The Work-at-Home Diaries

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October 9

Tonight I'm in full work-at-home mode. I'm actually wearing slippers, my shirttail isn't tucked in, and I'm gulping down the last spoonfuls of apple crisp when the telephone rings. It's Rena Logan calling to check on my new life as a CSR associate -- and to offer some leads. Two in the bunch she wants to sell me are in my home state, Massachusetts. "They will be going somewhere tomorrow," she says, meaning that she would sell the leads to another child-support-recovery profes- sional unless I agree to buy them. "We can't keep these parents waiting forever."

How many of the CSR leads typically pay off with successful collections? I ask Logan. "Sixty-two percent," she answers. I ask how CSR rustles up the leads, and she explains that it advertises for clients with "blanket" E-mail messages to people who visit child-support-related Web sites. Lists of such people, along with their E-mail addresses, can be purchased from Internet marketing companies.

I decline to buy any leads but don't rule out changing my mind. If I wait 60 days, Logan warns me, the price for 25 leads goes from $250 to $395.

Meanwhile, E-mail from Judy Hardin arrives. It contains the E-mail address of Paul Sisler, who is apparently a BestBizUSA official. But there's no indication where either Sisler or BestBizUSA is located. Hardin suggests I query Sisler by E-mail, which later I do.

October 12

ProCard International won't respond directly to the question about whether Cindy is actually my manager. "You should just E-mail us here for any questions that you might have," says an unsigned E-mail message, "and we will be happy to help you with whatever you need." The E-mail was sent at 11:40 p.m. It appears that my unidentified contact keeps late hours. Do you suppose he or she is working at home in pajamas?

October 16

The more I contemplate the painstaking, costly work performed by a child-support-collection professional, the more amateurish I feel. I'm as likely to track down deadbeat parents -- perhaps ferret them out across state lines -- and strong-arm them into disgorging what they owe as I am to bust money-laundering cases for the FBI. A part-time evening job? Not bloody likely. I'm loath to sink more time and money into this alleged work-at-home opportunity.

Under CSR's 30-day, money-back guarantee, I can still reclaim the $139 that I paid the company. I bang out an E-mail message requesting a refund. Soon after, I receive an E-mail reply from Rena Logan that points me to a refund-request form on CSR's Web site. I fill in the form and later mail it pronto to the company's headquarters, in Boise.

October 17

Forty-two days after sending my $8 check to BestBizUSA, my home-typing package arrives by E-mail. "Congratulations! And welcome to our company," trumpets the note. The instructions that follow, however, sound all too familiar: I'm supposed to solicit others -- either online or with paper flyers -- to buy the same business opportunity that I've already bought. They don't want typists. They want pitchmen. Although it seems downright unpatriotic, I decide to pass on BestBizUSA.

October 24

Today's mail brings a real estate agent's ad, a Christmas fruit-basket catalog, and a book from my sister, but nothing from ProCard International. I'm waiting on tenterhooks for my ProCard card, which entitles me to discounts from the doctors, dentists, and pharmacists in the company's network or those of its affiliates. ProCard promised that I'd receive the card within approximately 20 days of my enrollment, which was 25 days ago. Where, oh, where could it be? I send an E-mail message to ProCard to inquire.

October 25

No response from ProCard. Wondering about the discounts available with a ProCard card, I check with 5 doctors, 4 pharmacists, and 11 dentists who are identified on ProCard's Web site as part of the company's network of providers in my area. A couple of them are out of business or retired, I'm told; I can't locate others. None of the doctors apparently deals with ProCard or its affiliates, and only 7 of the 15 dentists and pharmacists say they do. I've heard enough. I'm bagging it as a ProCard associate. Dejectedly, I E-mail my resignation.

ProCard sends back a message saying that I must cancel the discount-service plan by "written notice." I do so, adding, "Actually, I never received my card, so in effect you charged me for a service that I was never able to use." I request a full refund of my ProCard membership fees.

November 1

ProCard seems unable to handle rejection. Despite my "Dear John" E-mail message and letter, the company has taken a $14.95 bite out of my checking account, according to my bank. It's probably not worth getting upset about.

November 5

OK, I'm upset. I know $14.95 isn't much money, but it's the principle of the thing, dammit! I fire off a letter to ProCard in protest.

November 20

Zippo from Rena Logan about my CSR refund. Prodded by E-mail, she defers to the company's "administrative office." I whip off an E-mail message to that address: So where's my refund? No response.

Based on my original calculations, I should be ahead by about $2,400 at this point in my work-at-home career. Instead I'm out $261.55, including expenses, assuming that I don't recoup my payments to CSR or ProCard. Kissing the money good-bye hurts. But that pain doesn't compare with the gut-wrench of knowing that I'm trapped in my day job.

But wait! There's a new E-mail message in my box. It's offering a "$Money Making Opportunity!" Certainly, I owe it to myself to check it out.

Joseph Rosenbloom is a senior editor at Inc.

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