(this is) durkin.org

Here’s the thing about working in a cube - it doesn’t have to suck. If, for example you work with a fun group like mine, its actually quite nice - the whole team is in a cube, we laugh, we joke, its all good.

But lately, I am on assingment to another group. They don’t play quite as nicely as my group does. And so today it does suck. Big time.

I can hear, over and through this pre-fabricated wall of carpet and steel, the delicate slurping noises of boiled peanuts being eaten.

I hate boiled peanuts, but if that’s your thing, more power to you. Just don’t make me listen to it.

I should have titled this post “John’s Biggest Pet Peeve,” and I could have gone on and on about listening to people eat / chew / drink. I guess I could still go on and on, no matter what the title is, but I like the small semblance of focus I have going here. I digress.

Please, people - chew with your mouth closed. Even and especially when chewing gum. Its just common courtesty.

Memorandum To My Once and Future Cubemates:
Today, I have a door. A door of my own, that I can shut at any time I please. I can shut the door for no reason at all. I can open the door as well. Attached to the door are walls that reach the ceiling. Effectively, if I were to close the door, I would be sealed into a small box; a room, really - a room of my own.

I am told that there is a word for this room, and it is mine now as well (at least for a time): office.

Today, for no reason, I was upgraded. I was given an office with an Eastern Exposure. More importantly, I was given an office with a door. I know it is not permanent (indeed, today could be the only day), but I have an office with a door.

After years in cubeland; I am once again, well, human.

One of the things I really did not understand about parenthood was the sickness. No, not the particular bent of brain that makes you ever think that being a parent would be a great thing, and not the kind that has you utterly consumed with your child’s every single sound, action or, um, movement; but the actual, physical cylce of illness that you become tied to for years.