Work Daze

What’s the difference between you and Sergey Brin, one of the co-founders of Google? I mean, besides his private plane, his billion-dollar bankbook, and his high-level position on the honor roll of the world’s richest rich guys?

The answer, my friend, is that Sergey has a personal assistant – a comely amanuensis named Ginger Franke, who not only runs personal errands for top execs in Silicon Valley, but also handles mission-critical tasks for these high-income high performers, like redecorating their pied-a-tiers, buying intimate apparel for their pets, and perhaps most critical of all, making sure the candy dishes in their office suites are always filled to the brim with M & M’s.

Ms. Franke, whose concierge service bears the eponymous acronym FLM for Franke Lifestyle Management, was the subject of a recent profile in “The New York Times.” And while I can understand why an uber-mogul like Sergey Brin does not have time to fill his own M&M bowl, I have to report that I found myself profoundly depressed by the idea that if you are rich enough, you don’t have do all those tiresome jobs that fill our exhausting days, like raising your children, or listening to your spouse.

Why, with the proper assistant, we probably would never even have to get out of bed and go to work! Our personal assistant would punch in and pitch in at the morning staff meetings, the lunchtime conferences, and the afternoon koffee klatches. You and me, we don’t get much done, but, man, are we good at delegating.

If it seems unlikely that you’ll ever have a personal, or even an impersonal assistant, I can understand your disappointment. After all, how can a working stiff like thee or me have a lifestyle consultant? That would imply we had a lifestyle!

On the other hand, perhaps it’s the very impossibility of people like us being able to find or afford a loyal Sancho Panza to our whacked-out Don Quixote that makes it very much worth our while to cash in the kiddies’ 529 plans and give it a whirl. Hiring a personal assistant can certainly be done on a part-time, or a project, or even an hourly basis. I have no idea what Ms. Franke charges her billionaire clients, but I’m sure any one of us – or all of us, if we chip in – can come up with a few thousand Washingtons for a few minutes of her time, which is more than enough to change the perceptions of everyone in the company, including the boss.

Just having a sleek, personal assistant type arrive at the reception desk and ask for you would start the rumor mill grinding away. “Frobisher has a personal assistant? What are her duties? Waking him up from his mid-morning nap in time to go outside and wait for the taco truck?”

Sure, they’ll laugh at you, but that’s on the outside. On the inside, they’ll be filled with hatred, jealousy and envy. And won’t that make you feel good!

Once your personal assistant has arrived, you’ll immediately want her – or him – we’re into equal opportunity servitude here – to interface with your manager. Since you spend the entirety of your workdays trying to avoid your manager, it may take a little bit of brainpower to come up with a reason for a meeting. Don’t try anything too complicated. You could send your assistant up to Mahogany Row to confirm a business lunch a week from Wednesday. Of course, you have no lunch scheduled, but your boss won’t want to admit it, especially not in front of an efficient, officious personal assistant in Jimmy Choo’s, who is busily typing away at her Blackberry, and, at the same time, checking the M&M level in the boss’s bowl with a silver Tiffany candy dip stick.

You’ve now used up maybe eight of the 15 minutes you’ve contracted, and look at all you’ve accomplished. You’ve impressed the receptionist, intimidated your colleagues, and got yourself a private luncheon meeting with the boss, where you can continue to spin your web of deception and deceit, easily netting yourself a big promotion and a raise to boot.

“I was quite impressed with your personal assistant,” the boss will surely remark as you settle back after lunch with snifters of Armagnac and contraband Montecristos. “I could use someone like that myself.”

“Sorry, Sir,” you remark. “Between Sergey and myself, the poor girl doesn’t have a minute to spare.”