Well, it’s something. To paraphrase another guy with a double identity, with great beauty comes great responsibility.
CODA
A few weeks later, Michelle dumped me. She let me down easy— “I think maybe I need a break from Internet dating,” she said. But I knew what that meant. I was getting the boot. I was no longer her Cyrano.
I tried to convince her to give it another shot. But when we logged on and saw a note from screen name “Violentbunny,” that was it. She was finished for good. (Violentbunny: you, sexy-gentleman, and Topnotchlover need to have a good brainstorming session.)
Michelle said she’d just wait and hope that love came to her. Which I thought was a terrible idea. But it actually did. Six months later, she started dating an old friend she knew from when she worked at a Washington, D.C., hotel. They’re still together.
I wish I’d been the one to find her love. But Michelle told me that I helped. I got her back into the dating mind-set, back to thinking about relationships. Without her great Internet Dating Adventure, she says, she’d still be single and lonely. I hope she’s telling the truth.
Regardless, my dating career is over for now. I’ve got mixed feelings. Being a beautiful woman had its perks. The nonstop positive attention comes to mind. But it was also an emotionally draining experience. The amount of rejecting I had to do was mind-boggling. Every day it was “no, no, nope, no thanks, no.” And not just to the sleazy guys. Sometimes to kind, vulnerable men. Type the wrong thing and you’ll send these fellows into a tailspin. I never before thought of the built-in guilt that comes with having a pretty face.
It was draining, too, trying to suss out the schemers. There were a huge number of people out there pretending to be what they aren’t. Including me, of course. (Incidentally, a colleague of mine goes into Internet poker rooms and pretends to be a woman, because he says his opponents assume women are worse at poker. I can’t decide whether taking advantage of sexist stereotypes is ethically acceptable.) There’s a lot of deceit, boasting, and creepiness that you’ll find in Internet dating.
But the semi-anonymity of the Internet also makes it an honesty amplifier. Men will open themselves right up, laying bare their fears, insecurities, and hopes. My months of e-dating convinced me there are plenty of mensches out there. Or maybe they’re just sleazy guys who had their sensitive sisters write notes for them.
A key member of my outsourcing team, Honey K. Balani.
Another indispensable outsourcer, Asha Sarella.
Chapter Two
My Outsourced Life
I really shouldn’t have to write this piece myself. I mean, why am I the one stuck in front of a computer terminal? All this tedious pecking out of words on my laptop. Nouns, verbs, adjectives, prepositions. Sheesh. What a pain in my butt. Can’t someone else do it? Can’t I delegate this to one of my new assistants and spend my day kicking back on a chaise longue, Sam Adams in hand, admiring Evangeline Lilly’s navel on my TV? What about having Asha write it? Or Sunder, Vivek, or Mr. Naveen? Or best of all, my sweet, sweet Honey? Pretty much anyone on my overseas staff will do. Or maybe not. Maybe that’s one of the lessons of these jarring and curiously enlightening four weeks. Dammit. I guess I’ll have to write about the lessons, too. Okay, on with it. Here you go. As my team might say, thanking you in advance for reading this story.
It began a month ago. I was midway through The World Is Flat, the best seller by Tom Friedman. I like Friedman, despite his puzzling decision to wear a mustache. His book is all about how outsourcing to India and China is not just for tech support and carmakers but is poised to transform every industry in America, from law to banking to accounting. CEOs are chopping up projects and sending the lower-end tasks to strangers in cubicles ten time zones away. And it’s only going to snowball; America has not yet begun to outsource.
I don’t have a corporation; I don’t even have an up-to-date business card. I’m a writer and editor working from home, usually in my boxer shorts or, if I’m feeling formal, my penguin-themed pajama bottoms. Then again, I think, why should Fortune 500 firms have all the fun? Why can’t I join in on the biggest business trend of the new century? Why can’t I outsource my low-end tasks? Why can’t I outsource my life?
The next day I e-mail Brickwork, one of the companies Friedman mentions in his book. Brickwork—based in Bangalore, India—offers “remote executive assistants,” mostly to financial firms and health-care companies that want data processed. I explain that I’d like to hire someone to help with tasks related to my job at Esquire magazine—doing research, formatting memos, things like that. The company’s CEO, Vivek Kulkarni, responds: “It would be a great pleasure to be talking to a person of your stature.”
Already I’m liking this. I’ve never had stature before. In America, I barely command respect from a Bennigan’s maître d’, so it’s nice to know that in India I have stature.
A couple of days later, I get an e-mail from my new “remote executive assistant.”
Dear Jacobs,
My name is Honey K. Balani. I would be assisting you in your editorial and personal job. . . . I would try to adapt myself as per your requirements that would lead to desired satisfaction.
Desired satisfaction. This is great. Back when I worked at an office, I had assistants, but there was never any talk of desired satisfaction. In fact, if anyone ever used the phrase “desired satisfaction,” we’d all end up in a solemn meeting with HR. And I won’t even comment on the name Honey except to say that, real or not, it sure carries Anaïs Nin undertones.
