I've been proud of myself before. Mainly because of my ability to do some quick thinking. Like when my washing machine overflowed in the garage, and I immediately turned off the electricity before fiddling with the dials on the machine.

Of course, I was proud when I got black-and-white saddle oxfords in the fifth grade, and to be honest, I'm always a little proud when people admire my naturally curly hair, even though I can't take credit for it.

Nothing, however, can compare with the sense of pride I've felt the past two days as I have become the queen of technology in Costa Rica. Before I left Austin, I started preparing for my residency at the Julia and David White Artists' Colony. I landed in San Jose, toting my new laptop, printer, memory stick, digital camera, cell phone, cables and cords, and a brand-new iPod.

Never before have I wanted or cared about the latest gadgets. I don't have a Blackberry; my cell phone doesn't take pictures; and until I became the editor of the McCombs School of Business Magazine, I had never even wanted a digital camera. I've never wanted to figure out how to use them, and I've never wanted to have to keep up with them.

An iPod is something else I've never wanted. My daughter got one last year. It holds at least a million tunes. Why would anyone want a million tunes on a stick? So, at a going-away supper my kids hosted for me, they held their breath as I opened their gift to me — an iPod. A polished white stick with an apple on it. I got all teary-eyed, for again their thoughtfulness and generosity was overwhelming.

When I arrived at my home-away-from-home in a place so beautiful that it takes my breath away, I unpacked and began to set up things in my casita.

Within 24 hours, I had taken pictures with the digital camera up or downloaded them — whichever — written and printed a few essays; read the American-Statesman online; and sent e-mail to friends far and wide. When other artists here needed some help with setting up their high-tech world, I met the challenge, setting up an e-mail account for one and burning pictures on a CD for another. I went to bed feeling so proud.

"Yes ma'am," I said aloud, pulled out the handsome strap and went to work. What I thought would be a 5-minute task turned into a 75-minute one. After struggling for a while, I managed to get one strap tip into the tiny slit in the binoculars. Pride rushed through my veins before I noticed that I had threaded it backward. I pulled the end out and tried again. It wouldn't go through. So, I tried the other end and repeated the first step of getting it in backward. My coffee cup drained and my hands sweating, I stopped, breathed, listened to the birds and started all over. I have always excelled at threading needles, and I had just set up an office that rivals the head of IBM. Why couldn't I thread one stinking cord into one stinking hole on my binoculars?

And then I thought of all the advanced equipment on my writing table, so I came in and surveyed my stash. Not a single one of those fancy, expensive electronic devices was worth a cent to me right then. So, I traipsed around my casita and found some real tools: tweezers, fingernail scissors, knives, safety pins and paper clips. I lined them all up on a white washcloth as if I were preparing for surgery. Through trial and error, I finally found the right tool. As I held the binoculars between my knees, I crammed the little cord through the binocular hole with one hand and grabbed it with the little scissors in my other hand. It wasn't easy, but in 10 minutes, I had the finest threaded cord you have ever seen.

To paraphrase a Bible verse, "It's easier for a Texas woman in Costa Rica to communicate with someone in outer space than it is to get a tiny cord through the eye on a pair of binoculars."

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