I’m on the phone with Mom, walking her through something on her PC, which she essentially doesn’t know how to use and declares she doesn’t like. Now I’m a Mac girl, but I’ve learned my way around a PC of necessity, so I know I can help her with this.
I’m sitting at my desktop PC talking her through it. This is the actual conversation.
“Okay. I’m gonna walk you through this over the phone, Mom.”
“Well, why don’t you just come over and show me?”
“Mom, I can’t come over right now. Even if I could, it would take me 45 minutes round trip to show you something that will take less than one minute to do.”
“Oh. Well, my laptop isn’t even on.”
“Okay. Do you know how to turn it on?”
Reluctantly. “Yeaaah.”
She just wants me to come over.
“Okay. Turn it on, then.”
“Well, it will take a while.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
We wait. Idle chit-chat.
“Okay. It’s on.”
“Great. Do you see the desktop?”
“What’s that?”
“Well, it will be your screen with different icons on it. Do you see that?”
“What’s that word you’re saying?”
“Desktop?”
“Yeah. What are you saying?”
“Desktop.”
“Spell it.”
“D-e-s-k-t-o-p.”
She is being deliberately obtuse. Her hearing is fine and her brain even better.
“Oh. So that’s what it’s called?”
“Yes. Okay. Do you see a start button or some kind of button in the lower left-hand corner?”
“No.”
“You don’t?”
“No.”
This isn’t possible.
“Hm. I have a green button that says “start” on mine. You should have some kind of button there in the lower left-hand corner.”
“Well, I don’t.”
This conversation is not actually about computers, you see. She really wants me to come over. My resolve not to come over instantly hardens to stone. I rub my forehead.
“Okay. Mom, are you sure the computer is on?”
“Yes.”
“What do you see?”
“It says Manila Firefox.”
She means Mozilla, but I let it slide. Oh, her eyesight? Also fine.
“Okay. So you see the little orange fox?”
“Yes.”
“So you have a window open?”
“What’s a window?”
“Let’s do it this way. Is there a red square with an X the upper right-hand corner?”
“Yeah.”
“Click on that.”
“Okay.”
“Did the thing that had the red square on it go away?”
“No.”
What??
“It didn’t?”
“No.”
“And you clicked on it?”
“Yeah.”
I don’t believe her, but I can’t tell her I don’t believe her. At this point, it would be faster to go out there. She either didn’t click on it at all or she did click on it and the window did go away, but she really wants me to come over, so she was less than forthcoming about the results.
“Okay. I’m not understanding how you don’t have some kind of button in the lower left-hand corner –”
“Well, I don’t.”
“– or how you clicked on the red X and that window didn’t go away.”
“Well, I still see it, Tracey.”
“Well, Mom. You have a very strange computer. I can see why you don’t like it. Is Dad there?”
“Yes.”
“Put him on the phone. Maybe he can help.”
Heavy sigh. “Okay.”
She doesn’t want the problem solved because that means I won’t come over.
Moments later, Dad’s voice.
“Dad, is there a button or a start button or something in the lower left-hand corner?”
Said like a “duh.” “Yeah.”
“Why did Mom say there wasn’t one?”
“I don’t know.”
That’s the only way my dad has stayed sane all these years — by not knowing the answers to most questions about my mom. He prefers blissful ignorance. I understand. At this point, though, I’m sure he really doesn’t know.
“Well, could you point it out to her?”
I hear him tell her. Then I hear her protest, “Well, it’s not green. Tray said it was GREEN.”
I can’t stop rubbing my forehead.
In less than one minute, I walk Dad through the process I started with Mom. Answer found, problem solved.
As we hang up, I tell him again to make sure Mom knows about that button, green or not.
I sit and rub my forehead for several minutes.
Again.
