For high-tech stuff, you need a kid
Are We There Yet?
Lori Clinch

My husband, Pat, goes through a technological ordeal about once a week. It generally involves something as complex as the answering machine, an alarm clock or all of those complicated buttons on the dashboard.

“Why isn’t this dang car heating up?” he asked during a cold snap just last week.

“Because you just turned up the radio, Honey,” I replied with love.

“What do you mean I just turned up the radio?”

“Well, I’m sure you meant to send a signal to the heater that you’d like some warm air, but instead you turned Britney Spears to full volume. And although some may consider her a hottie, I doubt you’ll be able to feel any heat coming out of the vents simply because she’s singing her ‘Oops’ song.”

“Well, where’s the button for the heat?”

“Promise to take me to dinner, and I’ll tell you,” I said as I felt his knee.

“It’s that funky little switch that says ‘heater,’ Dad,” said our 8-year-old, Charlie, coming to his father’s rescue.

“Boy,” Pat replied, “children today are ingenious, aren’t they? As soon as we get home, let’s get that kid to program the VCR.”

Don’t get me wrong, Pat is positively brilliant. He could build a replica of the Taj Mahal without consulting a manual. He can examine the structure of a building, describe the systems used and analyze the cost per square foot faster than you can say, “Pass me that plumb bob.”

Just don’t ask him to use a keyboard.

For him, “speed dial” is a quick turn of the channel knob of an old RCA TV and a “hard drive” is a trip across town with the kids. But no button-sporting piece of equipment causes him as much grief as his cell phone.

“Lori,” he said to me during a phone call last week, “how do you make this thing ring?”

Ignoring the desperation in his voice, I made another attempt at romance by playing my favorite game titled “We’re Amidst a Hot and Heavy Relationship.”

“I’m not sure you should call me out of the blue like this,” I said in my husky voice. “What will people think?”

Refusing to play along, he said, “They’ll think you got me a cell phone that’s too complicated to use.”

I ignored his comment, and beefed up the conversation with “You just can’t stop thinking about me, can you?”

“I can’t help but think that my cell phone won’t ring. All it does is shake when someone calls me.”

“You mean vibrate?”

“That’s what I said. The concrete plant called a minute ago and the shock of it dang near put me through the roof.”

I knew then and there that he was in no mood for romance.

“Go to the menu,” I said with little or no love.

“What?”

“Go to the stinking menu.”

“I don’t see a menu.”

“It’s a small icon on the bottom of a screen.”

“What in tarnation is an icon?”

“It’s just a word at the bottom of the screen, do you see it?”

“If I did see it, what would I do?”

“Click on it.”

“Click on it? How do I click on it?”

“I don’t know, just push the arrows around on your phone until you can click on it.”

“Why do you get me these complicated things?” he retorted. “Whatever happened to rotary dials and ringing phones? Who invented a phone that sends a shock of electricity up your spine when someone tries to contact you?”

His difficulties with car heaters and cell phones are only the beginning of his technological problems. He can’t set an alarm clock, refuses to operate the microwave oven, and you should have seen him try to tackle the remote for our new digital TV.

Last night he gave up all hope and again requested the assistance of his youngest son.

“Dad,” said the darling little 8-year-old, “this is so easy. All you do is go to ‘guide,’ like this, then you hit ‘select,’ then you scroll through the options until you find your category, then you scroll through the channels like this until you come to the channel you want to watch, then you hit the orange button.”

When I happened upon Pat later, the remote had been tossed aside. His arms were crossed firmly across his chest, he had a scowl on his face and he was watching “Sleepless in Seattle.” I may get him to be romantic yet.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book “Are We There Yet?” Her e-mail address is clinch@atcjet.net.