The Guinea Pig Diaries Read Online Free PDF

I’ve ever encountered. Whatever soul-deadening chore I give her, she says, “That would indeed be interesting” or “Thank you for bestowing this important task.” I have a feeling that if I asked her to count the number of semicolons in the Senate energy bill, she would be grateful for such a fascinating project.
    Every call ends the same way: I thank her, and she replies, “You are always welcome, Jacobs.” I’m starting to like her a lot.
    One task for which Honey is thankful is e-mailing my colleagues. I’ve begun to refuse to communicate with them directly. Why should I? Honey can be my buffer from the unpleasant world of office politics. I’ll be aloof and mysterious, like the pope or Willy Wonka. This morning, I ask Honey to pester myboss about an idea I sent him a few days ago: an article on modern gold prospectors.
    Mr. Granger ,
    Jacobs had mailed you about the idea of “gold prospecting.” I am sure you would have received his mail on this. It would be great if you could invest your time and patience on giving thought about his plans. Do revert and let Jacobs know about your suggestions on the same. As you know that your decision would be accepted with utmost respect .
    Jacobs is awaiting your response.
Thanking you, Honey Balani
    Another advantage to this strategy: My boss can’t just e-mail a terse “No,” as he might to me. Honey’s finely crafted e-mails demand a polite, multisentence response. The balance of power has shifted.
    It’s Julie’s birthday today, and I’ve kept Asha busy with celebration-related tasks. Picnic orders, reminder e-mails to Julie’s friends, and so on. Asha is more distant than Honey. I now have a vague sense of who Honey is—she’s a mere twenty years old, likes to go bowling and go-carting, wears sleeveless shirts—but Asha? Nothing. In my few phone calls with Asha, I’ve noticed that her accent is slightly more pronounced than Honey’s and that she speaks sort of in a monotone, so I can’t even tell if she likes me. Which makes me insecure. And I’m even more nervous about her boss, Sunder P. He’s been monitoring Asha’s orders and sent me a note that she “ missed the point ” and bungled a communication about a kitchenware item. He’s tough. But then today, the YMII team up and sends Julie an unsolicitedbirthday e-card—with butterflies and a Robert Louis Stevenson quote. I feel much better. I shoot back a thank-you.
    Sunder P. writes back:
    Looking at the things we have been ordering on behalf of you, Asha almost was feeling like being part of your household. So isn’t it befitting that we wish your family and be part of your celebration. (Remotely . . . from 10,000 miles away .)
    I tell him that we feel she’s part of the family, too. I don’t have the heart to inform him that Julie was kind of disappointed that I had asked Asha to call 1-800-FLOWERS. The roses and lilies looked fine to me, but apparently 1-800-FLOWERS is the McDonald’s of florists, and she was expecting more Daniel Boulud.
    I think I’m in love with Honey. How can I not be? She makes my mother look unsupportive. Every day I get showered with compliments, many involving capital letters: “ awesome Editor ” and “ Family Man .” When I confess I’m a bit tired, she tells me, “ You need rest. . . . Do not to overexert yourself .” It’s constant positive feedback, like phone sex without the moaning.
    Sometimes the relentless admiration makes me feel a little awkward, perhaps like a viceroy in the British East India Company. Another cucumber sandwich, Honey! And a Pimm’s Cup while you’re at it! But then she calls me “ brilliant ” and I forget my guilt.
    Plus, Honey is my protector. Consider this: for some reason, the Colorado Tourism Board e-mails me all the time. (Most recently, they informed me about a festival in Colorado Springs featuring the world’s most famous harlequin.) I request thatHoney gently ask them to stop with the press releases. Here’s