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We telecommuters are not employees. We are the life-hackers of five-hour workdays, 10-minute workouts and two-hour fights with our spouses, with whom we're home way too much. I used to do things far outside my job description for my office mates because they were my friends. My loyalty, it turns out, was not to an organization but to individuals. Individuals who should know that, giftwise, Hanukkah comes very early this year.
Eight years ago, I used to spend nights in the office, waiting with my co-workers for editors and designers to fix my articles. We writers rarely used that time to work on future stories, because I would organize a group to order an expensive dinner, play Xbox, compete at foosball and clean my office, which once led to my finding a promotional Real World thong that I put on art critic Robert Hughes' doorknob, not knowing that the U.N. Palestinian delegation would walk by it in the morning.
I'm starting to see why they decided to let me work from home.