A Clooney look-alike?

I‘VE DECIDED THAT

I might break down and finally buy a cellphone, though I consider them to be electronic termites and a threat to good people everywhere. At least the few who are left.

“I can’t believe you don’t have a cellphone,” the little girl says.

It stuns others to learn that I don’t carry a cellphone. They think that I am weird -- I am -- or anti-technology, which I am not. In fact, I am a giant advocate of technology. Popcorn makers. Propane grills. Plumbing. I embrace them all.

On cellphones, I explain that I held off to be sure they weren’t merely another fad, like computers or cars. Just my luck to have a cellphone and no one to call.

“You could call me,” offers the little girl.

“You have a cell?” I ask.

“Um, yeah, Dad,” she says, like I just got back from Mars.

That’s right. I remember now how we debated and debated whether to get the little girl her own cellphone, since she was the only 11-year-old in her group not to have one. There was screaming, crying. The little girl stomped off to her room like Patty Duke. A hollow door slammed. Someone threw a shoe. Missed.

Her mother argued that a cell would make it easier for us to pester our younger daughter about coming home to do her homework. If she doesn’t get into a UC school, we’re pretty much financially ruined. Everybody knows that.

On occasion, we still argue the point. I call it “keeping up with the Caitlins.” All her friends are named Caitlin. If one of them has something, our daughter immediately craves it. There used to be Reaganomics. Now there’s Caitlinomics. Next thing you know, we’ll be pricing BMWs because “Caitlin just got a new 5-series, leather everywhere.”

“You’re overthinking this,” my wife says when I bring up Caitlinomics.

“That’s me, an overthinker,” I answer.

“Do you know how to make an apple martini?” she asks.

The art of marriage is knowing when to change the subject during major disagreements. It’s not like the disagreement is going to go away. You’re just putting it on a hook till later, when you can use your guile, your resourcefulness and your sexuality to get your way. At least, that’s what I do.

Online, I find several recipes for apple martinis. I never thought we would be the sort of house that drinks apple martinis. Change is everywhere. We’re suddenly feverish for new things: wi-fi, cellphones, vodka. It’s spring, so pretty much all we eat are Girl Scout cookies. It’s amazing we can function at all.

“Vodka, apple schnapps and apple juice,” I finally say.

“What’s that for?” asks my older daughter.

“An apple martini,” I say. “Your mother needs her fruit.”

“Know what I like?” the older daughter asks.

“Italian skiers,” I say.

“Mango martinis!” she says, smiling like the devil’s prom date.

So we all flop down on the couch to watch the Oscars, drinking sickly sweet martinis, in $100 Rosenthal glasses my wife’s grandmother gave her maybe 30 years ago. Put six of these skinny glasses on a serving tray and they are worth more than all our furniture combined.

“These are good,” says my wife, licking her pretty lips.

“Not bad,” I say, licking my pretty lips.

“George Clooney is everywhere,” says our older daughter, flirting with the TV.

“Not everywhere enough,” purrs my wife.

My wife once Scotch-taped a George Clooney magazine cover to the door that leads from the kitchen to the garage. She’d run her fingertips across his face every time she’d go out to put leftovers in the second fridge.

I didn’t take it personally. Clooney and I share a certain folksy, Irish sparkle. In fact, we might be mistaken for brothers, were it not that he’s black-tie gorgeous and I’m more of a beachy, sun-damaged Clint Eastwood type. I have a six pack, but it’s on my butt. There’s more than one kind of hunk.

“Look! Naomi Watts!” someone shouts.

“Look! Keira Knightley!”

“Ohmigod, it’s Clooney again!”

Forget Clooney. He’s so yesterday. Look to the future. Change is everywhere. Soon I’ll have a cellphone. I think I’ll call a cab.

Chris Erskine can be reached at chris.erskine@latimes.com.