------------------------ Yahoo! Groups Sponsor --------------------~-->
Get fast access to your favorite Yahoo! Groups. Make Yahoo! your home page
http://us.click.yahoo.com/dpRU5A/wUILAA/yQLSAA/e0EolB/TM
--------------------------------------------------------------------~->
Esquire Magazine
September 9, 2005
MY OUTSOURCED LIFE
By A. J. Jacobs
I REALLY SHOULDN'T HAVE to write this article
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. Jesus. What a pain in
my ass. 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 lounge, Sam
Adams in hand, admiring Mischa Barton'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 bestseller 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 email 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 Esquire-related tasks -
doing research, formatting memos, 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 email 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 nauseatingly 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 email. 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
email. 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. (See page 232.) 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 Web sites about her. When I
open Honey's file, I have this reaction: America
is fucked. 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
emails 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.
I GET an introductory email from my personal-life
outsourcer. Her name is Asha. Even though the
firm's 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
email Asha a list of books I want from Amazon.com
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
Dance Elmo - good decision.) I had her call
Cingular 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 a
Cingular 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 email
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 8:30, 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 emailing
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 Mark Burnett. 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 email a terse "No," as he might to me.
Honey's finely crafted emails 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 emails 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 in
sort of 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 emails 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 piss. 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 email 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 email:
I made 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 transcript, 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 $12,000 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
email 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 2:00 P.M. to 11:00 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. email me a bunch of questions from "Who
Wants to Be a Millionaire." Send me a collection
of Michael Jackson jokes (e.g., "Why was Michael
Jackson spotted at Kmart? He heard boys' pants
were half off"). I keep pushing, but I haven't
yet found their limits. 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
PalmPilot. Asha replied that she thought this was
a "good idea" but that maybe she would do it
after finishing the other projects.
EMBOLDENED BY Mr. Naveen's triumph with my
parents, I decide to test the next logical
relationship: my marriage. These arguments with
my wife are killing me - partly because Julie is
a much better debater than I am. Maybe Asha can
do better:
Hello Asha,
My wife got annoyed at me because I forgot to get
cash at the automatic bank machine. . . . I
wonder if you could tell her that I love her, but
gently remind her that she too forgets things -
she has lost her wallet twice in the last month.
And she forgot to buy nail clippers for Jasper.
AJ
I can't tell you what a thrill I got from sending
that note. It's pretty hard to get much more
passive-aggressive than bickering with your wife
via an email from a subcontinent halfway around
the world.
The next morning, Asha CC'd me on the email she sent to Julie.
Julie,
Do understand your anger that I forgot to pick up
the cash at the automatic machine. I have been
forgetful and I am sorry about that.
But I guess that doesn't change the fact that I love you so much. . . .
Love
AJ
P. S. This is Asha mailing on behalf of Mr. Jacobs.
As if that weren't enough, she also sent Julie an
e-card. I click on it: two teddy bears embracing,
with the words "Anytime you need a hug, I've got
one for you. . . . I'm sorry."
Damn! My outsourcers are too friggin' nice! They
kept the apology part but took out my little
jabs. They are trying to save me from myself.
They are superegoing my id. I feel castrated.
Julie, on the other hand, seems quite pleased:
"That's nice, sweetie. I forgive you."
I shoot off another email to Asha: Could you
thank her for forgiving me for not getting cash?
And tell her that I, in turn, forgive her for
forgetting to tell me about the Central Park date
with Shannon and David until I overheard her
talking about it with a friend.
The next morning I get CC'd on another Asha email to Julie:
Am happy you forgave me for not getting the cash.
And I am glad to do the same about the Central
Park date with Shannon and David.
It's human nature to forget. Perhaps, I could do
better by having Asha put up a calendar and
sending us reminders about these little things.
Love
AJ
Good. At least this time I got my little dig in.
But Julie just brushes it off - it's hard to
trump a hugging-teddy-bear apology note. Like it
or not, those damn stuffed animals improved my
marriage. Asha should take care of all my
bickering; she's my better nature.
HONEY SEEMS to be lavishing me with even more
adulation these days. She tells me that she waits
eagerly for my emails. I'm beginning to feel like
David Koresh without the guitar or weapons stash.
It's a little stressful. I'm forever afraid of
disappointing her, of not being creative or
brilliant enough to merit her acclaim. On the
other hand, maybe she's just doing her job and
actually despises my white imperialist ass.
At the least, I figure I can take advantage of
the exaltation. I ask Honey to write an entry in
Wikipedia - the online, open-source encyclopedia
- about me and my recent book, "The Know-It-All."
It reads in part:
"A. J. Jacobs is a not so unheard of
international figure, who can threaten the most
au courant wizards with his knowledge. . . . [He]
is a writer and editor of phenomenal grey matter."
Perfection.
FRIEDMAN QUOTES outsourcing advocates who argue
we should embrace it as an opportunity. If
someone else is plugging away on the lower-end
tasks, that frees Americans to work on higher-end
creative projects. Makes sense. After all, Jacobs
is the creative genius with phenomenal grey
matter. The world is better off with me focused
on the high end.
But lately, Honey has started sending me
unsolicited ideas - and some of them are pretty
good. Granted, there are a few clunkers in there,
and the English sometimes needs to be decoded,
like a rebus. But there are also some winners:
Honey suggests Esquire conduct a survey on what
women want men to wear. Could work.
