The Guinea Pig Diaries Read Online Free PDF Page A

became nause-atingly rich. I tell him about Operation Outsource. “You should call Your Man in India,” he says. Misha explains that this is a company for Indian businessmen who have moved overseas but who still have parents back in New Delhi or Mumbai. YMII is their overseas concierge service—it buys movie tickets and cell phones and other sundries for the abandoned moms.
    Perfect. This could kick my outsourcing up to a new level. I can have a nice, clean division of labor: Honey will take care of my business affairs, and YMII can attend to my personal life— pay my bills, make vacation reservations, buy stuff online. Happily, YMII likes the idea, and just like that the support team at Jacobs Inc. has doubled. And so far, I’m not going broke: I’m paying $1,000 for a month of eight-hour days from Honey (Brickwork gave me a half-off deal) and $400 for a month of four-hour days from Your Man in India.
    To pay for YMII, I send my MasterCard number in an e-mail. The company’s CEO, Sunder P., replies with a gentle but stern note: “ In your own interests, and for security purposes, we advise you not to send credit-card information through e-mail. Now that it has been sent, there is nothing much we can do about it and we confirm safe receipt .”Damn. I know what he’s thinking: How the hell did these idiots ever become a superpower?
    Honey has completed her first project for me: research on the person
Esquire
has chosen as the Sexiest Woman Alive . I’ve been assigned to write a profile of this woman, and I really don’t want to have to slog through all the heavy-breathing fan websites about her. When I open Honey’s file, I have this reaction: America is screwed. There are charts. There are section headers. There is a well-organized breakdown of her pets, measurements, and favorite foods (e.g., swordfish). If all Bangalorians are like Honey, I pity Americans about to graduate college. They’re up against a hungry, polite, Excel-proficient Indian army. Put it this way: Honey ends her e-mails with “ Right time for right action, starts now !” Your average American assistant believes the “ right time for right action ” starts after a Starbucks venti latte and a discussion of last night’s
Amazing Race 8.
    Meanwhile, I get an introductory e-mail from my personal-life outsourcer. Her name is Asha. Even though the firm is called Your Man in India, I’ve been assigned another woman. Hmm. I suspect these outsourcers figure I’m a randy men’s magazine editor who enjoys bossing around the ladies. I e-mail Asha a list of books I want her to order online and a birthday gift I’d like her to buy my wife, Julie—a silicone pot holder. (Romantic, no?) Both go smoothly.
    In fact, in the next few days, I outsource a whole mess of online errands to Asha : paying my bills, getting stuff from Drugstore.com, finding my son a Tickle Me Elmo. (Actually, the store was out of Tickle Me Elmos, so Asha bought a Chicken Dancer Elmo—good decision.) I had her call AT&T to askabout my cell phone plan. I’m just guessing, but I bet her call was routed from Bangalore to New Jersey and then back to an AT&T employee in Bangalore, which makes me happy for some reason.
    Every day Asha attaches an Excel chart listing the status of my many tasks. The system is working—not counting the hitch in the drugstore order: Instead of wax paper, we get wax-strip mustache removers for ladies. My wife is insulted.
    It’s the fourth morning of my new, farmed-out life, and when I flip on my computer, my e-mail in-box is already filled with updates from my overseas aides. It’s a strange feeling having people work for you while you sleep. Strange, but great. I’m not wasting time while I drool on my pillow; things are getting done.
    As on every morning at eight-thirty, I get a call from Honey. “Good morning, Jacobs.” Her accent is noticeable but not too thick, Americanized by years of voice training. She’s the single most upbeat person