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2001-10-03 | 10:35 a.m.

I'm having a smallish panic attack about my article. Last year, when I did the long piece on monitors for them, it came back to me about three times afterward with snarly comments and queries from unseen editors, so I had a lot of time to read it over as I was rewriting. I got comfortable with it despite its imperfection.

This time, I got it back once, on Sunday morning, and had to turn it back around by noon Monday, and we had to go to a birthday party on Sunday afternoon and then after that I was tired and didn't work on it much, so all I really did was breeze over it once, resolve the queries, and send it back--thinking it would come back again and I could give it a closer look then. But it didn't come back. It went straight to copy. So now I feel queasy wondering if I let errors get by me. I try to console myself by remembering that I told myself during the assignment that I really didn't want to do one of these again, but I'd prefer that it not be because I'm a fucking incompetent.

Grrr. The problem is, I am incompetent, I just hate to admit it.

Did I ever write here about the day I did my big interview for this story? That was really something. I had to talk to this one source. Let's call him Robert Bjork. Early in the week, I write to Bjork and ask him when would be a good time for an interview. I don't hear back from him that day so after hours I call his line (knowing I'll get voicemail; I don't actually want to talk to him because if he says "let's just do it now" I won't be prepared) and say basically the same thing I said in the e-mail.

Next morning, I'm on my way out the door with Jasper on our way to preschool when Bjork calls. He wants to do the interview then and there. I go back to the computer and Jasper starts freaking out. He knows once I sit down at the computer, it's hard to get me back up again, and we are on our way to preschool! So he starts in with the "Mommy! Come on! Ma-maaaaaaaa!" and Bjork chuckles and confides that he also has a toddler. (Which is good, because the editor had told me he could be a jerk sometimes, though I didn't remember that until later.) So I tell Jasper that "I need to take this phone call, I need some privacy now, but we'll go in a few minutes. Go watch TV. OK? Thank you." And I shut the door.

And Jasper gives me a good 5-7 minutes of uninterrupted time before he comes. I want to give him credit: That's a long time to him. It's enough for me to get some meaty quotes, but not enough. So at this point Bjork is doing almost all the talking and I am just typing furiously. And here comes Jasper.

Jasper is a talker so naturally he's chattering at me about getting to preschool, getting off the computer, and so forth. I try giving him hand signals that mean hang on, just a minute, in between bursts of typing, but he isn't appeased. Instead he punches about three keys on the keyboard and the entire screenful of text is converted to gibberish.

I panic. As far as I can tell, he has somehow managed to translate my text into another language or alphabet or SOMETHING, so I start looking under menus for a clue to how to translate it back, while also punching keyboard keys pretty much at random myself. Bjork rattles on, unaware of my extreme state. Whoa, there! The page reverts to English, and I start typing again, trying to catch up. Bam! Jasper hits a key, and the gibberish reappears.

HOW does he DO that?

I start flailing around again, batting away Jasper's hand, as he is still punching at the keyboard, which only makes him giggle and try harder to get to the keys. Bjork rattles, English reappears, I type, Jasper does it again.

"Hold on a moment, please," I say to Bjork. I cover the phone with my hand. "You--stop--it!" I say through gritted teeth. Jasper giggles. I resume typing.

At this point, Jasper switches strategies and starts blowing raspberries on my arm. Big fart noise erupts. I swing my arm around and shake my head 'no' at Jasper. He blows on my arm again. Big fart noise. Now I'm trying not to giggle. Again. Suddenly, I realize that Bjork doesn't know that my son is blowing on my arm, and can't see my silent signals and entreaties. No, he's only hearing the blaring fart sounds. I am appalled to think that he must think I am sitting here ... oh, it's too horrible!

"I'm sorry, my son is blowing on my arm," I say, sacrificing professionalism for a scrap of personal dignity. Bjork keeps going, but the interview is over as far as I'm concerned. I do not want to give Jasper time to come up with Plan C. I just want to get him to preschool, so I end the call. And perhaps my career in tech journalism.

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