The point is, she's got talent. If Honey is a
guide, the Indian workforce can be just as
innovative and aggressive as the American, so the
"benefits" might not be so beneficial. Us
high-end types will be as vulnerable as
assembly-line workers. (Friedman's other
pro-outsourcing argument seems more persuasive -
that free trade will open up the huge Chinese and
Indian markets to American exports.)
Regardless, if I end up on a street corner with a
WILL EDIT FOR FOOD sign, then at least I'll know
that I've lost my job to decent, salsa-loving
people like Honey and Asha.
DESPITE THREE WEEKS with my support team, I'm
still stressed. Perhaps it's the fault of Chicken
Dance Elmo, whom my son loves to the point of dry
humping, but who is driving me slowly insane.
Whatever the reason, I figure it's time to
conquer another frontier: outsourcing my inner
life.
First, I try to delegate my therapy. My plan is
to give Asha a list of my neuroses and a
childhood anecdote or two, have her talk to my
shrink for fifty minutes, then relay the advice.
Smart, right? My shrink refused. Ethics or
something. Fine. Instead, I have Asha send me a
meticulously researched memo on stress relief. It
had a nice Indian flavor to it, with a couple of
yogic postures and some visualization.
This was okay, but it didn't seem quite enough. I
decided I needed to outsource my worry. For the
last few weeks I've been tearing my hair out
because a business deal is taking far too long to
close. I asked Honey if she would be interested
in tearing her hair out in my stead. Just for a
few minutes a day. She thought it was a wonderful
idea. "I will worry about this every day," she
wrote. "Do not worry."
The outsourcing of my neuroses was one of the
most successful experiments of the month. Every
time I started to ruminate, I'd remind myself
that Honey was already on the case, and I'd
relax. No joke - this alone was worth the $1,000.
I'VE OUTSOURCED my marriage and filial duties,
but somehow my son has gotten overlooked. It's
time to delegate some parenting to the Jacobs
support staff. Julie is out watching her
childhood friend do a stand-up-comedy gig, and
I'm stuck alone with Jasper. It's 7:00 P.M.,
Jasper's bedtime, but I've got to write some
semi-urgent emails. No time for hungry
caterpillars or jumping monkeys.
"Mr. Naveen? If I put you on speakerphone, would
you be willing to read to my son? Oh, anything.
The newspaper's fine. Yeah, just say his name
once in a while. It's Jasper. Okay, I'm going to
put you on now. Okay, go ahead."
A pause. Then I hear Mr. Naveen's low but
soothing voice: "Taiwan and Korea also are
subscribing to new Indian funds in their
markets." Jasper isn't crying. I'm tapping away
on my PowerBook. "European Union . . . several
potential investors . . . parliament." I glance
at Jasper again; he seems perplexed but curious.
"Aeronautical engineers and technicians." Jasper
seems to like aeronautical engineers. "Prospects
of a strong domestic demand." After three
minutes, I start to feel guilt-ridden. I've
officially begun to abuse my power. Why didn't I
just turn on the Wiggles? Then again, Mr.
Naveen's lilting voice is so comforting; if there
were bright-colored cartoons of strong domestic
demand, this would be ideal.
SPEAKING OF the Indian domestic economy, it's
looking pretty rosy. My team is good, cheap, and
absurdly eager. They will do anything short of
violating the Geneva Conventions. And with most
of the tasks - online shopping, thank-you notes,
research - my crew saves minutes or even hours of
my day. Admittedly, the outsourcing of my life is
sometimes counterproductive - an ill-fated order
of an eggplant dish from a nearby restaurant
comes to mind. But overall, it's working. To me,
it seems the future of outsourcing is as
limitless as . . . blah, blah, blah.
You know what? I'm kind of bored writing this
piece. I'm going into the other room to enjoy
some "Entourage" on HBO. So I've asked Honey to
finish up writing this article for me.
Once, I was watching "I, Robot" with my wife and
I thought Life would become so easy with a robot.
Then, the next instant I thought not just a robot
but more of a humanized robot. In the book "The
World Is Flat," the author wrote about an
interesting job that could be outsourced to
India, which provoked me to have a Remote
Assistant. Though I have never seen Honey K. B.,
I speak to her almost everyday when she calls me.
Though our communication is not visual, I still
know that she is a reliable assistant. Our
interactions that we have had through mails and
telephonic conversation never made me feel that
she is miles away from me. To conclude I would
say I did not get a robot but yes a Human like me
who can think and work for me.
Yes, America, we're cooked.
_________________________________
Labour Notes South Asia (LNSA):
An informal archive and mailing list for trade
unionists and labour activists based in or
working on South asia.
LNSA Mailing List:
Labour Notes South Asia
To subscribe send a blank message to:
<[EMAIL PROTECTED]>
LNSA Web site:
groups.yahoo.com/group/lnsa/
Run by The South Asia Citizens Web
www.sacw.net
_________________________________
To join the Labour Notes South Asia Mailing List, send a blank message to:
[EMAIL PROTECTED]
To Unsubscribe, send a blank message to: [EMAIL PROTECTED]
Yahoo! Groups Links
<*> To visit your group on the web, go to:
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/lnsa/
<*> To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to:
[EMAIL PROTECTED]
<*> Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to:
http://docs.yahoo.com/info/terms/
