File under fun: Mom and Dad, who need help working the coffee machine, might buy a computer

We had dinner with my parents the other night. The good people who produce reality-based shows like Bounty Hunters and Man v. Food don’t know what they’re missing. Sitting down at my mother’s table is an adventure the likes of which they’ve never seen, not in the jungles of South America or the streets of Detroit.

“What’s this?” I picked a celery stalk at least six inches long out of the salad bowl. It still had branches and thorns with roots coming out of the bottom. “You could put an eye out with this thing.”

“I meant to cut that and distribute it evenly,” Mom said.

“Are you sure?” I flicked some dirt off the bottom. “It looks like it should be planted in the backyard.”

Mom’s still got it, though. God bless her, she found a way to make gluten-free, baked spaghetti taste good. So I’ll ignore the plant life sprouting in her salad bowl and just make a mental note to be extra careful before biting.

Dad even enjoyed the ravioli, despite the fact she used a healthier alternative to his usual, and beloved, pork product.

“Chicken and turkey innards,” he mumbled. “Life just ain’t the same anymore.”

“The computer is dead,” Mom announced halfway through dessert.

Several weeks ago, a worm got into the machine. Husband had to explain that “worm” is a technical term and Dad keeping the windows open at night, inviting in every bug in town, is a separate issue.

“We sent it away to some pro-fessionals,” Dad explained. “If they can’t fix it, we’re going to have to buy a new one. Best Buy has some good deals.”

Husband frowned in Dad’s general direction. The weekend before, Husband had spent half a day cleaning out old files, 10,000 pictures of the same glacier from their Alaskan cruise, and about 900 different poker and NASCAR games.

“Damn thing goes so slow,” Dad had grumbled. “We haven’t been online in days.”

“Take your time,” I remember whispering in my husband’s ear while he tinkered with the hard drive. “This means they aren’t on Facebook.”

I never could understand how my parents learned to post comments, write on walls, and Google search my every activity while their VCR still flashed 12:00. After the computer was cleaned, it seemed to work fine. But a few days later, it broke down again and my parents sent it to computer hospital.

Dad started talking about Best Buy again and after he mentioned “bytes” for the fifth time, I got nervous.

“Didn’t Oldest and Youngest spend a half-hour explaining to you the concept of ring tones?” I asked. “How are you going to purchase a computer on your own?”

“I’m not sure,” Mom mumbled.

“We don’t know what we’re doing,” Dad said.

Husband chuckled.

“That’s never stopped you.”

“Please don’t buy anything without talking to us first,” I said. “I’d hate for you to waste money.”

Truthfully, I’d hoped it would be awhile. They were beginning to ask questions about Twitter and even expressed an interest in blogging.

Oh. The. Horror.

Their computer came back the next day, good as new. Mom called up within the hour, confused and worried.

“My computer is working fine, but I can’t find any pictures from Alaska, my printer has stopped speaking to me, and I can’t remember any passwords.”

I breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. We’re safe. For now.