If you ever have trouble with the new technology, raise your hand! The one holding all four channel changers.

I am at the office. An office in which I am surrounded by 40 competent, college-educated "health professionals" in a busy clinic. On a good day, it's business as usual and, although there are frequent challenges in the work, most of the time people are smiling and chatty. But today, a new computer program has been introduced into our lives and the word "mandatory" is being used.

It is disturbing to see said formerly capable individuals with tears in their eyes and making threats that would normally be followed by a call to 911.

The new technology has left me in the dust. The dust that, apparently, I am not supposed to wipe from the screen of my computer with my fingers because "You will ruin the monitor screen, Mom!"

In the early 1980s, I took an Introductory Computer class. I thought I was ahead of the game. I thought I was being proactive. I thought it would prevent my children from snickering and rolling their eyeballs at me.

It wasn't long before it became apparent that the kids -- and most of the modern world -- cyber-jogged past me. Happily, I did learn that when I talked to a phone "menu," no one on the other end heard the delicate words I had to offer, which, decades ago, might have gotten me grounded on a Friday night. I can push "send" and "end" on a cell phone but can't face something called text messaging, can't text onto Face Page and can't page my kids. The learning curve is a bit too steep for me.

I still can't record with the VCR. The old videos of the kids are stashed in a box somewhere because I don't have the right wires in my house or in my brain to hook them up. I can't work the CD player and I can't get my photos from the camera onto the computer. I am not joking and it is not attractive.

At home, Ted has shown me how to use the TV equipment -- all those little boxes that work together to bring us entertainment. Yes, he's shown them to me. About 15 times.

"Think of this one," he points -- again -- to the light gray channel changer, "as the parent. This one runs the whole system."

"The parent," I repeat.

"And this one here?" he holds up the long skinny black one, "this is just for the DVD player. Think of it as one of the children of the gray one."

"Black. Gray. Children. Got it."

"Then this one here, the dark gray one -- see? It's wider at one end? -- is for the VCR player, but when you use this, you have to temporarily inactivate the system programming by pointing it at that little box over there and waiting for the signal to change. Um, are you OK? Why are you breathing that way?"

"Parent," I say, in a daze. "Gray."

"Are you following this so far?" he asks, then "No! No! Don't keep clicking on that part. It'll mess up the whole program I've set up! Just click once."

"Little box," I mumble, and it's the last thing I remember before the breakdown comes. The one in which I beg him to find me one of those nice old TV sets that had a plain, round dial. I remember getting up and turning it to change stations. All three stations. So what if they were a little fuzzy? Oh, bring back the days when I could turn off the old black and white and watch the little round light in the middle as it slowly disappeared.

And bring back the thrill of holding a full-sized, brand-new record album, the cardboard corners gently fraying over time. Those were good times. Simpler times. To play a record, you placed it on the turntable and put the needle arm on it.

Bring back the phone that had one standard ring sound! All you had to do was pick it up and say "hello." Oh, bring back

Wait! My 20-year-old is approaching, fresh from his room full of the latest electronics, guitar slung around his neck. Turns out he wants me to hear something.

On his new digital, enhanced,...