Saturday, December 15, 2007
The intercom system was a great idea when we bought our home, but now that I am huddled in my office, frantically typing away when I should be downstairs for dinner, I wish that it would malfunction. Deadlines are always a powerful motivator, and right now my deadline depends upon how long my son and husband will tolerate me hiding from them. "Momis Writis Too Muchis," is what my son claims is my Latin name. I've already been paged over the intercom, so to speak, to come down for dinner. Right now the smell of something yummy is cooking. I can hear every sound outside my well-insulated door, and I've turned off the Internet radio so I can hear any approaching footsteps. They may have given up trying to dislodge me with intercom reminders that DINNER IS COOKING. At this moment, it appears I may actually pound out a paragraph before The Men appear at my door to demand my presence downstairs. For them (because of them?), I've learned to tolerate interruption (much to their dismay).