“It’s hard, you know. It’s not just cleaning my apartment. This is someone who’s going to be in my place when I’m not there with all my stuff.” He turned from the screen to face me, as if to underline his complete seriousness. “So you gotta know, you know, when you interview her. It’s gotta be someone you can trust. Like you know my camera’s there. And Jess’s jewelry.”

I’ve just left my baby daughter with a women named Ysabel who lives in a housing project whom I met one hour ago. She was recommended by my older daughter’s teacher’s aide, whom I believe at one point lived in the same housing project. And Ysabel’s apartment was very clean. And she was available on an hour’s notice.

So here I am Jed. I’m at the weekly status meeting. Waste my time and tell me how fucking important it is for you to find a cleaning lady you can trust. A cleaning lady who won’t touch your $900 Leica point-and-shoot camera. Nine hundred fucking dollars for a point and shoot camera. The lenses had better be fucking magic.