It's 11 A.M. and Jan, my wife, is yammering into my ear. I'm typing furiously, the phone wedged between my shoulder and my ear, trying to provide some guidance on Big Imaging Company's Web development project. I hear something about the roof (leaking?) amid background noise comprised of my 4-year old daughter crying, my 6-year old son explaining ("I didn't do it"), and the shrill barking of my 11-year old dog, Nudgy. As Jan hits me with some more information (bring something home for dinner?), my other 11-year old dog Scout joins the high-decibel chorus. The house sounds like it has been invaded by a paramilitary organization run by the ASPCA.
I keep typing, retaining virtually nothing of our "conversation." Line two rings through with a 202 area code. It's Big Washington Media Partner. I tell Jan I have to take the call, and I'll get back to her in five minutes. I wind up calling her from the train seven hours later, on the ride back home. "Did you ask me to bring something home to eat?"
There are loud noises in my ear again; I think Jan's yelling at me.