Oh, did I mention that Vivek sent me a JPEG of Honey? She’s wearing a white sleeveless shirt and has full lips, long hair, skin the color of her first name. She looks a bit like an Indian Eva Longoria. I can’t stop staring at her left eyebrow, which is ever so slightly cocked. Is she flirting with me?
I go out to dinner with my friend Misha, who grew up in India, founded a software firm, and subsequently 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 ask about 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 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 my boss 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 unsolicited birthday 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 that Honey gently ask them to stop with the press releases. Here’s what she sent:
Dear All,
Jacobs often receives mails from Colorado news, too often. They are definitely interesting topics. However, these topics are not suitable for “Esquire.”
Further, we do understand that you have taken a lot of initiatives working on these articles and sending it to us. We understand. Unfortunately, these articles and mails are too time consuming to be read.
Currently, these mails are not serving right purpose for both of us. Thus, we request to stop sending these mails.
We do not mean to demean your research work by this.
We hope you understand too.
Thanking you,
Honey K B
That is the best rejection notice in journalism history. It’s exceedingly polite, but there’s a little undercurrent of indignation. Honey seems almost outraged that Colorado would waste the valuable time of Jacobs.
Along the same lines, Honey wrote a complaint letter to American Airlines for me; the flight I recently took offered only shrimp for dinner, a dish I don’t eat. “Since it has caused such an inconvenience, I demand reimbursement,” she wrote. Don’t mess with Honey.
Incidentally, Honey and Asha don’t know about each other. I’m constantly worried about getting busted for my infidelities, for my life of outsourcer bigamy. What if they run into each other at the Bangalore hardware store? What if I call Asha “Honey” and she thinks I’m hitting on her?
• • •
My father-in-law has come to town, which means a dinner filled with a series of increasingly excruciating puns. Asked whether he ever suffered gout, he replies, “No gout about it!”
Damn, do I wish I could outsource this dinner. Where’s Honey? Where’s Asha?
I’ve become addicted to outsourcing. I am desperate to delegate everything in my life but have to face the depressing reality that there are limits. I can’t outsource those horrible twenty-five-minute StairMaster sessions. I can’t outsource taking a pee. I can’t outsource sex with Julie. Not that I dislike it, but we’re trying to have another kid, which means a whole bunch of sex, and enough is enough, you know? It gets tiring. I can’t outsource watering the ficus.
Still . . . every weekend, I place a dutiful call to my parents. It’s a nice thing to do, I figure—but it’s also a huge time vacuum. This weekend it’s Mom and Dad’s anniversary, so I can expect it to eat up even more of my day than usual. Mr. Naveen to the rescue. I e-mail Mr. Naveen—the YMII employee who will be on duty at the time—a few concerned-sounding questions and a couple of filial sound bites. Next day, I get this e-mail:
I mad
e an out bound call to Jacob’s parents. They very happily received my call. I first introduced myself to them. Then I wished them Happy Anniversary they both told me thank you. . . . I asked them how is the weather in their place. They told me that it is pretty nice temperature here and the garden looks beautiful.
I won’t reproduce the whole report, but apparently my mom’s sprained foot has gotten better (though the rain does not help), and my dad’s law practice is going along very well. As for me, I had a good week, apparently. This was highly successful outsourcing, saving me at least half an hour of sweaty-eared phone time.
My outsourcers now know an alarming amount about me—not just my schedule but my cholesterol, my infertility problems, my Social Security number, my passwords (including the one that is a particularly adolescent curse word). Sometimes I worry that I can’t piss off my outsourcers or I’ll end up with a twelve-thousand-dollar charge on my MasterCard bill from the Louis Vuitton in Anantapur.
In any case, the information imbalance is pretty huge. I know practically nothing about them. So I e-mail them both to request a minibiography.
Honey sends me a two-page file called Honey4U. She’s a jazz and salsa dancer, loves Friends, reads Jeffrey Archer. She has a boyfriend. She works from 2 P.M. to 11 P.M. her time and has an hour-and-a-half commute at either end. She trains people in customer-handling skills and in how to lose their Indian accent. She likes broccoli, coriander, and orange juice.
Asha, as expected, is a little less prolix but still gives me some nuggets: She’s also a salsa dancer, oddly enough. She used to do something called “value-based education through dance.” She studied electrical engineering, got married in February to a guy in real estate. She works from 9:30 A.M. to 5:30 P.M. Bangalore time. She lives with her in-laws.
I’ve realized something: Asha and Honey never say no. I find myself testing them, asking them to perform increasingly bizarre tasks, inching toward abuse of power. Read the New York Times for me. E-mail me a bunch of questions from Who Wants to Be a Millionaire. Watch some viral videos and send me a summary. The closest I got to a no was when I made the admittedly odd request that Asha play the card game hearts for me, since I was wasting too much time playing it myself on my PDA. Asha replied that she thought this was a “good idea” but that maybe she would do it after finishing the other projects.