Retro mindset crashes into a high-tech world

I think the creators of the comic strip "Zits" hides in my closet and takes notes. Not only are the teenage son's actions dead ringers for my kids', he even has the same vintage VW microbus in his driveway.

At least he got his running. Seriously -- anyone out there interested in a 1973 VW Microbus with a new clutch and clutch cable, no keys and not running -- I'm selling. No upholstery on the front seats, but it does have the original hippie curtains and Sierra Club sticker.

But it's not just the kid the creators have down pat -- it's the parents. They are us. The series they've been running this week involves the dad constantly "butt-dialing" his son on the cell phone and the son getting annoyed about it.

"My butt knows more about my phone than I do!" remarks the father.

"Try to look surprised," thinks the mother.

It probably wouldn't have been as funny to me if my own husband hadn't had problems with his cell phone last weekend. We are not high-tech people, despite the computers and video game consoles scattered throughout the house. We belong to the internal combustion engine school of thought -- we don't care how it works as long as it works. We've had cell phones off and on over the years -- mostly off. I hate them -- my car is my last refuge from the world and the only time you'll find me toting one of the nuisances is during the Celebration, and even then, it's under protest.

Terry, however, has to have one for work and it's kind of like watching a professional Sumo wrestler walk a teacup chihuahua. Awkward and endearingly funny at the same time.

"My phone's not working," he griped. "It was completely out of power, so I charged it up. It says it's charged, but it won't work."

He tried punching number after number -- nothing. We tried calling it from our home phone, and all we got was the overfull voice box message belonging to the previous holder of the phone.

Terry called his boss, left a message, and went back to his paperwork, griping and muttering dark curses under his breath as he did so.

I looked at the phone.

"Have you tried turning it on?" I suggested gently. I flipped the phone open and held the button down.

"I punched that button!" he sputtered.

"I think you have to hold it down for a few seconds," I said.

He looked at the now-functioning phone.

"I'll be darned," he said. "I don't think I've ever had to turn it on before."

A few days later, it was the fax he needed to send his reports into his boss. Again with the griping and grumbling because it wasn't working right.

"If I enter the wrong number, I push 'Clear,' but it doesn't clear the number," he said. "Why have the button on there if it doesn't do anything?"

"Did you hold the button down?"

"Oh."

When we got our digital cable box, he stared at the space shuttle instrument board, also known as the remote control that comes with it, and shook his head.

"Show me 'On' and 'Off' and where the channel arrow is," he said. "That's all I need to know."

If I have a little fun with this, teasing him about his technical inadequacies, he takes it with a grin and a grain of salt and the full knowledge that paybacks are inevitable. When we married almost 23 years ago, the only thing I knew about basic carpentry was that the sharp end of the nail thingy is the one that goes into the wood. We were remodeling a 100-year-old frame house at the time, so I was in for some serious on-the-job training. I remember sanding the wood that would eventually be the crown molding and using words my mother never even guessed I knew because the belt sander was not working.

"Are you holding it steady?" hubby asked.

"Yes."

"Do you have sandpaper on the sander?"

"Yes!" (He was justified in asking this -- the first time I tried it, I didn't.)

"Have you ever thought of putting the sandpaper on with the sandy side out?"

"Oh."

By the time we moved, I was an old pro. I could hang Sheetrock, mud a wall, and handle a router, sander or and hammer like Ty Pennington (on an off day.) The only thing I couldn't do was play with the table saw or the electric wiring because it made Terry get all pale and panicky if I even talked about it. I guess he was scared I'd show him up or something ...

But I have an advantage when it comes to the one-upmanship. He was teaching me carpentry skills that have existed since the first Neanderthal carved his first club, and those techniques really haven't changed much. I was teaching him a technology that changes every time we blink. To be honest, I'm not sure I can do much more on a cell phone than turn it on -- but I'm not about to let him know that.

-- Mary Reeves is a Times-Gazette staff writer. She can be reached at mreeves@t-g.com.