Everyone, I’m in serious trouble here.  Does anyone know of a twelve-step program for Gadgetaholics?  My husband’s obsession is searching the Internet for new and interesting gadgets, which he promptly purchases.  Since I have been laid up with my last two hip surgeries, I can understand the Roomba (robot vacuum).  However, why does he need THREE flashlights of varying sizes attached to plug-in rechargers by his bed?  He only has two hands.

And what is with this new thing that will turn off all the lights in the house one by one (it has to have a code or something) from his bed?  For Christmas, I asked him if he had any particular requests.  He responded that I should check his wish list on Amazon.  There was something called a Dremel.  Because he had been so generous to me, I ordered it, having no idea what it was.  On Christmas morning I asked him, and he said it was “something that would get into little tiny places.”  Whatever that means.

When Jack came for Christmas, David bought this ridiculous blue thing that you hold up and aim at someone.  When you activate it, it sends an “air bomb” that will ruffle the target’s hair.  I mean, I ask you!

The other night was the absolute limit.  We were sitting in bed talking (about the need for all those flashlights) when suddenly a police siren went off in our bedroom.  We were both quite startled, as you can imagine.  I looked closely at the flashlights, thinking that was the logical place for some reason.  He checked the alarms.  Nada.  Finally, the source of the racket was discovered to be his I-Phone, which was warning him of a speed trap way down in the valley next to the freeway.  We live on the bench above Provo.  I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard.  I mean, really!  It was eleven p.m. and I think it would have served him right if it had awakened him!

Does anyone have a cure?

POSTCRIPT:  In the very few hours since I have posted this, my son arrived with a black bag.  “Here’s your computer, Dad.”  As I processed this during dinner, I realized that all three of our computers were present and accounted for.  After dinner, I said in dulcet tones, “Is this a new computer?”  His brown eyes were innocent as he said, “It’s used.”  He has just bought a new gadget: a Mac Computer.  I am so excited.  I have always wanted a Mac.  I can hardly wait to use it.

All my life I’ve been a drama queen.  While this comes in handy in my profession, it is a distinct disadvantage in real life.  I ache over Tchaikovsky, Dvorak, and Rachmanifnoff.  They speak a musical language that goes straight to my soul.  To me, Anna Karenina is the greatest of all books, because Tolstoy understands the human condition better than any other author I have read.  The number of disastrous romances I had as a young adult defies counting.  Truly.  There were that many, including a death and a schizophrenic fiance.

As most of my readers know,I am bi-polar.  So were my Slavic greats.  Genetically we speak to one another in a language that is the most intelligible there is for us.  Such a would-be Slav am I that I got both my graduate and undergraduate degrees in Slavic history, politics, and economics.

My finest work as a novelist is about the fall of a great Slavic Empire, and is full of tragedy, angst, and neverending love.

Most of you probably do not know that I just went through a semi-emergency hip replacement—my second in six months.  Because of my delicate mental state, these major surgeries are a great trial.  Having overcome my twenty-five year bout with depression only three and a half years ago, you would think that I would remember what it was like.  But, no, the black beast always falls on me, taking me by complete surprise.  It is entirely chemical and only happens after I have blissfully lived in a manic state for close to two weeks.  Then the crash comes.  I can’t begin to describe how horrible it is to revisit this country where I lived for so many years. 

I know there is a God, because as I gained a true testimony of the atonement, I held on until hope came in the form of life-changing medication. 

However, once having lived in that black place, those emotions are never erased.  And that is why every taste I have is informed by Slavic melancholy.  I haven’t known much mania, but that unnatural state is one of high vigilance, seemingly clear vision, and non-stop creativity.  Before my late crash, I wrote for hours every day, starting directly after surgery, and including one complete night.  I plotted a very complex novel, peopled by extraordinary characters and happenings I never would have dreamt in my normal state.   So, it’s a tradeoff.

And that is why I’m Slavic.  I guess my final word on the subject should be thank heavens that:

1.) I live in the day of mood-stabilizers, and

2.) I married a stolid Swede.

Thank you,, Lord.