My wife asked if I wanted to be "her hero." The mission: Drive thirty minutes to pick up barbecued chicken. Leave it to my wife to crave thirty-minute-away chicken. I agreed to do it not because I'm a hero but because my wife and I are trying to conceive.

Wood Ranch Barbecue is big in my ZIP code. Elvis big. When I arrived, it was standing room only. Little ones were sitting in laps; big ones were jiggling their keys, checking their watches. I squeezed through the mosh pit and waited. And waited. And waited.

Twenty minutes passed. People breezed in and out, just like me but with the "out" part. It seemed that only the big orders were moving -- Flintstone-sized ribs, vats of coleslaw. The plant beside me had begun to change seasons. So it goes.

I checked on the status of my order, and they said it was coming. Well, yes, one would think.

I counted tiles on the floor, trying not to take things personally. Why did all these other people get the right of way? Was I missing the secret handshake? How silly to serve the Johnson Party of Fifty's while the little guy went hungry. The Man was keeping me down!

By the time they called my name I was so over-the-edge appalled, you know what I said? You know what I said to them? Right there in the lobby? I said, "Thank you." Then I left.

In the car I called my wife to shout, and she, being several lifetimes older, said, "If you suppress these emotions, Jason, they'll just resurface as tumors. Why don't you talk to the manager?"

It was sheer revelation, like being told to "use my words" by Mrs. Barth, my first-grade teacher whom I will never again call Mrs. Barf on account of the welt on my hand.

I rang the manager to give him my tumor, and he, to my surprise, was the nicest guy in the world. He listened like a therapist. Not my therapist, but others. He confessed to being unprepared for a local rodeo-horse-parade-thingy and offered a coupon for one free lunch. The F-word!

And at that moment, something in me softened. Einstein said that the most important question we have to ask ourselves is, "Do I live in a friendly or hostile universe?" He also said that singularity is a region of infinite space-time curvature, and no one knew what he meant by that either.

Nearing home, I called my wife to share the news about Wood Ranch.

"A free lunch?" she said. "That's terrific, because my sister is coming over, and do you want to be her hero..."

I used to work for a corporation. I refer to it as The Dark Age.

Most of the time I'd stare out the window, praying for earthquakes, floods, meteors. In a building across the street sat another window gazer. Sometimes we'd catch eyes and peer at each other till the pain grew too rich and we both drew the shades.

I should have turned back on the first day of work, when my boss led me to a filing cabinet and said, "Welcome aboard, Jason. Your job is to figure out what the hell happened here."

But I kept the job on account of my loathing for interviews. Something happens to your sphincter when you're forced to reassess your market value.

Why did you leave your last job? What can you bring to our company? Who do you think you are?

My interviews were especially trying because they'd say things like, "I see you've been doodling Ziggy here on your application ..."

So I stared out the window knowing that someday, before the fluorescent lighting did me in, I would work at home. Not the "working at home" that managers do when they take the day off, but something full-time that brought me delight. Complaining perhaps.

Then one day I was summoned by Ann Gitch, whose last name conveniently rhymed with her true nature, and she asked why I had missed so many meetings. I had her imagine how much work we could get done if we weren't always sitting around talking about how much work we could get done, and she asked how I would like my final paycheck.

That day a dream was born.

People fantasize about working at home, free from The Man, but it's really uphill and snowing both ways. When you have computer issues, for instance, you don't call IT and go outside to play; you have to fix it ... yourself. A computer crash is when you finally throw the damn system out the window.

You have to buy your own benefits. In case that's not enough, you have to BUY YOUR OWN BENEFITS. My new medical plan is not to bleed for any reason for the rest of my life.

But the worst part about working at home is that people -- and by this I mean my wife -- think you're at home when you're really at work. The two can look alike. In my field, closing your eyes to consider which is funnier, "pee" or "urine," is a legitimate business need. When it looks like I'm nodding off altogether, I'm on the brink of genius.

Unfortunately, my wife doesn't see it that way. When she finds my eyes closed, she figures that it's time for me to take out the trash. If I protest, she uses those five words that will haunt me through the afterlife: "It'll only be a minute." Everything takes only a minute. That's why I have no minutes left.

Here is what this column would look like had I written it in real-time:

I used to work for a corporation --

Hang on. My wife needs me. It'll only be a minute.

Most of the time I'd stare out the window --

I don't know, Love. I'm writing.

I should have turned back on the first day --

They're clean! You washed 'em this morning...

I've stopped shushing my wife, finding that "yes" satisfies 89% of all questions. Of course, my wife isn't dumb. She waits for me to get extra-busy and then asks for jewelry and vacations. One day I agreed to immigrate her mother to the U.S. So it goes.

Another pitfall to working at home is that no matter which way you turn, you're always ten feet from the kitchen. If you listen closely, you can actually hear it calling: Jaaason... Cream FILLing, Jason... This presents a pickle for someone with an active lifestyle like keyboarding. Mmm. Pickles.

It's true that people who work at home can wake up whenever they want. Alarm clocks are meaningless. But then so are holidays, weekends, overtime, and did I mention BENEFITS? You work 60 hours a week to make 40 hours' pay, and your mom still asks you when you're going to get a job.

My hygiene has suffered as well. I haven't shaved in days, and I've got everlasting bedhead from the ear muffs I wear to block out my wife. I spend entire days working in swim trucks, not because I intend to swim but because the elastic grows with my waist. I have also come to talk about myself in the third person ... while alone!

Getting the mail is the highlight of my day, mostly because the mailbox is outside. I read the junk mail right there on the sidewalk, half-expecting to find my own picture: Have you seen me? I'm the man who thought he wanted to work at home.

But the thing that really gets me is --

What, honey? I can't hear you. I'm wearing the ear muffs. NOW?

Sorry. I'll be right back. It'll only be a minute.