gatherer in the family, I said I'd get her a new one. Yes, me.

Before society reordered itself permanently, and people worked in these places we called "offices," you could go down to the IT department and get a new mouse. The IT guy would plug in the broken mouse to see if it was, in fact, broken, because IT presumes that everyone is a dunderhead whose relationship to tech is the same as the hooting apes in "2001: A Space Odyssey" to the monolith. Except the apes are irritated and blame the monolith because they forgot their password. (Which is banana24, because they had to reset it 23 times.)

But now that people are working from home, there is no IT department with spare mice. It's up to me. Off to the large blue-and-yellow-themed retailer to get a mouse. They didn't have any. That's because they were Ikea. Off to the other large blue-and-yellow-themed retailer, Best Buy. They had many mice. I got the simplest one.

When I got home, I considered the plastic coffin in which the mouse was entombed. Commonly called a blister pack, it's that thick plastic that looks great on the rack, protects it from damage and requires either a bandsaw or an industrial laser to open. I suppose it prevents shoplifting; then again, so does encasing the object in concrete and chaining it to an angry dog.

I found the sharpest scissors and began to work on the package, pausing periodically to refresh my electrolytes and rub unguent on my aching muscles. After a few hours of diligent work, enough of the top was open that I could reach inside — the sharp plastic drawing blood, of course — and extract the mouse.

That's when I discovered that I somehow had cut the cord that plugs the mouse into the computer. Even though I scissored an inch above the aperture where the cord was tucked into the packaging, I cut it.

This called for some seriously obfuscatory tech-talk.

"Good news," I said to my wife. "Looks like you have a wireless mouse! Bad news, there's a defect in the mouse-to-motherboard interface, and there's a non-connective problem that probably is due to a Fiskar-enabled severance situation. I'll have to take it back."

"OK, thanks," she said to an empty room five minutes later because she was deep into work e-mail and it had just registered that someone husband-shaped had entered the room and uttered sounds.

I felt foolish taking it back. It was my fault. On the other hand, that was some lousy design. Perhaps they would see my point, understand what had happened and admit their own responsibility. The store clerk would tell the manager, who would scowl, and say, "What? Again? Another utterly competent fellow severed the wire? I'm writing a letter to the head office. They have to know."

"I thought you wrote a letter the last time," the clerk would say.

"I did. But not to the CEO. You know what? I'm done with letters. I'm heading over to the home office right now. In this highly competitive retail situation we're in today, we cannot allow the little things to drive away customers who ruined a $10 mouse."

Sure, that'll happen.

When I got to the store, I felt abashed. I said: "This is probably my fault. But look at this packaging, and tell me if I was justified cutting it open where I did."

The clerk, thinking "I have a madman here," summoned the manager. I made my case, and he said, "Yeah, well, I see your point, but ..." The but said everything I knew in my heart: This was entirely my fault. He did offer to get another one so I didn't have to walk through the store in shame, though.

He returned, rang it up and handed it over. No charge.

I was deeply gratified, and realized again that this is why actual stores are good. If I'd bought this online, I'd be stuck. Package it up, go to the post office, mail it back, get an e-mail that has a recording of Jeff Bezos laughing. Here I can plead my case, and a kind manager takes pity on me.

More than pity. He wanted to help. Before he put the mouse in the bag, he turned the package around. "See this tab? You just pull it and the back opens up."

So I didn't have to saw it open at all. This could have been avoided if I'd just looked at the back. But I learned something from it all, something important.

Ikea doesn't sell computer mice, but as long as you're there, you can pick up some meatballs.

james.lileks@startribune.com • 612-673-7858 • Twitter: @Lileks • facebook.com/james.lileks