Once upon a time, spouses had a name for a misery that has persisted since people first inhabited the Earth. Nagging. But now we have “Ding.” It’s merely nagging in a different guise, and we even pay for the “pleasure” of a ceaseless stream of it. When did we begin accepting nagging as a good thing, and willingly live with its misery?

Cell phones were such a great invention. No more instruments tied to the wall with a short cord. Or one long enough to tangle or strangle young children by creating a tripwire across the room when the phone was in use. Wireless phones were an improvement, and they stayed at home and behaved themselves. But we wanted the convenience of instant access to anyone, anywhere, and we got it—by creating an invisible leash. Little did we know what misery that small device would unleash. Welcome to the world of “Ding.”

When our car’s life ended unexpectedly in the spring of 2025, we bought an SUV, and that’s when I inadvertently invited the misery of ceaseless nagging into my life.

Instead of a factory-loaded GPS that would be out of date as soon as we signed on the dotted line, we could connect the vehicle’s app to a phone. Mine. It would then use the phone’s GPS app and display the map on the screen. As someone who needs a GPS almost as soon as I leave the driveway, connecting it seemed like a good idea at the time. But the GPS was just one of the app’s marvels. Sigh.

Here is a slice of my life with this (admittedly essential) tool:

Ding. “The [SUV] is unlocked.”  It usually happens when I am at home.

So, I lock the thing.

Ding. “Check the back seat.” This notification always follows the previous one when I act on it.

However, my husband was hauling brush to the dump using that vehicle today. Since I am the primary driver of it, and the app connects to my phone, my misery increased. He, however, had a peaceful morning with nature’s discards. Enjoy a little peek into my morning:

Ding. “The SUV is unlocked.” A few minutes later:

Ding. “The driver’s window is open.” A few minutes later:

Ding. The hatch is open.” A few minutes later:

Ding. There are multiple vehicle alerts. A few minutes later:

Ding: There are multiple vehicle alerts. The “You idiot!” was implied.

Throughout the morning, there were eight notifications. Each one was the sound of my writing productivity tanking. I thought every one would be the last, so I continued to ignore them. Unfortunately, that was magical thinking. The solution was simple. Turn the phone off, or throw it against the wall. However, I needed some notifications, so the phone stayed on.

There is a chance that someday I will have hit my ding limit, whether from the car app or other notifications, and I will jump up and stomp the thing to death. And as I do, I’ll sing “Ding-Dong! The Wicked Witch is Dead” from The Wizard of Oz.

I am considering starting a Ding-Dong Support Group. We could meet monthly and compare statistics. Who ignored the most notifications in the last month? Who was courageous enough to turn them off—or had the technical skills to do so selectively? Could anyone cajole an unsuspecting software engineer to join our group? I know one, but he is not unsuspecting and is immune to cajoling.

Well, I’ve ranted enough about my misery and added to yours. Maybe I’ll go and text some friends to see if they want to join my group. Ding.

Brenda Erb Roberts